Page 24 of Broken Vows (Marital Privileges #4)
Mikhail
W ith my latest battle with Emerson sailing over with relatively minor damage, I call the hospital where they admitted my mother three months ago, hopeful for good news.
My luck appears to have run out.
The news isn’t great. Her mental health is still extremely fragile, and she’s struggling to make progress. My heart aches as I absorb the information, feeling a mix of helplessness and frustration. I wish there was more I could do, but right now, all I can do is fund her recovery.
Dr. Firenze thinks that seeing me could hinder her progress. I’m a reminder of what she lost, and since I look so much like my father, she takes the loss in the wrong manner.
She still thinks she is pregnant with Zoya, which is insane to contemplate.
Zoya turns twenty-nine in a couple of months.
As I disconnect our call, after a grumbled promise that I won’t call again until next week for an update, I take a deep breath, trying to settle my anger.
This, my mother’s diagnosis, is the exact reason I struggle to remain angry at Emerson for the way she left.
Before they exposed Andrik’s lineage as fraudulent, I was at the very bottom of the Dokovic totem pole.
My father was one spot from the top, yet he still failed to protect my mother, so what chance did I have with Emerson?
They could have taken her from me permanently. That would have been far worse than an absence of choice, and the reminder takes care of the frustration bubbling in my gut.
The only woman I’ve ever loved is breathing in air no longer riddled with unfairness and inequality.
That’s worth any amount of heartache.
As I glance around the room, my thoughts still lingering on my mother, I detect that I am being watched. My eyes shoot to the secondary entrance of my office, my body still capable of seeking out its mate even in a crowded room.
Emerson is standing in the entryway, her presence the fresh air my lungs were seeking moments ago. She’s wearing a long-sleeved dark-red woolen sweater, its hem floating dangerously close to the waistband of her fitted jeans. Her skintight jeans flare out just above her ankle-high boots.
Her jeans aren’t the only thing about her that makes me envious. The crisscross sweater design accentuates her breasts’ natural swell, and her tight jeans display her body in cock-thickening detail.
The rich coloring of her sweater amplifies the red hue on her cheeks when she notices my prolonged watch. It isn’t my fault my tongue is hanging out of my mouth. She is stunningly beautiful. Only a fool wouldn’t gawk.
Furthermore, her beauty is a welcome distraction from the turmoil in my head, and I’m not the only one aware of this.
The excitement in Emerson’s eyes is palpable, and both my ego and cock feed off their pulses.
After a quick swallow to lube her throat, she says, “Hey.” Her plump lips lift into a soft smile. “How’s your mom?”
I try to brush off her inquisitiveness how I do anytime Zoya and Andrik try to stomp over my privacy, but my heart chooses another option. She’s arrived to offer me comfort. It would be impolite to squash it like a bug.
“Not great. But I’m trying to stay positive.”
She enters my office, further shifting my thoughts from morose to optimistic with two hip sways. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I consider her offer for half a second and then shake my head. Emerson’s comfort rarely comes in the form of words, and as much as I want to get drunk off her body, our exchange this morning still has me wary that she’ll flee the instant our contract frees her to do so.
Disappointment flares through her impressive eyes, but she hides it well. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
Her support means the world to me, and it surges my gratitude for the foolish game of a lonely old man. He finally saw what I had tried to show to him all those years ago—that the pursuit of wealth only ever leads down a path of emptiness—just a decade too late.
Or so I believed.
Bitter resentment tainted Emerson’s return to my life, but it isn’t the only emotion I’ve felt in the previous twenty-four hours.
I had almost forgotten what it felt like to have someone care for me beyond the superficial layers of success.
Money will never fill the void in my heart.
True happiness comes from meaningful connections and love.
For years, I’ve been blinded by ambition. I thought extreme wealth and success were the keys to getting over my heartache.
Now, I see the truth.
Money is fleeting, but love can be eternal.
I just need to get the fuck over myself to give it a genuine chance.
Emerson’s last line made it seem as if she was seconds from leaving my office, so you can picture my shock when she fiddles with a handful of knickknacks on a shelf before she spins to face me.
The thick woolen material of her sweater makes sense when she asks, “Are you still up for a ride?” Sentiment flares through her eyes. “I think it would be good… for both of us.”
Since I agree with her and appreciate her offer to suffocate the tension between us with an adrenaline-spiking activity, I jerk up my chin.
Emerson’s shuffle replicates a child busting to use the bathroom. “Now?”
I wait for the desperation in her eyes to reach a fever pitch before nodding again. My approval of her suggestion sees her boots lifting from the floor.
A jolt of electricity shoots up my arm when I place my hand on the small of her back to guide her out of my office. Each slight brush of my fingers sends a shiver down her spine and dots her nape with goose bumps, and I find myself making purposeful contact again and again.
The chemistry brewing between us as we walk through the bustling atmosphere is intense, as blistering as the smile of anticipation stretching across Emerson’s beautiful face.
I remember the list we made and how hardly any of them involved clothing. We would have been dead within a month of me getting my motorcycle license if we had followed it to the wire.
The threat of death wouldn’t have stopped us, though. We couldn’t keep our hands off each other when we were a couple, and the remembrance is intoxicating.
Under the watchful eyes of Kolya and a handful of his minions, I guide Emerson to the garage at the side of the principal residence of Zelenolsk Manor. The anticipation of taking her for a ride on my custom Irbis lifts my spirits.
I’ve never anticipated a passenger when I placed an order for the bike of my dreams, or offered for someone to ride with me. However, I’m glad I reserved that privilege for Emerson.
When we arrive at the garage, I hand Emerson a helmet and a jacket. She puts them on, her grin stretched from ear to ear.
After donning my own jacket, I mount my bike, kick up the stand, and then hold out my hand in offering to Emerson. She slips onto the pillion seat as if it were custom designed for her before wrapping her arms around my waist.
The sensation of her body pressed against mine brings up memories of our grind-up last night, and if the lusty gleam reflecting in the side mirror of my custom ride is anything to go by, I’m not the only one taking a trip down memory lane.
I take a moment to savor Emerson’s closeness before kicking over my bike. When the high-powered engine roars to life, Emerson releases a similar purr. The rumble of her excited catcall vibrates through my chest before it settles several inches lower.
“Ready?” I ask, my tone hinting at the thickening of the region below my belt.
Emerson nods, her eyes shining with excitement as they lock with mine in the side mirror. After a frisky wink, a subtle reminder of the wish list we created eleven years ago, I tuck her hands into my jacket pockets to keep them warm before I take off down a long and winding driveway.
The staff who exit the primary residence and the many others dotted around it watch our departure as if we are my grandfather in his bulletproof motorcade, their faces blurring as we race past.
Wind whistles through my hair, flattening it into a slicked-back design as I have no doubt Emerson’s helmet is doing to her glossy red locks when we reach public roads, but I don’t weaken my thrashing of the throttle. I keep the revs as high as Emerson’s elated screams.
As the open road stretches out before us, any worries left lingering fade.
Our ride is everything I had hoped it would be when I considered ways to knock down the massive barriers between us.
The imposed freedom, the bond of our adrenaline-junky hearts, and the thrill of our dangerous speed ease the tension quicker than I ever thought possible.
The pressure on my chest is so light that before I consider the consequences of my actions, I take a left at the T intersection instead of a right.
I thrash the living shit out of my pride and joy, losing the security detail Kolya is adamant I need to protect Emerson.
He’s not a part of my inner circle, so he will never hear the story about the time I had to take on four guys at once when their drunken stupidness assured them that waiting for the sexy bartender in an unlit lot at the end of her shift was a good idea.
I won—obviously—and the victory sent whispers through the gallows that Emerson Morozov was untouchable.
Cold air bites my skin as we get closer to our implied destination, but anticipation builds like wildfire.
For the first time in ten years, I’m following my heart’s pleas instead of my head’s.
It could thrust me into the dark, fighting to find a way out.
But in all honesty, when you’ve lived in the dark for ten-plus years, it isn’t as daunting as it once was.
The further we travel, the more the scenery alters. It switches from an urban jungle of buildings and asphalt roads to lush greenery and loose-gravel roads in under twenty minutes.