Page 17 of Heartfelt Pain (Ruling Love #3)

Roma

I wanted to fuck Ren’s throat this morning but she looked so pleased after tying my hands and sucking me off. I wanted to pump my cock into her mouth without control. To force her to take me instead of the sweet, warm strokes of her tongue.

It’s cute, how she’s taking control. Her cheeks grow pink and her voice husky. Her nipples tighten when she whispers little things into my ear. There’s a devious look in her eye when she sends me home.

The Ren I used to fuck tried to hide her face, always embarrassed about how I made her feel. Now she doesn’t give a fuck about who’s nearby. And maybe I like a little bit of pain with my pleasure.

I could analyze it all day, but it doesn’t matter. If she wants to try her hand at being the dominant one then I’m here for the ride. Because it’s going to be me she keeps playing with, no one else.

I’m broken from my reveries by the soft click of heels against the concrete floors.

“What are you doing here?” I ask Mom.

She looks completely out of place in the garage. She’s in one of her long skirts, with a nice shirt tucked in under her trench coat. Her beige heels are even skinnier than the ones Ren wears.

Blonde hair is swept back into some elaborate updo. The angular planes of her face startle me. She’s always been bony, but I think she’s lost weight recently. She doesn’t have much to lose.

“Can I not come see my son?” she asks. Despite the stained concrete floor, her steps are sure of themselves as she takes in the garage. “This is very nice, son.”

I mess with the tool in my hand, bent next to my car.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

My Barracuda is up on jacks. “New brake pads.”

She steps closer to inspect my work. “Your grandfather would be very proud to see you in such a place.”

It takes me a minute to realize she’s talking about her father. I never met the Russian tycoon, but there’s pride in her voice. It bleeds into her words and as she looks around I realize she’s not wrinkling her nose.

She always kept out of any car talk. Dad would take me to automotive shows and we’d watch reality TV shows about muscle cars. The only time I saw Mom around cars was when we were getting in and out of the black SUVs that make up our fleet.

“He owned a Mercedes, his pride and joy,” she states.

“It might not seem like much, but he purchased it when not many owned foreign cars in Russia. Your grandmother would send me down to the garage, and tell him to come in for dinner. Hours later she would find us there, music playing and both of us drinking. A soda for me and vodka for him.”

I sit up on the small stool I’ve been using. “Mom. . . are you saying you know about cars?”

She gazes at the underside of my Barracuda. “I am no expert, but my father ensured I knew the basics of car mechanics. He thought it important I knew how to change a tire or know what to do if the engine overheated.”

My mom changing a flat tire?

Her clothes are worth thousands of dollars. I can’t imagine her bending down to lift a tire iron. She currently looks like she can barely hold one up.

“You. . . did you ever have to?” I ask.

She smiles, her hands fidgeting in her pockets. “Only when my father tested me. But knowledge of cars has come in handy. Thanks to my father’s training I successfully escaped out of the trunk of a GAZ-3102 after being kidnapped by rivals.”

I almost drop the tool in my hand. “You were kidnapped?”

“When I was twenty. In what feels like another lifetime ago.”

Her blue eyes study my car and I see it. How she categorizes the different parts she’s seeing. Most people I know can only sort of pick out different car parts when they lift the hood.

How did I never know Mom got kidnapped? Everyone in this city knows about Gia Akatov’s ordeal.

Maybe because it happened in a different country, but it still seems strange.

I know she made Max and I go through training in case something similar happened, but a lot of kids in our lifestyle did the same.

When we’re together as a family, it’s not uncommon for Dad and Dima to tell stories. They switch back and forth, adding little insights into each other’s narratives.

The only time I’ve seen Dad hesitate was the other night. The story about Emma’s rival lover.

But there is another story, now that I think about it, that I don’t think I’ve ever heard.

“Mom. What was it like the first time you met Dad? ”

Something stabs me in the heart when she looks over and her eyes are a mixture of surprise and delight.

As a kid, Max spoke Russian to Mom the most. Of course, we were all taught it, but I assumed my twin only used the language to come off as a pompous asshole.

Which he is, but now as I watch Mom soften at the use of the language, I suspect he always knew she preferred it.

“Your father?” she replies in Russian.

I wave at a chair I pulled into the garage a couple of days ago. She remains standing, but there’s something less rigid about her today. I’d think it’d be the opposite, but she truly doesn’t mind the garage. I keep it clean, but by most people’s standards, mechanical shops are just dirty.

“Did you meet him before or after the marriage was announced?” I ask.

There’s no use in calling the marriage anything other than a business deal.

As kids, Dad and Mom presented a united front, but we’re now fully aware it’s only ever been an arranged marriage.

Dima told us it was because Dad wanted Elijah to have siblings.

I wonder what it was like, though, not only being told you needed to marry someone but also raise their kid.

Dad wasn’t an absent parent by any means, but even now it feels like I’m fighting against his schedule.

Mom has never been touchy-feely but there’s no denying she did the school pickups and drop-offs even if she did so in the chauffeur-driven black SUV.

She forced us to do our homework as soon as we got home from school.

Our house often got crowded with kids and Mom would simply inform the housekeeper to prepare snacks.

Mom hums under her breath. “He came to Russia. To meet your grandfather. Everyone knew of course what would be announced.”

“What did you think about him? ”

Her face is blank but not as tight as she thinks. “I thought he was very full of himself.”

Can’t really blame her.

She takes a few steps, before balancing a heel against the concrete. I’ve never seen her fidget before.

“Your father flew into a private airfield.” For security we almost always do.

“I didn’t want to wait to see him. To try to sneak a look before we met in the garden, knowing what was already to come.

So I told my driver to take me the airfield.

In my mind, I needed to know what he looked like coming off the plane.

Your grandmother guessed my plan. I thought she’d scold me for ruining the schedule.

She simply got into the car with me. We watched your father walk down the stairs of the plane.

And when she asked me what I thought, that’s what I told her. ”

Images of a dark airfield, the private jet, and my mom hiding in some car peering out at my dad come to mind. And I can perfectly envision the confident Lev Zimin disembarking from the plane.

“What did she say?” I ask. Grandma Petra is the most prim and proper lady I’ve ever met. She rarely came to America, but Mom talks to her nearly every day and I’ve visited her in Russia.

“She said don’t be surprised if that’s exactly what he thinks of you.” Mom smiles. “And then she pulled out a bottle of champagne she’d stashed in the car. Father found us drunk and giggling hours later.”

Giggling? I’d say it’s a foreign concept to Mom’s side of the family, but apparently not.

“I’m sorry I never met Grandpa,” I say quietly.

Mom begins to pace again, studying the walls. “He’d like this very much, Roma.”

Something like pride glows in my chest at her compliment.

“You know your grandfather left you some money. ”

Saying I’m well off is putting it lightly. But on my next birthday, I’ll receive another windfall. “Yeah.”

“Mikail Morozov bought a new car. A 1964 Impala.”

“He’s always been a car guy.” My father’s friend collects vintage cars.

“He needs help fixing it up.”

Morozov might be a car guy, but he doesn’t like rolling up his sleeves.

“What if he brought it here?” Mom asks.

“Here?”

Mom takes another look around the place. There’s space for six cars, though, right now only my Barracuda is here. The building once operated as a car shop, an actual business, but fixing up cars has only ever been a hobby. But Mom’s question is genuine and she looks to me for an answer.

“I mean I could help him out, but I thought he went to Sam for all that?” Sam is well-recommended among my father’s friends, especially since he specializes in European cars.

“Sam retired,” Mom states. I had no idea.

I rub the back of my neck. “Well, I guess if he brought it over. But he knows I work, so I won’t get to it like Sam.”

Mom, hands still in her trench coat pockets, paces. “Sam had a profitable business. Have you thought about opening your own shop?”

“Me?” I know I just bought the garage, but I’m not that good. “You know I work.”

For the family business.

She nods, but after a second she speaks again. “You could talk to your father. And like I said, you have an inheritance from your grandfather. I can’t imagine the pride he would feel knowing his grandson is working on sports cars all day.”

My mouth dries a bit at how sincere she sounds.

“Y-you don’t think being a mechanic would be beneath me? ”

Ice blue eyes cut to me. Her mouth tightens just slightly, but her disdain isn’t toward me.

“You are hardworking, Roma. And it takes courage to go after your dreams, to make a business work.”

“But we have a family business.” I might not rise through the ranks like Elijah and Max, but how can I tell them I’m fucking off to do my own thing?

“Your father understands the joys and hardships of owning something that is entirely your own. Speak to him. He admires men with goals.”

I’m still hunched over on the stool as my mom walks around. She’s calm now, but I can’t imagine my father’s response. He might smile and say ‘Sure, son’ but the annoyance he’d show already zaps at my nerve endings.

I shake my head, picking myself off the stool. “Thanks, Mom, but I’m fine. You never mentioned why you were here, though. Are you okay?”

She appears sad for a moment, before blinking. Then her face is the blank mask she wears every day. I didn’t realize how much it hid.

I’m almost feeling guilty for not taking more of her phone calls. At least until she announces, “I came this way to visit Ren. I invited her to Sailor’s birthday party.”