Only Pretend (22 page)

We'd fucked before. He'd done so many things to my body and mind.

But this was the first time we'd had sex, knowing how much we both craved the other.

He wants to keep me.

It was an aphrodisiac all its own.

Every thrust created new colors behind my eyes. I was dizzy and grounded at the same time, amazed that I had the strength to rock back onto his hard-on.

The decadent whispers in me grew louder. Soon it was an orchestra, and I was playing every part. Squealing, clamping teeth on a pillow, I strained around him as I came. My slick heat encouraged him, he bent low, clasped my hips and drove harder.

Flesh on flesh echoed in the room. Grunting like an animal, Leonide's palm came down on the back of my neck. His fingers were trembling, seeming to struggle with choking me or not. Before he could decide to choose the latter, he gasped.

Inside, I felt him swell. The thickness of his orgasm startled me, left me swimming mentally in butter and sugar. I stayed there under him, content to listen to his breathing and feel him locked in my pulsing loins.

When I did eventually roll over, Leonide sliding free, there was drool staining the sheets. We both saw it, and though I blushed profusely, Leonide just graced me with an easy smile.

I'd thought it awful, once. That smile of his.

But no longer.

****

S
uch a strange comfort, to be tangled with him in the sheets. No locks, no chains, no threats to make me behave. It was disturbing, in a way. Acting like a normal couple who could snuggle after such rough, breath-stealing sex.

Even in the act of making love, Leonide walked the line between seduction and danger. Allowing him near me was as risky as walking into a tiger cage.

The thrill was entirely worth it.

Beside me, he was staring at the ceiling. His humming was throaty, the familiar song I'd heard from him before. Stroking a finger on his jugular, enjoying how it thrummed, I sat up. “I've heard you sing that a few times, now. What is it from?”

He glanced at me, considered something I couldn't grasp. “It's just something mothers sing to their children.”

“So she sang it to you, then.”

“Yes.” Leaning into the pillows, his eyes went far away. “When I was little. Always before bed.”

Recalling how he'd hummed it as he bathed me, I pursed my lips. “And when you were hurt.” His glance was icy; I bit my cheek. “Sorry. I—you sang it to me when I was in the tub, that time.”
After that massage—my punishment.

Leonide shut his lids. “I thought you were asleep.”

“I was. I woke up.”

The quiet rolled, shifting from comfortable to tense. I suspected I had an opportunity. I could push him, find answers about his family. If I didn't do it now, the moment might never rear its head again. “Your father,” I whispered. “He's dead.” Leonide didn't react. “Your mother... what about her?”

His chest swelled; air flowed from his nose. “Like your parents, mine are both dead.”

It was surreal, lying there and feeling such hurt for this man. If I looked into it too much, I thought I might mentally fracture. I shouldn't have
cared
about him—how could he deserve compassion?—and yet I did. I fucking did. “Mine died only four years ago—a real bad fire. Can I ask when yours did?”

“Do you want to bond over our tragedies?” he teased, cracking one eye to watch me.

It was hard to keep steady. “Is it surprising that I would care?”

His chuckle lacked empathy. “Truthfully? Yes. A woman who was willing to cut herself open to run from what I offered—”

“Stop it.” I squeezed my nails onto his chest. “I said I ran from Vitaly, not you. I want to
stay
with you.”

“I made you feel that. Twisted your head up, Celeste.”

“And you admitted that you're twisted up over me now, too.” There was nothing lighthearted in my voice. “So we're one bundle of fucked up fun. I'm not playing, I want to know about your parents.”

Leonide curled his fingers over mine. “You really think you're not playing pretend any more?”

“No.” My body pushed closer to his on the bed. “Not anymore.”
Not with him. I don't need to be anyone else with Leonide.

My feelings aren't pretend.

His lips stretched, an uneasy smile. Leonide watched the far wall while he spoke. “My father died from stomach cancer. It was seven years ago. There was nothing dramatic about it, he never told anyone until it was too late. He was... a proud man.”

Like father, like son,
I thought cynically.

“I'd helped him since I was small. From the start, I believed in what he did. How he brought families together, created perfectly happy couples and homes.”

Grimly, I stopped myself from speaking.

He recognized my revulsion. “Yes, I know. You don't agree. Believe me that I had a loving home here. How could I doubt the words my father said, when I was living the proof of it?”

My head was shaking. “What proof?”

“Like you, my mother was an American girl.”

The news made me sit up, gawking down at his emotionless expression. “
What?”
If that was true, then... “Your father kidnapped her!”

Tilting his head, Leonide sighed. “It's not that shocking. My father was from Moscow, he had a taste for the exotic. He'd been matching women to men in this town like his own father. It was only as he got older that he began expanding to further places. He found her on the street, convinced her to return with him.”

I couldn't stop shaking my head. “That isn't the same as kidnapping, fine, but still...”

“Does it matter?” He sounded exhausted. “All I knew was the woman who raised me. I wasn't born in Russia, or Estonia. My mother gave birth to me in the states. We came here, to this little town in Estonia, when I was six.”

Piecing his life together was giving me the greater picture. “That's why you gave me grief over saying you were Russian?”

“I'm only half Russian.”

Amazingly, I didn't roll my eyes. “Details. So your father actually let you grow up here, all while he was bringing in women to transform into 'ideal' wives? What did your mother think about that?”

“Why would she care? She loved my father, she loved me. She supported him like a good wife should.”

Anger was burning up inside of me. “No... it's awful.”

Studying me, he held his tongue until I had calmed down. “A perfect home where my mother was always here, always helping me. She cooked, cleaned, cared and played with me. What about you, what did your parents do for you? Was it a happy, supportive home?”

Taken aback, I tried to slide my hand from his; he held it tight. “It's not the same. My parents were busy, and...”
And they blamed me for growing up.
I couldn't say it. I also couldn't argue with him. Desperate to change the subject, I cleared my throat. “Your dad died from cancer, then your mom, what about her?”

“Six months after my father.”

I blinked. “So soon. From what?”

He rolled onto his side, shoving me away. After he'd been so needful, his coldness was puzzling. “Would you believe a broken heart?”

Clutching my chest, I felt my own beating. “Oh god. I'm so sorry.”

“She just... faded away,” he whispered. “No matter what I did, she didn't care. I'm not sure she could even see me by the end.” His laugh was unsettling. “True love, right? What else could drive a person to not want to live, even if their son is right fucking there.”

Chills went down my spine.
That isn't love.
And suddenly, I understood where the scar in him came from. The part of him that lost all sense when confronted with how I fought for freedom, for choice.

He thinks his mother chose to die.

A parent, sinking into oblivion instead of finding solace in their own child.

The pain in my chest was a curved dagger. If I felt so awful, I could hardly guess what Leonide was suffering through.

Ignoring how he flinched, I wrapped my arm around his waist. My lips brushed his ear, smelled his hair as I spoke. “This is hard to say. But, I... I don't know if your mom was in love with your father.” Under me, his body became a rock. “No mother could choose death over her child if she was rational, if it was love.” I licked my lower lip, looked for courage. “Leonide, I think your mom—I think she was honestly obsessed.”

“Obsessed,” he repeated.

I hugged him tighter. “Please don't be mad at me!”
Don't snap, don't hurt me over this.
I needed to tell him. All I wanted was to try and make sense of the awful memory he had. “I don't know if it was because she knew nothing else, or if she was broken before, but if your dad did to her what you did to me, maybe she shattered. Maybe she became brainwashed. Then, even if she took care of you, with your dad gone she didn't know what to do anymore.”

He said nothing. Lying there, I felt only his pulse, waited nervously for him to say a single word. Rolling towards me, Leonide's mouth was an inch from mine; his was a deep frown. “Tell me, Celeste. If my father brainwashed my mother, if that wasn't love... then are you under the same spell?”

I couldn't shrug away from his imploring eyes. My answer was honest. “I don't really know. Is it wrong that I want to find out?”

Looking into my blue depths, seeking the truth of my words, Leonide kissed me with a tenderness meant for couples more innocent than us. More deserving than us. “Even if it is, I want to let you.”

My shiver went down to my ankles. “Then let me. Don't send me to Vitaly.”

“Stupid,” he sighed, cupping the back of my skull. “Isn't it obvious I don't plan to anymore?”

“Oh god, thank fucking god!” Thrills rocked my core; I kissed him roughly, heated up at his soft grunt. “Then that's it, right?” The news made me smile so much it hurt.

He let himself smile, too, but it was a wistful motion. “I wish it was so simple. I offered him money, another girl—even if I failed in securing one. Celeste, the man wants the one thing that
I want.
”

Me. He wants me.
I couldn't enjoy the revelation. “Wait. I—then what happens now? What do we do?”

Leonide actually looked pained. “I've been going over that in my head since I got on the jet. Vitaly is coming in three days. Undoubtedly, he
will
come here to gather you.”

“Then we run.”

Grinning in disbelief, he openly chuckled at my idea. “You don't understand. Vitaly is like me, a man with power and money. If he wants something, he is used to getting it. Running would delay the process, but he would find us in time.”

Shifting off of the bed, I grabbed a pillow and strangled it. “Then... then what else...” In my hands, the cloth was wonderfully pliant. I imagined it was Vitaly's throat, then instantly felt terrible.

Leonide came to sit beside me. “Kill him, is that it?”

“I can't even imagine it, planning to murder someone for real.” Closing my eyes, I fought down a wave of sickness. “I
want
to want to kill him. I hate him, he's awful! But wishing him dead and plotting to make it happen aren't the same.”

Circling my waist, he set his chin on my shoulder. “Ah, my poor, sensitive girl. Spilling his blood may be too much for you. But I wouldn't ask you to do the job.” Kissing behind my ear, he gave me pleasant tingles and fearful nausea simultaneously. “
I
, however, would happily blow his brains into chunks.”

The inside of my mouth was parched. “Is that it, then? Is that how it has to be?”
Blood on my hands, even if he does the deed, is still fucking blood.

Leonide's stubble scraped on my cheek. “If it must go that way, yes. I'll do whatever I need to to keep you mine. Celeste, after everything, I'm in too deep to change my mind. I don't like risks. If Vitaly shows up, I will politely suggest he fucking leave.” His lips burned like a stove. “And if he refuses, if I get a tiny hint that he is thinking of something foolish...” Touching over my heart, he seemed to count my beats. “I will kill him and be done with it.”

I didn't doubt his sincerity.

“We'll have some time to prepare,” he mumbled.

“Three days.” When I said it, it felt like the only time that remained until the end of the world.

Turning my chin, he smiled with pure pleasure. “Three days.”

From him, it was a death sentence.

Celeste

T
he bed was warm as a soft boiled egg, his arms keeping me safe. We'd passed out like that, and I'd woken up in the same position. If I could have stayed there, I would have.

But I was thirsty.

Prying his hands from me, ignoring the murmur of disagreement, I slid to the floor. In the hallway, the ghostly grey light that only arose before sunrise gave enough vision to see. Cool tile met my bare feet, encouraging me to complete my task and flee back to Leonide's side.

I want to run to him. Not from him, any longer.
It was funny and pathetic and I didn't...

I didn't even care.

Leonide had stolen me away, and after fighting against him, against how he wanted to 'marry' me off, the man now wanted to
keep
me. In Vegas, I had wondered where I would go. I'd had nothing, no bed to put my head on or roof to hide beneath.
Let the world judge me and call me sick.
My fingers twisted the sink handle.
I finally feel like I belong.

Sipping from the glass, I turned to walk into the hall. I made it to the stairs before I spotted the lights. Unnatural things, they lit up the walls, slid away like something alive.

It had been some time since I'd approached the front of the house. Squeezing the cup, I crept until I saw the front doors. So far back, I'd looked out those windows and seen the sun, seen my freedom.

Now, I saw headlights; cars, rumbling up the driveway.

Confusion boiled to unease. Leaning on the glass, absently noting the window I had smashed had been replaced, I squinted to see who had arrived. It was so early, not even past five, who would be...?

Marat?
That face was impossible to forget. The other man was a stranger; reddish hair, light skin, and eyes that held no mirth.
It can't be.
It was hard not to drop my glass of water.
I've never seen him before. But—but who else could it be?