Page 14

Camilla Vivaldi

I can’t peel my gaze away from Dimitri’s clear blue eyes. His intensity threatens to drown me, but the icy lake of his soul doesn’t frighten me like it should.

Locked in a silent battle with my betrothed—which is a word I never thought I’d use again—I don’t need to look away to feel Serenity’s emotions as she speaks.

“Why are you pushing this so hard, Camilla? I feel like I just got you back, but you’re already leaving me behind again.”

Guilt worms through me, but I squeeze Dimitri’s fingers, letting him know I am not defeated, and meet my sister’s eyes.

“I wasted too much time, Serenity. I put our entire family in danger by not talking about what happened.” I’m still not ready to reveal how much I suffered, but I can’t cower or feel sorry for myself anymore, so I push myself to continue despite the thickness in my throat.

“You protected Perla before she was even born, but it took me holding her in my arms to realize how precious her life is.” Dimitri rubs his thumb along the side of my hand, offering me the support I so desperately need. “I’m not leaving you; I’m running toward a safe future for us all.”

The tears trailing down Serenity’s face shred me to pieces, but she swipes at them and scowls at me.

“By marrying a man you just met?”

I’ve only seen her sneer once, and that was at our mother, but she comes close to the same expression as she flicks a glare at Dimitri.

“Yes,” I say without hesitation.

“But you don’t love him!” she cries.

“I trust him, Nitty. That’s more tangible than love.”

“No. You’re changing yourself too much too fast. Your therapist warned against a surge of positive emotions, but you can’t let his sudden proposal—”

Loretta clears her throat.

“Camilla agreed to self-defense lessons from me the day before yesterday. She hadn’t met Dimitri yet,” she says.

Serenity closes her mouth to absorb the information. I take advantage of her silence.

“The catalyst began with you, Nitty. You found me when I was at my lowest, sent me somewhere safe to heal, and gave me Perla. Don’t smother me now that I’m awake.”

My voice wobbles.

Serenity closes her eyes and takes a deep breath before demanding Nico gives her Perla. With her daughter held close to her chest, she takes another deep breath and meets my eyes.

“I’m sorry, Cams. I shouldn’t pressure you or make you explain yourself. I trust you and support you. If you ever need anything, I’m here for you,” she vows.

“Thank you, Nitty,” I manage through the emotions lodged in the base of my throat.

After another deep breath, she asks, “When are you getting married?”

“Now. Today,” I say.

Her eyebrows disappear into her hair and she opens her mouth to argue but snaps it closed before she contradicts herself.

“Can you explain why?” she asks instead.

I can’t tell her it’s mainly because I’m afraid I’ll lose my nerve, so instead I lift my hand and reveal the massive rock weighing down my finger.

“We spread the rumor we’re already married. If we have paperwork to back it up, isn’t that even more insulting?”

Giorgio crosses his arms over his chest and scowls at Dimitri. “You did use my sister as bait,” he growls.

“No, Gigi,”—the shock and nostalgia frozen on my brother’s face as I call him by the childhood nickname only Serenity and I dared use fills me with bittersweet mirth—“he isn’t. I am. I’m using myself as bait because I’m done cowering,” I declare.

Dimitri leans forward and props his far elbow on his knee, the movement profound after all his stillness, and gives both of my siblings a poignant look.

“I will protect Camilla. She will take lessons from Mrs. Mancini, but she will not need to use them. No one will ever hurt her again,” he vows.

Giorgio drops his arms to his sides and nods.

Serenity stifles a sob and kisses Perla’s head before asking, “Does this mean you’ll move to Russia once Feliks is dead?”

I freeze as the question smacks me upside the head. I hadn’t thought beyond killing the men who hurt me, protecting my niece, and dreading the moment Dimitri found out I fooled him.

“Da, she will, but we will visit multiple times a year. She will not be a stranger to you,” Dimitri answers for me.

My heart swells, for even though his words sound awkward in English, his meaning is clear.

I won’t lose my family.

Serenity nods even as she cries again. For a moment, my fingers refuse to release Dimitri’s hand, but I force myself to let him go and rise. After a gentle squeeze, he loosens his grip and leans back.

I cross the room and wrap Serenity and my niece in my arms.

The bones in my forearm ache and my nape throbs, but comforting my sister is more important.

“What did she do to you?”

Serenity’s anger blindsides me. I release her and lean back to see her eyes locked on my neck. When I lift my hand to cover the sore patches left by our mother, my sleeve slips down.

Serenity gasps.

“I’ll kill her!”

The violence shining from my sister’s eyes is so unlike her a shocked chuckle escapes my lips.

“Leave the murder to me, Nitty,” Giorgio says.

I shift my gaze to my brother’s. He means it.

“With all the other surgeries and injuries you had, she knew your arm took almost a full year to heal! You barely got your cast taken off last month, so she grabbed you there on purpose to make it hurt as much as possible, didn’t she?” Serenity snarls.

Perla squeaks and wriggles in her sleep as my sister tightens her arms around her.

I pull away from Serenity, worried about waking the baby, and stand.

“It doesn’t hurt much. I’m okay,” I say.

I step back to put more distance between us and stiffen when I hit a living wall. Dimitri’s delicious scent fills my nostrils as my back presses against his front.

Fear ices my veins, but he doesn’t wrap his arms around me. Doesn’t restrain me. Doesn’t hurt me.

But he also doesn’t step away.

I shuffle forward and crane my neck back and up to look at his face.

His stormy expression rips the floor out from under me.

“You did not mention an injury. Show me, so?lnyshka ,” he demands.

My insides melt as I realize he’s angry for me, not at me, and my arm lifts without my permission.

He shifts around me to better see and cups my elbow and wrist to hold me steady for his inspection.

“It is swollen. Let me care for you,” he says.

My Russian soon-to-be-husband may not know how to ask with sweet words and gentle tones, but his hard intensity is so honest I can’t deny him.

Plus, the thought of letting either of my siblings tend to my wounds hurts my pride and makes me feel like a burden.

I know I’m not, but I don’t have the emotional bandwidth to fight anymore today.

I nod.

Aurora stands to retrieve the first-aid kit, but I stop her.

“Can we borrow a bathroom for a minute? I don’t want to do this here,” I say.

She nods and leads us up the stairs to the guest bedroom at the back of the second floor, grabbing a first-aid box from the linen closet on the way.

My heart tries to pound out of my ribcage as she shuts the door behind her, leaving me alone with Dimitri for the first time since I agreed to marry him.

My nervousness is stupid. I spent an entire day and night in a crappy hotel room with him, but with everyone I care about down the hall, the separation somehow feels more intimate and scandalous.

This time, I also know he’ll put his hands on me. Already panic builds in my blood. As he pulls items out of the box and lays them out on the bed, I slip into the bathroom and pace from one side to the other.

I am safe. I am alive. I am loved. I am healing.

When repeating my mantra doesn’t help, I stop in front of the sink and turn on the cold water. Not wanting to take off my sweatshirt, I hesitate, but if I get it wet, Dimitri will probably give me his jacket to wear again.

I want that.

But I don’t want to give my siblings the wrong idea. Dimitri and I are not a love match, and pretending otherwise is too cruel for my sister’s tender heart.

I step back, pull my sweatshirt over my head, and hiss as my arm throbs from the movement.

The door opens. Dimitri’s massive body fills the frame. His intense blue eyes find mine.

My insides quake from a clash of fear and want.

He steps into the bathroom, making the space feel too small. I flinch when he lifts his hands, but he offers me ibuprofen on one palm and a bottle of water in the other.

I take them from him, willing my heart to return to my chest, and take the medicine.

“Why is the sink on?” he asks.

“For the swelling. The water is cold,” I say.

“Giorgio brought ice,” he says.

“Oh. Okay,” I flounder.

“I am sorry I intruded. You sounded hurt,” he says.

I flounder harder. Big, bad bratva men don’t apologize. Right? What parallel universe have I fallen into?

“You are safe with me, so?lnyshka . Take the time you need. I will wait,” he says before turning to leave.

I grab his arm before I can think better of it. He swivels his head and looks at me over his shoulder.

“The bedroom is too intimate. Let’s just get this over with in here,” I demand.

“Whatever you need, so?lnyshka ,” he vows.

A lump forms in my throat, but I don’t waste energy clearing it. Instead, I crumple my sweatshirt in my fists on top of the counter and watch him through the mirror.

He retrieves several items from the bedroom and places them where I can see them on the other side of the sink.

Arnica ointment, self-adhesive bandages, elastic bandage wraps, and a few different sized ice packs seem like overkill for a little bit of soreness, but when I really look at my reflection, I understand everyone’s reaction.

The fingertip-sized bruises show how brutally my mother gripped me as I fought to protect myself.

Tears scratch the back of my eyes. I take a deep breath and press my elbows to my sides as sweat drips down from my armpits.

“I will ice your arm first,” he grumbles.

His deep, smooth voice pulls me away from my downward spiral, but kneading my sweatshirt also prevents me from diving into panic, so I don’t offer him my arm.

He doesn’t pry my hand out of the fabric.

Instead, he wedges his colossal body into the space between me and the wall—without touching me—and threads the largest ice pack around my forearm.

His thick fingers pull the hook and loop straps closed around the soft lining, encasing my arm in soothing coldness.

The cast may have been necessary for my physical healing, but it wreaked havoc on my emotional health. My panic creeps closer as the weight of the ice pack tugs at my arm, and I struggle as the air thins.

I blink and twist my sweatshirt in my hands, confirming I have control of my limbs, and meet Dimitri’s eyes in the mirror. He waits until I get control of my breathing to move again.

“I will put ointment on your bruises,” he announces in his low, unyielding voice.

He opens the arnica ointment and squeezes a line onto his finger before reaching for the collar of my shirt with his other hand.

Bile rises in the back of my throat.

I am safe. I am alive. I am loved. I am healing.

He dips his warm, rough finger under my collar.

Harsh masculine voices yell obscenities at me. Hands touch me everywhere. Everything hurts.

My collar tightens against the front of my throat.

I break as the barrier between past and present blurs, fighting with everything I have and scrambling for freedom. Halfway falling through the bathroom door, I cry out as I knock my shoulder into the frame and tumble toward the floor.

Gigantic arms save me from slamming face first into the hardwood, but I lash out and elbow my savior in the face before rolling out of his grip, crawling across the floor, and climbing to my feet using the dresser.

The door to the hall opens.

I scream, throw the vase, and drop into a defensive ball, seeing nothing but another man intent on hurting me.

Giorgio’s grunt of pain sounds from far away. The demons in my head are much closer. They’re everywhere. Around me. Inside me. Hurting me. Humiliating me.

A low, smooth voice sneaks in through the violence, reaching past my panic and caressing my soul with praise and assurances.

When my nightmares finally release their grip on me, I gasp as oxygen and light return to the room, my senses reeling as adrenaline courses through my veins.

“Do not touch her,” my savior snarls.

I meet sky-blue eyes and latch on to the strength emanating from his soul.

Dimitri Volkov.

Snapshots of the last thirty seconds flit through my brain.

In the bathroom, he pulled away the moment I snapped. He saved me from concussing myself on the hardwood. Stopped my brother from touching me and making it worse. Talked me out of my panic attack.

Blood streams down his face from his nose as he squats a few feet away.

It’s my fault. I elbowed him.

“ M-Mio Dio , I’m sorry, Dimitri.”

I sound like a frog with my emotions clogging my throat, but urgency pulses through me. I can’t let Giorgio think this was Dimitri’s fault, and the guilt shredding my heart demands I apologize.

Dimitri swipes the back of his tattooed hand over his nose.

“Is nothing, so?lnyshka , as long as you are okay,” he assures me.

I nod even though I do not feel at all okay.

I can’t marry him, not if he doesn’t understand the noose he’s tying around his neck if he does.

“Maybe I should bandage her up,” Loretta says from the doorway.

I shake my head. A hollow ringing at the base of my skull warns of another attack. I hold up my palm in the universal sign for stop.

“Out. Please. I’ll be okay, but I need—”

Loretta steps out of sight before I finish, and Aurora leans into the room to pull Giorgio through the doorway as Dimitri rises and steps toward the hall.

“No! Not you. You stay,” I demand.

Aurora closes the door, but I glimpse Giorgio’s expression of shock before the wood comes between us.

“I need to tell you something,” I say before my courage dries up.

“Sit on the bed, so?lnyshka . You do not belong on the floor,” he says.

The first tear drips down my cheek, but I don’t bother wiping it away since I’m sure there will be many more to follow.

Dread and heartbreak pulse throughout my body as I prepare to tell him just how broken I am, because the possibility of him turning his back on me and never returning is very real.

And very painful.