Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 89985 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89985 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
“You’re acting like you’re afraid of me. I have never attacked you, never hurt you.”
“Shut up,” I said. In the back of my mind, I was pretty sure my own brain was asking me what the hell I was doing. I wasn’t talking to no one here. I was talking to a Brigadier. One of the scariest men alive. Even though Ivan Volkov had shown me his softer side, I didn’t for a second believe it.
Ivan was deadly, and so were the men that worked for him, and that was how he wanted it.
“I’m not accusing you of attempting to attack me. I’m not … ugh, you’re so frustrating.” I couldn’t just lie there or even sit there in the bed next to him while he appeared to be so calm. I wasn’t even trying to treat him like some monster. Throwing the blankets off my legs, I climbed out of bed and then started to pace near my side of the bed. All the while, I was aware of our guest in the bedroom where I should be right now, only I couldn’t be. Had Ivan done this on purpose? Was he trying to force me and Peter together? “I know you’re not going to attack me, Peter. I know you’re only doing what is best for the damn Bratva.” As I started to pace and talk, I didn’t even realize what I was saying. It was like a load of mixed words came together and made no real sense.
The truth was, I was so confused.
“Do you know what sucks?” I didn’t even give him time to answer. “That I can’t even be mad at you. It’s not like you and I met and I told you the truth about who I was, did I? No, I lied just as much as you. I can try and dress it up inside my head, but we’re both at fault, and yes, I’m angry. You didn’t tell me the truth, and that even irritates me, because I can’t be angry at you, as neither of us told each other the truth.”
“What’s your point?” Peter asked.
And then I stopped and felt the tears sting my eyes. “That … I fell in love with you and I know you didn’t feel the same about me. It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. I don’t want you to lie to me anymore, and no matter how much I try to fight it, I can’t … I lost our baby.”
I’d not really given myself a chance to cry. I hadn’t thought about it. Even when I was alone and bored, I would think of anything and everything that had nothing to do with the baby I lost. The doctors had said it was an early pregnancy, and there was no damage, and I guess, in a strange way, I kind of imagined I didn’t have anyone to mourn, because the baby was so new.
But, I lost my child. I lost my baby.
And in that moment, it was like it suddenly occurred to me, and I just stood there in Peter’s bedroom and sobbed. I couldn’t stop. The tears just kept flowing. I didn’t want to stand in the bedroom, crying.
This was fucked up.
This wasn’t fair.
Why did I have to feel the pain right now?
****
Peter
I was angry.
No, I was fucking pissed.
Fuck it, I was angry and pissed off.
Niamh was in our bedroom, which was the first time she’d actually been there, ever. After our wedding night, I’d brought her back to my penthouse apartment, complete with her additional bodyguards, and she had taken residence in the spare fucking bedroom, which irritated me. She didn’t have to go there.
We’d been fine. Admittedly, we were just coexisting in the same space, but we were doing fine. One afternoon leading into evening, and suddenly, I’ve got a sobbing wife in my bedroom.
I slammed my hand against Ivan’s door, and I didn’t stop until the door opened.
“You better have a good reason for waking my ass up,” Ivan said.
I didn’t know how he could be asleep. Niamh wasn’t quiet. The tears were real and they were killing me to hear. I couldn’t sleep or ignore them. I didn’t know what the fuck to do, and that was annoying me even more. What did I do with a crying woman?
Growing up, whenever the kids kept us awake for crying, they were often taken and beaten until the tears stopped. Tears were a weakness. I didn’t ever remember crying. I knew there had to have been a point in my life when I did cry, but I had no memory of it.
Crying was death.
Crying was pain.
I couldn’t afford to do either growing up.
All I wanted to do was live.
“You’ve broken her,” I said. “You’ve got to go and fix her.”
“Broken who?”
“Niamh. She’s fucking crying and it’s all your fault.”