Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 94829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
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.”