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Chapter Ten

Viktor

Knova and I spend the next few days doing what we do best—avoiding emotional landmines like it’s our job. We don’t talk about that night. Not the flight. Not what happened in bed. And definitely not what it meant.

But I think about it constantly.

The way she looked at me when I gripped her throat—not scared, not shocked, but like she wanted more. The way she moaned when I told her exactly how I was going to ruin her. The way she let me finish on her chest, messy and unfiltered, like she wanted all of me, even the unpretty parts. The way she painted her lips with my cum. That night didn’t just blow my mind—it shattered whatever walls I had left.

Because with her? I wasn’t holding back.

And she didn’t just take it—she pulled it out of me. Welcomed it. Matched it.

So yeah. I don’t ask what it meant. Because if it didn’t mean something to her, I don’t think I want to know.

So instead of pushing, I try to stay useful. I make her tea. I change her sheets. I keep my mouth shut.

We fall into something like a routine, one that doesn’t involve a lot of talking about deep shit. We spend a few more nights in the same bed. No touching. Just warmth and silence. I lie awake for hours listening to her breathe and wondering if she regrets it. Wondering if she’d want more.

And every night, I keep my hands to myself. I tell myself it’s the right thing to do. That she needs space. That touching her again would be selfish. But damn, if it doesn’t feel like a lie.

The morning of my next day off, we wake to my alarm. It’s early, but I need time to get ready before my day starts. I have the usual plans for the day, plans that I haven’t shared with my… wife.

I’m still getting used to that status, and I know better than to take her for granted. I love the way my heart swells with that word, and the sight of her curled in bed next to me is delicious. I kiss her temple as I shimmy out of bed without waking her and shower quickly in the hopes of letting her sleep in. I can tell she’s had bad dreams recently, though she doesn’t like to talk about it. This morning, she looks peaceful. I hope she can finally catch up on her rest.

Even half-asleep, Knova’s a knockout. Jet-black hair spilling everywhere like silk and those wild blue eyes—too sharp to be called pretty, too haunting to forget. She’s got this lithe, athletic build that still manages to make oversized t-shirts and combat boots look like lingerie and heels. A hurricane in human form, and I’m always in the path.

I don’t look half bad myself—at least, according to the mirror Knova hasn’t thrown out. Lean muscle from years on the ice, a sleeve of tattoos curling down my right arm and across my chest, and hair that does its own thing no matter what I do to it. Green eyes that hide more than they show. I don’t smile much, but when I do, I know it lands. It used to matter more. Now? I only care what she sees when she looks at me.

By the time I emerge from the bathroom, she’s cocooned in the blankets, watching me. Her smile slips, fast. “Wait. You’re dressed?”

I pause mid-button. “Yeah.”

“That’s a shame.” She drops the blanket—slowly, deliberately. “Because I’m not.”

Her movements are nothing but a slow tease, like she knows damn well she’s about to level me. And God, does she ever. The soft morning light filters through the curtains and kisses every inch of her bare skin—golden and flushed from sleep, nipples tight from the cooler air, one leg bent just enough to expose the silky seam of her perfect pussy. Her hair is a wild mess around her shoulders, lips parted, chest rising and falling like she’s daring me to do something about the ache she just reignited. And I am absolutely fucking feral for her. One look, and my dick punches against my pants like it wants to break free and worship her all damn day.

But she picked the worst possible moment to present herself like this.

She watches me like she’s waiting for something. A reaction. A move. A goddamn pulse.

And I just stand there like an idiot in slacks.

I shake my head with the kind of regret I don’t have to fake. “I’m sorry, babe, I have errands. I’ll be back sometime after lunch, though.”

“You want company?” she asks, voice flat.

“No, I’ve got plans.”

“Plans,” she repeats. “So you’re just gonna hit me with the mysterious-errand-and-a-kiss-on-the-cheek routine like I’m your Stepford wife?”

“It’s nothing shady,” I say quickly. “Just something I do every month. Like an outreach thing.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me that before now?”

“I didn’t want to upset you.”

Her jaw ticks. “Wow. That’s a bold assumption for a guy who literally railed me a few days ago.”

I hesitate. I could tell her where I’m going, but it seems in poor taste after the other night. “Nothing’s up. I just have things to do. A… standing engagement. I’ll be back. Just tell me what you want me to bring back for food later.”

She curls back up in her blankets and pouts. “Maybe I won’t eat.”

“That’s my stubborn wife. I love it.” I kiss her cheek before doing one last check to make sure I have everything. “I’ll text you when I’m on my way back.”

“Whatever. Enjoy your... thing.”

I linger in the doorway, unsure if I should say something else.

She doesn’t look up. “Door’s that way, husband.”

* * *

I replay the conversation in my head half a dozen times on my drive. Did I make it sound like I was up to something suspicious? Possibly. But I feel weird being all, Oh, you fly life-saving missions? Well, I coach for the Special Olympics.

Even that would be an overstatement. I coach exactly one person. I do more in the summers, but during the season, it’s hard to juggle multiple athletes, so for most of the year, it’s just me and Ella.

I’ll tell Knova eventually, but it’s a whole thing I don’t want to get into. Even my sisters don’t know I still do this. The only one I’ve told is my mom. I don’t want to come across as bragging, and bringing Knova along today might have set off another PTSD attack since she just went through a traumatic event.

Sometimes it feels selfish, like I keep it a secret just so it stays mine. Just so I don’t have to share the one thing in my life that isn’t complicated, strategic, or designed to prove I’m worthy of love. It’s just Ella. Just us. Just this one thing I know I’m doing right.

I pull up to the bocce field where Ella told me to meet her today. I recognize some of the cars in the lot, since there are other kids out here practicing today. Not kids, I catch myself. Ella’s twenty-two, and she doesn’t appreciate being infantilized.

I spot her well before I reach the field. Ella always wears brightly colored exercise outfits to training, the kind I used to associate with Zumba classes. Today she’s wearing leggings with a neon floral print and a deep purple top with green piping around the edges, not to mention her electric-yellow sneakers. She jumps up and down when she sees me, waving her arm over her head.

God, I missed that smile. The world is so heavy lately, but Ella’s joy always cuts through the static.

“Viktor!” she calls. “Get over here!”

This is one of the reasons people sometimes treat Ella like a kid: no other adult I know has as much energy and enthusiasm for life. That’s not a Williams Syndrome thing. It’s just an Ella thing.

Her round face, short stature, and general baby face add to the sense that she’s younger, but that just means that people tend to underestimate her. In addition to being a Special Olympics athlete, Ella works with one of the local school systems to do one-on-one tutoring with kids who have developmental delays. Her outgoing personality and colorful style make it easier for kids to trust her, and instead of talking down to them like some of their other teachers, she can engage with them on a personal level. Ella talks a lot, so I know all about her job, and it seems like a great fit for her. Last time, she was telling me about how she couldn’t get through to one of her students until she finally brought out her ukelele and started communicating through song. The kid finally opened up to her.

That’s Ella in a nutshell.

“Hey, Ella.” I stride up to her. As usual, she goes in for a hug. After giving me a big squeeze today, she hops back and grins.

“Notice anything different?” She holds up her hands like she’s framing her face for a photograph, and poses as she does so.

“New glasses,” I say at once. “I like those blue frames.”

“Thank you!” She beams. “This is the kind where you can change out the front so you can wear different patterns every day. See?” She reaches into one of her pockets and pulls out another plastic frame. This one is covered in polka dots. “They use magnets. It’s so cool, and the kids love them.”

“Right,” I tease, “that’s why you got them, for the kids and for no other reason .”

“Hey, two things can be true at the same time.” She punches my arm and tucks the spare frame back into the pocket of her leggings. “You’ve bought dumber things for worse reasons.”

“True.” I nod meaningfully toward the bocce supplies. “Ready to get started?”

If she didn’t have Williams Syndrome, I’m pretty sure Ella would have been a dancer. She’s got the energy and enthusiasm for it, and once she’s focused on something, nothing breaks her concentration. Unfortunately, Ella has a whole host of cardiovascular problems that limit the type of exercise she can do safely, not to mention muscle and joint issues that make it all too easy to injure herself. I’ve read up on Williams Syndrome since meeting her, and I sometimes wonder about the other symptoms she’s never mentioned. The only reason she’s talked to me about her physical considerations is that, as her coach, I have to know her limits. I need to know when I’m pushing her to improve a technique and when I’m asking her to do something that could result in an injury.

Beyond that, unless Ella volunteers information, I don’t ask for more. In the nearly two years we’ve been working together, I’ve learned that Ella’s disabilities are the least interesting thing about her. She has a ton of hobbies, loves music, and volunteers with an exotic pet rescue. Why would I pester her for personal information when I could ask her how the cockatiel she hand-raised from a chick is doing?

I wonder sometimes what would happen if Knova met Ella. Would she roll her eyes? Call me soft? Or would she see me for who I really am when I’m not performing? I want her to know this version of me, too—the one who gives a damn without needing applause.

We train until I spot the early signs of fatigue in Ella’s posture. “I think I need a break,” she says.

“Let’s have some water,” I agree. “It’s a hot one.”

We sit down on the nearby bench and watch the rest of the bocce players and their coaches. While Ella checks her pulse, I pull out my phone to text Knova.

No1Viktor: Any idea what you’d like for lunch? I’ll be eating before I get back, but I can bring anything you like.

I hit send and watch as my message status changes to Delivered, and then Read. I wait for a bubble to pop up and indicate that she’s typing back. It doesn’t.

Not a ‘sure’ or a snarky ‘bring me meat.’ Nothing. It shouldn’t gut me the way it does. But it’s the silence that gets me. Because I used to be her emergency contact, and now I’m just another maybe.

“Who are you texting?” Ella asks. “Is it Knova?”

“Maybe.” I turn off my screen and set my phone face-down on my lap.

“Are you finally going to ask her to be your girlfriend?”

I glance sidelong at Ella. Sometimes her social skills are a little iffy, as she has a habit of saying what she’s thinking without knowing how her bluntness comes across. Based on her cheeky smile, I’m guessing that she knows she’s being nosy.

“None of your business.” I smile to let her know that I’m kidding. Mostly.

“Too bad. Missed opportunity.” She holds my gaze as she lifts her bottle to her lips and takes a long swig.

“What makes you think she’s not already my girlfriend?”

“She wasn’t your girlfriend last time,” Ella points out.

“Touche, young padawan.” I check my phone again. I’m still on read. “But things can change.”

A spasm of worry crosses Ella’s features. “If they do change, you’re not going to stop volunteering, are you?”

“No way.” I scoff. “Knova would be cool with this. She’d understand.”

“You haven’t told her,” Ella observes. “Hm.”

That tiny noise carries a punch. She doesn’t mean anything by it, but it makes me feel like a liar. Like I’m hiding parts of myself because I’m afraid Knova won’t understand. And maybe I am.

“What?”

“Nothing.” She re-caps her water. “I’m ready to keep going.”

I know this isn’t a big deal. I’m not doing anything wrong. I’ll explain what I’m doing before the next coaching session. Maybe I’m overthinking it, but Knova seems so suspicious of anything I do that’s “too nice.” Like I’m trying to trick her into something. I’m not sure how to explain my volunteer work without making it sound like a weird flex. See how nice I am? I volunteer for the Special Olympics. You should totally stay married to me and, ideally, have sex with me again.

And again and again and again.

God, how pathetic would that be? Turning something sacred into a pitch for her affection. I don’t want to be that guy. I want her to love me for who I am—quiet kindness included.

Yuck.

That’s not why I’m here, and I don’t want Knova to think I’m doing this to earn points with her, or with karma, or with anyone else.

“You coming?” Ella’s already set up and waiting for me.

“Yeah. Sorry.” I check my phone one last time. There’s still no response to my last message.

I slide the phone into my pocket like I’m not checking it again in three minutes. I’m not mad, just… tired. Of chasing. Of trying to prove I’m enough. Of hoping that maybe one day, she’ll look at me and see the same forever I’ve already seen in her.