Page 67 of Forced Marriage Vows

My lips part as realization hits me. The man I saw Mikhail kill was Jerome’s father.

Oh my God.

Anthony was right. Hehaddeserved it. I’d seen him kneeling on the ground, begging and pathetic, and I’d assumed he was innocent, when really he’d been a monster who should have been killed a long time ago.

“Are you okay, Mrs. Morozova?” Jerome asks.

I exhale a shaky breath and nod, feeling lighter than I have in a very long time.

“I’m fine, Jerome. I’m perfect, actually,” I murmur, feeling a heaviness behind my eyes. “Just take me home to my husband.”

It’s time I stopped fighting what I can feel so acutely. Especially when I know without a doubt that if I fell, he’d catch me without hesitation.

He’s in the same spot I left him at, blue eyes meeting mine as soon as I walk through the doors of the house.

“Hey,” I say softly. “Are you done being mad at me?”

CHAPTER 20

Mikhail

Unfortunately, the short time apart from her served to punish no one but myself. If there was ever any doubt that the woman before me has wormed herself into my heart and soul, it’s all gone now.

“We need to talk,solnyshko,” I tell her.

She sighs. “Yeah, we really do.”

I watch as she crosses the length between us before settling down on the couch beside me. I inhale her soft, feminine scent. I want to bottle up it up and keep it on me at all times. It’s maddening, this attraction I feel for her.

“How was dinner?” I ask, deciding to start with an icebreaker.

“It went okay. But that’s not important right now. We need to talk about last night. And I should probably apologize,” she says, chewing on her bottom lip.

“I shouldn’t have lost my temper, baby,” I tell her. What she said hurt, but at the end of the day, I can’t blame her for what she feels.

“No. You haven’t done anything wrong,” Anastasia corrects, placing a hand on my arm. Her touch is searing. “This is all on me. I know I was being difficult.”

I run a hand through my hair and blow out a breath. “I think it’s time we laid out all our cards on the table, Anastasia. No more secrets, no more hiding things. We’re in a relationship, and I understand that it’s not the most conventional type, but I want us to at least try to make it work.”

“I want to make it work, too,” she says softly.

“This isn’t easy for me. I’m not the man who sits around talking about his feelings. No one has ever asked me to. I thought I was doing well. Believe it or not, I was actually trying to open up to you. You can’t get mad at me for not telling you about things like my mother’s death when you’ve never asked me about it. I’ll tell you anything you want to know, baby. You just have to ask, because if you don’t, I won’t know to tell you.”

She reaches for my hand, her long, manicured fingers intertwining with mine. She pulls our joined hands down to her lap before meeting my eyes.

“I want you to tell me about her, Mikhail.”

That’s all I needed to hear. The truth is, I’ve never spoken about my mother to anyone. It’s the one dark spot in my past, like a wound that refuses to close, memories that never seem to fade. It still hurts, but I’d bear any pain as long as she keeps looking at me like that.

“She died when I was ten years old. It was a long time ago, but I still remember her. She reminded me of a delicate flower. My mother had a kind heart. She liked art and music and the pretty things in life. And she was incredibly beautiful. I’m not just saying that. Heads turned everywhere she went. She worked as a model before she met my father. I have no idea why but she fell in love with him, and it ruined her whole life. Falling in love with him is what led to her death.”

Anastasia’s fingers tighten around mine. Her gaze is soft, comforting, urging me to continue.

“My father didn’t love her as much as she loved him though. He abandoned her for most of their marriage, choosing work and chasing after his own ambition. Which led to her getting depressed. She was on meds for pretty much my entire childhood. I barely remember her lucid moments because most of the time she was high or hysterical. In those few moments of lucidity, though, she made sure to tell me how much she loved me and how sorry she was that she couldn’t be the mother I deserved. She’d given me one of those speeches a couple hours before I went into her bedroom and found her dead. It was traumatizing. A ten-year-old finding his mother’s body after she’d killed herself. I remember slipping on the blood. There was so much blood,” I say, my voice gruff and raw.

Anastasia’s eyes are glassy by the time I’m done. She makes a soft sobbing noise before throwing her arms around me. I hold her tighter, relishing in her warmth, accepting the comfort.

“I’m so sorry you had to go through that, Mikhail,” she says against my shoulder. “And I’m so proud of the man you became despite it all.”

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