Chapter 31: Beautiful Scar: Chapter 31

It’s still strange cooking without Vito.

He’s been gone for a month, and it still feels like he’s going to come rushing in at any moment to take the wooden spoon from my hand and guide me back to a chair. That’s not going to happen, though. I watched them lower him into the ground. I stood beside Tigran while he stared grim-faced at his dead friend’s casket as dozens of crying women sobbed and prostrated themselves at the graveside.

Vito’s gone, and standing there at his funeral, I made a choice. It wasn’t an easy one, and there have been days when I couldn’t totally live up to it, but each day’s been better than the last.

“What is that wonderful smell, Mrs. Sarkissian?”

I smile to myself as one of Tigran’s guards pokes his head into the room. His name is Grigor, and he’s an older man with a scar down the side of his face similar to my own. Though he says he got his while fighting a lion, which I really doubt.

“Nothing special. I have a lemon and herb chicken roasting in the oven, and I’m putting together some mashed potatoes now.”

“Nothing special?” Grigor chuckles and rubs his belly. “If my wife caught me smelling your food right now, our marriage would end in divorce.”

“You’re not married,” I remind him, brandishing a spoon.

“Good point.” He breathes in deep and sighs. “Thank you for the reminder.”

I smile to myself as Grigor disappears back to his post. A little while later, I find Harry standing in the hallway, grimacing slightly to himself. He’s another one of the guards, younger than Grigor, but he got this duty after breaking his knee during a brawl a few months back.

“Ready for your pills?” I ask him, holding out the Advil and offering a glass of water.

Relief washes over him. “Seriously, Mrs. Sarkissian, you don’t have to do this. I was going to get them myself⁠—”

“Nonsense. We both know Tigran would murder you if he saw you leave your post, remember?” I glance up at a camera in the corner of the hall and give it a little wave. I blow a kiss and wink. “Now, take the Advil and finish off that water, will you?”

“All right, Mrs. Sarkissian,” he says, smiling as he downs the pills and chugs the water. “You’re too kind.”

“Just trying to take care of you unruly bears.” I walk off, whistling to myself, and stop in the kitchen to get a little bowl of pretzels for Samos. He gets cranky if he doesn’t eat, and he’s in the last couple of hours of his shift, which means the only thing standing between me and a giant grumpy guard is a little blood sugar.

I make the rounds, checking in on the men to make sure they’re doing okay. Most of them don’t need anything, but they’re happy to chat. Tigran runs a very tight household, especially now that security’s been ramped up. Nobody gets within ten paces of the house without a dozen alerts going off and at least five different armed and trigger-happy men watching them.

At first, I hated it. All these strangers lurking. But this is part of the promise I made at Vito’s gravesite.

I swore I’d open myself to the world.

It’s big and vague, kind of on purpose, since that gives me wiggle room. Watched a nature doc? Open to the world. Smelled a new candle? World, fully freaking opened. But once I started coming out of my shell a little bit and explored the house more, I found that it wasn’t all that bad.

And most of Tigran’s men are nice guys. Well, maybe not nice, but they’re overly respectful and kind, probably because they all know Tigran would brutally beat them otherwise. For a week or two, I saw them only as terrifying statues, but more recently I’ve been going out of my way to get to know them.

Tigran hates it. He wishes they were all mute and castrated, which is dumb. I keep reminding him that his men are more likely to give up their lives for me if they also like me, but he thinks they should be willing to die no matter what.

I’m a realist, I guess.

And I like hearing their stories. There’s Jacob with his sick mom and bratty girlfriend. There’s Seb and his three pit bulls. Erik’s got a gambling addiction and is always placing bets on his phone. Davit likes watercolors and also murder.

They’re a bunch of interesting gentlemen.

When I’m back in the kitchen, I hum softly to myself until the camera in the corner beeps. The red light turns green, and the lens moves slightly.

“Hello, darling,” I say, smiling up into its ever-present eye. “Hope your job’s going well. I’m just here slaving away for you in the kitchen.” I sigh and pretend to wipe my brow. “While you’re out… I don’t know… selling drugs or killing people or whatever you do.”

The camera keeps on staring.

“You’ll be happy to hear that I haven’t retreated into my room for more than an hour all day.” I press a hand to my belly, smiling slightly. “Little baby’s been quiet too, but we both know they’re thinking about you, just like I am. You’d better be home soon because dinner’s going to be ready in an hour. And oh, please let Grigor have a stool. And tell the men they can call me Dasha. And no, none of them acted remotely inappropriately, so please don’t come storming in here and start screaming at everyone again. I’m your wife. We get it.”

My phone vibrates with a text.

Tigran: You are my wife, little kitten, and I will not let the fucking world forget it.

“So dramatic,” I murmur just loud enough for him to hear.

Another half hour passes. I finish up the potatoes, cook some vegetables, and pull out the chicken to rest as the front door opens. I hear a shuffling of boots as the guards all straighten up and pretend like they weren’t slouching or resting on the job, and Tigran stomps into the kitchen, sweeping me into his massive arms and landing a possessive, powerful kiss on my lips.

“If I didn’t have a fucking Irishman to kill, I’d never leave you alone, not for a single fucking second,” he snarls, running fingers through my hair.

“Then aren’t we glad you do?” I smile sweetly at him and bite his lower lip when he dares pout. “Stop it, we both know I’m happier when you’re home.”

“Better be.” He moves a hand to my belly. I’m used to him touching me there all the time at this point. The man’s insatiable, and not just for vigorous and dominant sex.

He’s also obsessed with this baby.

“They’re thinking about you,” I say, looking up into his face. I obviously don’t know that, but he loves hearing it.

His eyes seem to sparkle with pure joy. “You really mean that?”

“I can feel it. Our baby loves you.”

“I already love them too,” he whispers, and his eyes meet mine.

They hold my gaze for a few beats longer than necessary, and I feel my heart flutter.

“Well, we should eat,” I say, flushed with excitement and flustered. Even after a couple of months with him, Tigran still makes me feel this way.

Like I’m a teenage girl with a crush.

“You know you don’t have to do this,” he says, helping me carve the chicken. We plate the meal together, and he opens a bottle of wine for himself. But he only takes a splash out of respect for my inability to drink with him, which I greatly appreciate.

“Honestly, I really like cooking.”

“We can hire a new housekeeper.” He carries the plates to the table, and I join him. But he pulls his chair around to the side closest to me so he can put a possessive hand on my thigh. “I know it isn’t easy, thinking of another person in the house that isn’t Vito, but still. My wife will have whatever she needs.”

“Thank you,” I say, picking at my food. “But I’m just not ready yet.”

“Whenever you are, tell me. Otherwise—” He takes a bite and makes a nearly sexual groaning sound. “I’ll enjoy the fruits of your newfound love of the kitchen.”

I grin to myself, happy that he likes my cooking. “You can thank YouTube for this one,” I tell him.

“I can thank God and you. That’s all I fucking care about.” He digs in, eating like an animal. It’s gratifying in a strange way to see this big man go to town on something I spent a lot of time cooking. I never imagined I’d be the housewife sort, and I don’t think I will be forever, but right now it feels good.

I feel like I have a purpose. Or at least I’m not just pathetic dead weight.

Eventually, we’ll hire someone. I’ll spend less time straightening, cooking, and doing dishes. But this is a good first step toward becoming a normal person again.

We spend most of the meal talking about the baby. He’s as excited as I am, maybe even more so. “I haven’t told you this yet, but I really want to give our child a Russian name.” I smile to myself, trying to look all casual.

His face darkens for a brief flash. “That’s unacceptable.”

“Why not? We could have a little baby Boris.” I make awing and cooing sounds. “Or little baby Katya. Oh, better yet, little baby Dasha Junior.”

He glares at me. “You’re not being funny.”

“What’s funny about a Russian name?”

“You’re trying to tease. I won’t rise to the bait.”

“What if we named our baby boy after my father? Serge Sarkissian has a nice ring to it.”

He slams a hand on the table. I cover my mouth to hold back the laughter. “You will not speak that name again in this house,” he snarls.

“God, you’re so predictable.”

“Ty svodish’ menya s uma,” he mutters, which makes me perk up.

“What did you just say?”

“A little Russian for you, since you’re so keen on it.” He shows me his teeth. “You’re driving me crazy. That’s what it means.”

“I know that,” I say, genuinely surprised. “I didn’t know you spoke Russian.”

He waves a hand in the air. “Ever since we got married, I’ve been brushing up. Maybe recently, I’ve been studying a bit harder.”

I’m honestly touched. I don’t speak much Russian around him, and I’m kind of rusty, but Dad made sure Evan and I grew up fluent in the language. I’m not really that into being Russian, even though it’s fun to mess with my big grumpy husband about it, but knowing that he’s learning the language for me is extremely touching.

“How do I say it in Armenian?” I ask, taking his hand in mine.

“Du indz khents’ats’num es.” He rubs a thumb across my palm and says it slower while I try to repeat it until I get it down good enough.

“Maybe we can pick a different name,” I say softly as I finish eating. “Something that’s not Armenian or Russian.”

“Something all our own.” He sits back to study me and finishes off his bit of wine. “I like that.”

“I like it too,” I say, watching him, my heart beating fast. I don’t even know why.

Our relationship has been like this though ever since Seamus attacked me. He dotes on me, obsesses over me. There are more cameras and guards in the house, but none in our rooms, all because I asked him to keep them out of there. The door between our suites is always open, and we don’t even pretend like there’s a separation anymore. My old room is basically one big walk-in closet now, though I do still spend a lot of time in my living area.

His is too manly. I prefer my decorations.

When I get up to clear the dishes, he makes me sit back down. “You rest now. You’re busy growing our baby.” He cleans everything off and loads the dishwasher. I watch him with a little smile on my lips. I bet he hasn’t done anything domestic in years, and suddenly I come along, and it’s like the guy can’t help himself. If I try to wash a dish, he’s on my case and making me lounge around instead.

I’d pretend like I don’t like it, but the truth is, I love how protective and obsessed he’s become.

We end up in bed together. Most nights go this way. He’s out doing whatever he does, and I want to ask, but I never do. Because whenever a certain Irish name is mentioned, his mood turns black, and I don’t want that energy around the house if I can avoid it.

But after fucking like animals, I can’t help myself. We’re lying together under the sheets, sweat drying on my skin, a happy glow between my legs. I kiss his chest and stare up into his face, and he looks so satisfied it’s almost a shame to mess it up.

“We should talk about it, you know.”

He glances down at me. The smile isn’t completely gone yet. “Talk about what?”

“Seamus. What you’re doing. You know what I mean.”

And there we go. His happy afterglow fades. I’ll make it up to him later.

“It isn’t something you need to worry about.”

“He’s still out there, Tigran. He kept me in a cage⁠—”

“I know,” he snarls, and I have to stroke his chest lightly to help calm him down.

“I’m not blaming you. I know you’re doing everything you can. But I’m just scared.”

He takes a deep breath and blows it out. Normally, he makes an excuse and changes the subject, but not this time. Instead, he bends down and kisses me.

“I’m working on something,” he says, lips pushed together in a tight line. His face is tense, and I can tell he’s stressed. “But it hasn’t been easy. There’s a war now, pisik. My brother’s fighting on all fronts. The McGraths are smaller and weaker than we are, but they’re also tenacious, and your family hasn’t sent help yet.”

That surprises me. I sit up and ignore the look he gives my bare breasts. I swear, this man just brought himself to heaven between my legs while sucking on my naked breasts, and he still can’t help but look at me. It’s flattering, but right now, he needs to focus.

“Why haven’t they sent any help?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“Because the baby is the last step. Once the baby is born⁠—”

I cut him off, frustrated. “That’s stupid. I’m pregnant. The alliance is settled. What are they waiting for?”

He waits a long moment before shaking his head. “I don’t know.”

“I’ll talk to them.” I push myself out of bed and start to dress.

He seems amused now. “You’ll convince Valentin Zeitsev to send soldiers and guns personally?”

“If I have to.” I stand at the edge of the bed, seething. “We went through all this hell together. We got married, we had sex⁠—”

“The sex wasn’t exactly hell,” he murmurs.

“—Vito died, Seamus is out there, my dad turned out to be a spineless slime, and they still aren’t sending help.” I’m unreasonably pissed. All this is way outside of my control, but I feel like I put in all the work and haven’t gotten anything in return from my supposed family yet.

“Then what will you do about it? You’re fucking sexy when you’re fierce, you know.”

“I’m going to make some calls.” I wilt slightly at the prospect of actually doing something, but I refuse to let my nature get the better of me. I’m not hiding away in my room anymore. “Just tell me what you need.”

“I need what every Bratva leader needs.” He smiles at my blank look. “Guns, drugs, and money. Now, come back to bed, my fierce little kitten, and let me fuck your mouth and pussy until you’re purring and satisfied once again.”

I hesitate, since I really want to ride this sudden wave of anger first—but maybe I could ride something else for a while and save the calls for later.

“You’re always so convincing,” I say with a sigh, crawling back to him.

He starts to undress me, his other fist buried in my hair. “That’s because you don’t take much.”

“Why’s that?”

“You’re my dirty little slut, that’s why.” His smile is everything, and his touch is even more, and yeah, okay, he’s right, I am, but so what?

I like it.