Page 18 of Broken Vows (Marital Privileges #4)

Emerson

A s I glide through the water, I find a moment of tranquility amidst the chaos that has become my life of late. My measured strokes and the coolness of the midnight air on my shoulders offer a temporary escape from the overwhelming thoughts plaguing me.

Swimming centers me. It rewards me with the ability to gather my bases while also suffocating emotions that shouldn’t be surfacing as fast as they are.

I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. The past few months have been a heartbreaking whirlwind of compromises and tough decision-making.

The weight of their burden would inevitably take a toll on me.

I just wish my breakdown wasn’t occurring in front of the person who only needs to smirk to make them seem inconsequential.

This marriage, though necessary more than I’ll ever fully comprehend, has added layers of complexity to feelings I hadn’t anticipated handling again anytime in the next five decades.

The pressure to uphold our agreement and the tension it is causing between Mikhail and me are draining.

In the water, I can let go of the facade I must maintain to protect my feelings.

Here, I can be vulnerable, even if only for a short while.

Swimming allows me to breathe while also reminding me that matters could be far worse. I could be married to an overweight Bratva boss with a hairless head and a like for underaged mistresses.

A memory of me saying that exact thing to Mikhail when he complained about his family lineage makes me smile—and has me taking in a mouthful of water.

I cough and splatter more than I breathe during my final lap.

When I reach the edge of the pool, I pull myself out.

Warm water cascades off my body in shimmering droplets as I tiptoe across the freezing tiles to fetch a towel.

I can’t catch my breath while wrapping the soft cotton around myself.

The air is nippy and has nothing to do with the icy stare from a second-story window above the pool.

I noticed Mikhail’s watch several minutes ago, but I was too focused on managing my stress levels to determine whether his glare stemmed from admiration or concern.

It could be a combination of both. I have a hard time understanding my whiplash moods, so I can’t expect anyone else to decipher them without being lumped with a heap of confusion.

Losing my first love left a gaping hole in my heart, and although I hate how heartless it has made me, not knowing the cause of its abrupt ending is more loathsome.

Everything seemed perfect. Our love was exciting and fresh, even after three years. We were inseparable, sharing dreams and plotting ways to make them happen, believing that nothing could ever come between us. Now, pain and confusion taint those memories.

There were no arguments, misunderstandings, or hurtful words.

We were in love, then nothing.

It was gone.

I hate how much power our memories have over me and how they consume my thoughts and fuel my wish for revenge, but no matter how much I try to distract myself, nothing works.

Every time I look at Mikhail, the anger is right there, simmering beneath the surface, ready to explode. But that isn’t the sole emotion I feel.

Being here with him is like traveling back ten years.

The fear of losing him again and returning to a lonely existence overshadows the joy of finding my soulmate again.

Our separation has drastically altered me to the point I feel like a stranger. I’ve tried to move on from it several times, but the pain is too deep and the heartbreak is too devastating.

Bitterness and resentment trapped me in a cycle I couldn’t escape. Then, the only man capable of making me feel whole again showed up out of nowhere with an outrageous plan and an even more devastatingly handsome face.

This pains me to admit, but I would have given up years ago if I didn’t have so many people relying on me.

Alas, being wanted sometimes is a burden even more than being disregarded.

I need to find a way past the anger and relish the opportunities Andrik Sr.’s sick game will reward me with. It’ll be difficult, but I can’t continue to let my past define my future. I must rise above my misery and reclaim my happiness.

It’s hard to imagine when the very essence of my happiness is within touching distance, yet so distant.

Even while giving each other the silent treatment, Mikhail and I exchanged more words back then than we have over the past twenty-four hours.

It could be worse.

He could have failed to show up for a second time.

While trying to seek positives from my predicament, I hang my towel on a hook near the changing room before returning to the principal residence of Zelenolsk Manor.

I feel more grounded and focused after my swim.

Not even the beady watch of the man who once shadowed Andrik Sr.’s every move tapers the length of my strides.

Kolya watches me enter the marital room, mindful that not even I have a clue about what may come next.

After entering the room that’s bigger than the apartment Mikhail and I intended to share, I tiptoe toward the bathroom, careful not to make a sound.

With his eyes closed, Mikhail is sprawled across the bed, pretending to be asleep.

Gratitude washes over me for his unspoken gesture of peace.

It’s been a long day. The recommencement of World War III can wait until tomorrow.

Quietly, I gather my belongings before entering the bathroom, hopeful that a long, hot shower will wash away the remnants of the day’s tension my swim missed.

I take my time showering, easing my body into relaxation mode.

Despite the late hour, I’ll need more than a Xanax to doze off.

Mikhail is shirtless, and his sleeping pants leave nothing to the imagination.

He is the equivalent of a wet dream and a horrifying nightmare wrapped up in one dangerously attractive package.

Once I’ve washed my hair and shaved my underarms, I dry off before slipping into pajamas I packed from home. This pair is a little more risqué than the ones I donned earlier, consisting of booty shorts and a spaghetti strap shirt with an inbuilt bra.

When I return, the room is dimly lit, even with Mikhail not appearing to have budged an inch. I slide into the bed opposite him, sensitive to his feigned slumber. The sheets are warm and soft against my skin as I pull them to my chin, trying to find comfort in the unfamiliar surroundings.

I am zonked, but sleep eludes me.

My head is a whirlwind of thoughts. It replays the events of the past two days, the conversations held, and the emotions displayed on repeat for almost an hour.

I can’t quieten my thoughts, and the nearly soundless snores of the man next to me amplify them to an ear-piercing level.

I roll onto my side and hug my pillow, willing myself to relax.

Nothing works.

As the night stretches on, I remain wide awake, caught in the grip of my regret.

I’m not surprised. I’ve been acting like a twit all day, so it is no surprise my gurgles of remorse could awaken the dead.

When I deeply exhale, endeavoring to loosen the unease sitting heavy on my chest, the mattress dips under the weight of a man whose body has more muscles than flab.

I feel Mikhail’s eyes on me, floating over my cheeks and brows, before they settle on my lips. He doesn’t say anything for several painful minutes, but when he finally breaks the ice, our conversation starts at the last place I expect.

“Was that your mother you were speaking with earlier?”

Air escapes my nose as I grapple to survive his unexpected sucker punch.

He’s meant to hand me a life vest, not force my feet into concrete boots.

Does his question mean what I think it does?

Was he watching me the entire time I… fondled myself?

I should be furious at the thought alone.

I’m not. Don’t ask me why. I am too tired to make sense of anything.

While licking my lips, desperate for some moisture, I sheepishly nod.

Mikhail smiles in gratitude for my honesty while scooting closer, boosting the goose bumps prickling my skin with a scent that is uniquely him.

“Is everything okay?”

The genuine concern in his tone announces that I could ask him to borrow the money to pay for Wynne’s tests, but that isn’t something I can do. He’s already given so much, and I’m at a loss as to why, so asking him would only gray things between us more than necessary.

To survive the next month, I must treat our marriage as the black ink on the white pages demands. As if it is a business transaction.

I realize I lie to protect my heart when I say, “I was asking her advice on a last-minute frock.”

I lift and lock my eyes with Mikhail’s, scarcely breathing when I notice how much pain is in his hooded gaze. He looks hurt, and since I’m reasonably sure I am responsible for the darkening of his usually light eyes, it burrows a hole in the middle of my chest.

It is a struggle to keep emotions out of my voice while moving our conversation in the direction it needs to go. “Your father’s benefactor gala is this weekend, and I have nothing suitable to wear.”

He nods in silent understanding, but it takes an excruciatingly long thirty seconds before he adds words to his nonverbal reply. “Is the gala something you’re interested in crossing off our list?”

He sucks in a surprised breath when the briskness of my nod ripples through the air, and then he smiles.

I’m hit with an unexpected bout of jealousy when he announces, “I have someone who could help you find a dress. She’s?—”

“She?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

I know how to trigger Mikhail’s jealousy because my own neuroses surface whenever he receives attention from women.

That was every damn minute we dated.

I was a pro at schooling my annoyance within months of our courtship, but even the most stringent skill set can malfunction after a prolonged absence of use.