Page 62 of Forced Mafia Bride
Anatoly didn’t so much as flinch or bat an eyelash. Picking his fingers, and without lifting his head, he murmured, “It’s that bad?”
Bad?
I wished it was fucking bad. Then, I’d have at least had breakfast this morning. I wouldn’t have had six breadsticks thrown at me or gotten a smack on my chest after advising her to skip carbs and wine for the health of the baby. If it werebad, she’d have allowed me to kiss her good night last night. I would not have had the pillow flung at my head instead.
What I was experiencing wasworse.
If it wasn’t the strangest of cravings, then she was crying for no reason. And if she wasn’t crying, she was definitely getting mad at me for something insignificant and deciding she had justifiable reasons not to speak to me ever again in her life. While the doctor already explained that it was normal to have these experiences as her pregnancy progressed, her mood changes were strong and fast enough to give me a disastrous whiplash.
I didn’t understand a fucking thing, and while I wanted to, I just wanted my wife back.
The last time I saw her smile was one week ago, on the day I finally allowed her to eat spicy chicken nuggets, large fries, and a double chocolate milkshake. Her smile had been so huge that nothing else seemed rewarding enough than watching it plaster on her face.
And the next day, when the smile melted off, darkness covered the Earth.
Driving my fingers through my hair, I fixed one hand on my hip and gazed at the sunset through the glass windows. The last time I saw the sunset, she’d been pinned to the glass walls. Her legs around my waist. Naked fair skin with the glow of an angel. Beads of sweat running rivulets down her hair to her neck. Her small lips on mine, muttering the sweetest words about how much she loved me and how good I made her feel.While I fucked her.
That was four fucking months ago.
I hadn’t fucked my wife in four months.
According to the doctor, we had to put a pause on sexual activities, again, considering the baby. And if I said the pause wasn’t driving me out of my mind, I’d be lying.
Groaning, my fingers combed through my hair again, and behind me, Anatoly mimicked the Joker’s sick chuckle.
“Don’t I wish I was married?”
I walked back to the desk, sitting on the edge, glaring at his sarcasm. “Don’t even fucking start with me.”
Scrutinizingly, Anatoly crossed his hands over his chest, arching a questioning brow at me. “I’m sure this can’t be bad for you. You’re Nikolai. TheNiko Yezhov. You don’t have a fucking Achilles heel. You can handle anything.”
The indifference in his tone made the words sink like a lowly pebble slowly drowning to the bottom of an ocean. But I wished it was true. Usually, I could handle anything. WhereRosa was involved? Not likely. I wished I had a rein of control on this one. If wishes were horses, beggars would be fucking riding.
I kicked my legs, getting off the desk. Briskly, I snatched my car keys and jacket.
I was pissed, confused, and certainly frustrated. Even with all that, all the justifiable reasons to sleep over in the office with a poor excuse for work, I couldn’t wait to see her again—my biggest craving. I craved to see her smile, to hold her, touch her.
My entire being ached for her. She’d been asleep when I left this morning. Her cute lips twisted in a frown and perfectly lined brows drawn. I tried to touch her but withdrew after she mumbled a sleepy, “Go away.”
Her sleepy rejection stung worse than a bullet wound. Regardless, I’d watched for a moment longer before I walked away.
And now I wanted to go back.
“Come on, let’s go. I can’t decide if you’re being serious or sarcastic. And I’m definitely not seeking marital advice from you.”
He busted out laughing, rising from his chair. “Don’t judge a book by its cover.”
“For this particular book, I fucking will.”
When we arrived at the underground parking lot, I tossed the keys in the air, and the bunch jingled when he caught it. I hopped into the passenger’s seat, adjusted it to relax, and inclined backward. Thinking hard about it, I realized something. Anatoly was wrong.
From the moment Rosa walked out of the Bercyna and into my car, my Achilles heel had been formed.
****
“Rosa?”
Flinging the bunch of keys on the dresser, I dumped the jacket on the bed and unfastened the buttons on my shirt. “Rosa?”