Page 59 of Charmingly Obsessed
Sometimes, I swear, Mykola Frez can read my goddamn mind. Like some kind of unnerving, supernatural ability. Because I was planningnot to hand overmy passport. To avoid getting that official, irrevocable stamp in it. What difference would it make to him, really? Royce isn’t going to demand to see our marriage certificate, for God’s sake. And in case of a… a divorce… it would be one less bureaucratic hassle.
One less permanent reminder of this insane, temporary arrangement.
“Alright,” I nod, defeated. “I’ll be waiting for him.” I take a deep breath. “Mykola… I… I really appreciate… yourunderstanding. Last night. About… things. I know I was completely awful, irrati—”
“Understanding?” He practically spits the word out, his voice suddenly harsh, laced with a bitterness that shocks me.
He lets go of my wrist as if my skin has suddenly burned him. And all at once, I feel… empty. Cold.
I watch as he stops in the doorway between the kitchen and the living area, bracing himself with his knuckles pressed hard against the cool granite edges of the countertops.
“Understanding,” he repeats, his voice dangerously quiet now. He tilts his head, his gaze pinning me, sharp and intense.“Understanding. Let me show you some fucking understanding, then, Diana. “Understanding had absolutely nothing to do with what happened between us last night. Or this morning. Or what’s going to happen again. Very, very soon. I will fuck you – we will fuck – however I want, whenever I want. I don’t care how, or where, or in what way. And we will do so much more than just fuck. Is that enough understanding for you, wife?”
I don’t know why, but my face burns as if I were the entire annual Christmas advertising budget for Coca-Cola, suddenly, inexplicably, set on fire. Flames, hot and mortifying, shoot up for miles.
I was not expecting Mykola Frez, the suave, sophisticated man, to just… say it. Out loud. So bluntly. So crudely. So… honestly?
I thought… I thought I’d be left guessing. Wondering. When the next time would be. If there would be a next time.
Maybe he only seduced me, only married me, to get me to agree to this Royce charade.
Maybe he figured out a long, long time ago that I was pathetically, hopelessly in love with him.
A man like him… he must be used to women wearing out their hearts, their dreams, their sanity, over him.
And yet… he does like me. At least a little. You can’t always be that tender, that passionate, that… present… unless something inside you stirs. Unless there’s some genuine connection.
That’s the most tormenting part.
The tiny, flickering, dangerous hint ofa chance.
“…Diana?” He’s looking at me from under his brow now, his expression almost… uncertain? Vulnerable? “I… I started off too harshly there. Because–”
“It’s fine.”
“Really?” he whispers, his knuckles slipping slightly off the edge of the countertop. He looks… hopeful?
“Yes,” I force a small, awkward smile. “You have…needs. I… I understand. If that’s how things are… with this marriage… then it’s just more convenient this way. For both of us.” I push myself to say the next words, the words sticking in my throat like broken glass. “I… I really enjoyed last night, Mykola.”
It feels like shedding my skin all at once.
Like finally, finally climbing that endless, impossible staircase from my recurring nightmares, the one I’ve never been able to reach the top of for twenty long, lonely years.
“You’re serious?”
He straightens up, pushing away from the counter, and walks deeper into the kitchen. God, I just want to go home. Run away. Hide.
With him standing half-turned like that, his back to me, I won’t have time to make it to the hallway and out the front door before he intercepts me.
I should’ve gone back to Serafima’s immediately after the registry office yesterday. Better yet, I should have enrolled in daycare instead of accepting this insane marriage proposal.
I sigh internally, a tiny, hysterical bubble of amusement rising amidst the chaos.
Well, at least I’m not such a complete disaster when it comes to my actual work. Small mercies.
“I have a very specificneed, Diana,” he says, his voice carefully neutral again as he tosses the empty water bottle into the recycling bin. He pulls off his sweat-soaked t-shirt, wiping his face with it, exposing a broad expanse of tanned, sculpted torso that makes my mouth go dry. “Couldn’t be more specific, actually. I’ll tell you all about it… when yougrow up.” He pauses, then lets out a short, crooked, self-deprecating laugh. “Or maybe you won’t even care by then. Who the hell knows.”
He shakes his head, the movement sharp, dismissive.
