Page 4 of Nobody Wants Me (Volkov Bratva #5)

V ictor

I hadn’t expected Freya to be in her sewing room. Last time I saw her, she was out in the garden, and that shit could take some time.

I preferred to work alone, but that would just make it longer and harder.

Besides, if she fucked up, I could just tell her to leave.

Only, Freya didn’t fuck up. When I told her to hold stuff, she did.

She didn’t try to take over but followed my lead as I got her shelves set up, one by one.

It came together and matched her previous set.

All the timber had been treated and each piece smoothed down.

By the time I finished, she grabbed the vacuum cleaner, got the mess, as I gathered up the last pieces of equipment and tools.

I stood in the doorway as Freya grabbed her pieces of fabric and slid them into the necessary compartments.

She spun and threw her arms around my neck. “Thank you.”

I was taken aback. At first, I didn’t do anything. This was no different than what she had done the last time. Only, I was not interested in getting close to my wife, and Ivan was due to fucking arrive tomorrow, with his plus-one.

I grabbed her hips, taking note of how full they felt within my grip, and I set her away from me. I was not interested.

Without a word, I turned away from her and left the room. Just as I made it to the stairwell, I gritted my teeth. I was tempted to just leave it, but she needed to know.

Going back to the room, I found her where I had left her. There was a look on her face and I didn’t quite know what it was. Not that Freya had an unreadable expression, I just wasn’t sure what it meant.

“Ivan’s arriving tomorrow with a friend,” I said.

With that, I was done. I had warned her that Ivan was coming tomorrow. Making my way downstairs, I let Umberto know I wanted my dinner outside in my shed.

If Ivan was going to be here, I would not have a lot of time for anything more, as that man demanded a lot of attention.

Putting my tools away, I took a seat at my desk and looked over the plans for the latest piece I had been working on.

I know this is fucking pointless, but after seeing Freya’s beauty room, I couldn’t help but think I could build her something even more useful.

Looking over the minor details, I closed the book, because that was the kind of shit a loving husband did, not a man who hated the very idea of being married.

Thirty minutes later, Umberto came out, carrying my food. It was rare for him to be the one serving me.

“Your wife is inside, all alone, like always,” Umberto said, taking a seat.

I should have known I wasn’t going to get to eat in peace and quiet, as he brought a plate for himself as well. There was no getting away from this shit.

“Did I say you could stay?” I asked.

Umberto, like Rafael, had become used to my moods.

He just laughed. “Did I even ask?”

This made me laugh. I guess in the scheme of things, Umberto and Rafael were now the closest people I had to a family. A family I paid to do jobs for me.

Sticking my fork into a meatball, I took a bite. They were meaty, savory, and covered in a delicious, spicy gravy.

“What is this?”

“This is my take on Swedish meatballs,” Umberto said.

“It’s good.”

“Yes. Very good. Are you aware that your wife loves meatballs?” he asked.

I looked at him and took a bite. “I don’t give a fuck what she likes.”

Umberto tutted. “That is no way to think or feel about your wife, Victor.”

“My relationship is a contract, a business. I don’t like her. I don’t love her. I never will. There will be no family here. No nothing. If Freya wants to survive, she needs to learn her place, and she certainly shouldn’t expect anything from me.”

Silence met my declaration. I was not going to pretend this was anything more.

We ate our food in silence. I expected Umberto to leave, to give me the peace and quiet I so desperately wanted. Only, he didn’t. He finished his food, and even after he took my plate from me, he stayed silent.

I looked at him and waited.

“You know, for a man who claims not to love his wife, or even care about her, you’re sure making sure to help her feel part of your life.

I saw you carrying all that wood. I know you made her more shelves, and that unit right there we both know is for her makeup.

It’s not a bad thing to like your wife,” Umberto said.

“Are you done?”

“You might also like to know I have every reason to believe your wife heard every single thing you said,” Umberto said.

This surprised him, as Umberto got to his feet and opened the door to his shed. Sure enough, something had been left outside the door. Umberto handed it to him, and then left without another word.

He didn’t give a shit if Freya heard what he had to say. He was only speaking the truth. Their marriage was a business contract. Dealt with by Ivan Volkov.

He held the quilt in his hand, and at first he refused to open it or even look at it. Women were a pain in the ass. He hated them. They were weak.

And with his anger intact, he opened the quilt to see a beautiful piece. Each panel looked different, and he saw there were shapes in the center, each one ... a tool he used regularly. It was lovely.

He didn’t fucking want it. Even as a part of his brain told him not to, he grabbed one of his cutting tools and tore the blanket to pieces.

There was nothing left of it, and once he was done, he made his way into the house and found Freya heading upstairs.

Without a word, he tossed the blanket at her, then stormed back out of the house.

He didn’t want anything from her. Nothing sentimental. Not her hugs. He didn’t want anything, because he didn’t want a wife. He wanted to be left the fuck alone.

Why was it so hard for people to understand that?

****

F reya

There was no point in giving Victor money. There was no point in attempting to cook for him. I had nothing to give him, and most of the time he seemed to hate me on principle. I saw how much he visited his shed, and I came to realize that nearly all the furniture in his home was made by him.

He was a maker, a builder. After some research online, I got the idea to make him a quilt. It was lame, but quilts held a lot of value. A person took time and put their everything into a quilt. It was a piece of them, given to someone else, and could become an heirloom.

Victor had cut it into pieces. Precious fabric discarded like nothing.

He didn’t want anything from me, and I just wanted to say thank you for the shelves and everything he had done for me.

This hurt as much if not more than when my father trashed my home, destroying everything I owned, because I wouldn’t get plastic surgery. Although, I didn’t cry.

Several of his people helped clean up the mess. I apologized to them, tried my best to pick up the pieces and quickly stuff them in a trash bag, so no one would know what I had done. They probably thought it was stupid. Victor sure didn’t like it, and that was fine.

Once the downstairs was cleaned, and not a speck of the quilt remaining, I thanked them as well as apologized. If I didn’t have the stupid idea of making him something, he wouldn’t have had to destroy it. I got the message. My husband wanted nothing to do with me. That was fine.

I didn’t go back to my sewing room. In that moment, I couldn’t bring myself to sit in the room that brought me so much pleasure and had irritated Victor.

The lights were already turned off. So, instead, I went to my bedroom. I took a quick shower, washed my hair, brushed my teeth. I felt ... numb.

When I went out to the shed, I had hoped to mend fences, or at least try to make this situation amicable.

Although, I heard what he said to Umberto.

It hurt. It was like I was being punched in the gut, and someone had grabbed my heart, twisted it, and then thrust a needle straight into it.

I should have known better. Nobody wants me.

My own mother left after she gave birth to me. Took the money my father paid to keep me, and was gone. Most of my nannies left me alone. They were more interested in sleeping with my father.

My father hated me.

My brothers hated me.

I even dreaded getting a dog, in case the dog hated me as well. Dogs were supposed to be loving and loyal. I don’t know if I could handle a dog not liking me.

I didn’t know for sure what exactly I had done to Ivan Volkov to make him hate me so much, to marry me off to one of his men.

I’d never met Ivan Volkov. We danced at my wedding, and he’d been nice. He asked me if I liked the service, and if I liked the dress. It was the first time anyone had asked me if I liked anything at my own wedding. I’d been polite and lied, told him it was beautiful.

The service had been wonderful. The only problem was, there were too many people, and they had used daffodils rather than roses. I loved the color purple, and the color scheme had been red and yellow, which I didn’t like. I hated it.

It hadn’t really been a wedding for me. I didn’t get a say in any part of it. Also, the cake had been a fruitcake. I preferred a vanilla cake, with coconut icing.

After my shower, I climbed into bed, stilling feeling numb. Sleep wouldn’t come. I was tired, but my mind was racing.

Ivan was coming tomorrow, with someone else. I hoped it wouldn’t be my father. Victor didn’t say who his plus-one was going to be. I could attempt to hide. It was easy to hide, although the thought of going into my sewing room right now made me feel so sick.

Throwing off the blanket, I padded toward one of the doors. I had an en-suite bathroom as well as a closet. The closet was like another room entirely, and I had been able to keep my homemade wardrobe, as well as my beauty space, in one room.

Tying my hair back, I slid some clips into place, pulling my hair off my face. There was no point in lying in bed and letting time slip by. Turning on the lights, I delved into my drawers, finding what I needed, and placed them on the desk.

I sat down at my vanity table and looked at my reflection. There was no laughter, no life in my eyes. There was nothing.

Taking a deep breath, I felt the pain in my stomach as it churned, and I tried to ignore it. I picked up some moisturizer and pumped some onto my fingers, prepping my skin. Most of my skin care had already sunk in, and I used this to revitalize my skin ready for makeup.

I moved to my palette storage, and rummaged through them, trying to find one that called to me. No one was going to see this makeup. By the time I was downstairs tomorrow, I would look fine. Tonight, I could experiment, just enjoy the process of makeup, and try to deal with what happened today.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream.

Instead, I chose two palettes and took them to the desk.

Prepping my eyes, I added some eye primer, blended, and set it down with some powder.

Opening one of the palettes, it had bright spring colors.

Warm and vibrant. Picking up the vibrant blue, I got to work building up my eyes.

There was no color cohesion, just a woman playing with makeup to pass the time.

I was so tired, but couldn’t seem to stop myself.

I imagine if I was ever allowed to work, this is what I would be doing all day and night to rid myself of these feelings.

Admittedly, I was used to them when it came to my brothers and father.

I paused after swathing my eyes in blue eye shadow.

Staring at my reflection, I quickly glanced through my palette, and then used a bright white to contrast the color.

For the next hour, I worked on my eyes, adding little intricate details, drawing out a blue wing, adding some black eyeliner.

It wasn’t a work of art, just having some fun and getting lost in the makeup.

All I did was make him a quilt, and he acted like it was some kind of monster. What kind of person did that? Not that I knew who Victor was. I barely knew the man. The irony was, I also knew him on the most personal level as well. It was so freaking crazy.

After I finished my eyes, I got to work on the foundation.

I did not need to put on full-face makeup, but it helped distract me.

Time ticked by, and I don’t know when I got in the habit of taking a picture of my designs, but I did.

Lifting my camera, I made sure I could see the angle, and then I took a picture of my outlandish blue-white eye look, complete with a full face of makeup.

With nothing else to do, I went into the bathroom and removed it all. This alone took a good twenty minutes, as I had to use special liquids to help remove the eyeliner as well as the mascara.

Checking the time, I saw it was now a little after three, and I was exhausted. I didn’t bother putting the television on. However, I did go to bed, lying on top of the covers, closing my eyes, willing sleep to come. I couldn’t.

I saw the anger in his face as he looked at me and tossed the destroyed quilt to the floor.

Tears filled my eyes, but I willed them not to fall.

It wouldn’t be good for me to cry. It was just a quilt.

A gift idea I had come up with, and it had all been useless.

Victor didn’t want anything from me, and that was more than okay. I didn’t want anything from him.

I was part of a loveless marriage. The only thing I could do was hope he just left me alone.

Providing I didn’t cause any trouble, nor make waves, I should be okay.

That is what I kept telling myself. Yet, all the movies told us it didn’t matter if you stayed good.

If someone wanted you dead, that was exactly how you would end up. Totally dead.

How did I get here?