Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 94829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
“Thank you,” I say, picking at my food. “But I’m just not ready yet.”
“Whenever you are, tell me. Otherwise—” He takes a bite and makes a nearly sexual groaning sound. “I’ll enjoy the fruits of your newfound love of the kitchen.”
I grin to myself, happy that he likes my cooking. “You can thank YouTube for this one,” I tell him.
“I can thank God and you. That’s all I fucking care about.” He digs in, eating like an animal. It’s gratifying in a strange way to see this big man go to town on something I spent a lot of time cooking. I never imagined I’d be the housewife sort, and I don’t think I will be forever, but right now it feels good.
I feel like I have a purpose. Or at least I’m not just pathetic dead weight.
Eventually, we’ll hire someone. I’ll spend less time straightening, cooking, and doing dishes. But this is a good first step toward becoming a normal person again.
We spend most of the meal talking about the baby. He’s as excited as I am, maybe even more so. “I haven’t told you this yet, but I really want to give our child a Russian name.” I smile to myself, trying to look all casual.
His face darkens for a brief flash. “That’s unacceptable.”
“Why not? We could have a little baby Boris.” I make awing and cooing sounds. “Or little baby Katya. Oh, better yet, little baby Dasha Junior.”
He glares at me. “You’re not being funny.”
“What’s funny about a Russian name?”
“You’re trying to tease. I won’t rise to the bait.”
“What if we named our baby boy after my father? Serge Sarkissian has a nice ring to it.”
He slams a hand on the table. I cover my mouth to hold back the laughter. “You will not speak that name again in this house,” he snarls.
“God, you’re so predictable.”
“Ty svodish’ menya s uma,” he mutters, which makes me perk up.
“What did you just say?”
“A little Russian for you, since you’re so keen on it.” He shows me his teeth. “You’re driving me crazy. That’s what it means.”
“I know that,” I say, genuinely surprised. “I didn’t know you spoke Russian.”
He waves a hand in the air. “Ever since we got married, I’ve been brushing up. Maybe recently, I’ve been studying a bit harder.”
I’m honestly touched. I don’t speak much Russian around him, and I’m kind of rusty, but Dad made sure Evan and I grew up fluent in the language. I’m not really that into being Russian, even though it’s fun to mess with my big grumpy husband about it, but knowing that he’s learning the language for me is extremely touching.
“How do I say it in Armenian?” I ask, taking his hand in mine.
“Du indz khents’ats’num es.” He rubs a thumb across my palm and says it slower while I try to repeat it until I get it down good enough.
“Maybe we can pick a different name,” I say softly as I finish eating. “Something that’s not Armenian or Russian.”
“Something all our own.” He sits back to study me and finishes off his bit of wine. “I like that.”
“I like it too,” I say, watching him, my heart beating fast. I don’t even know why.
Our relationship has been like this though ever since Seamus attacked me. He dotes on me, obsesses over me. There are more cameras and guards in the house, but none in our rooms, all because I asked him to keep them out of there. The door between our suites is always open, and we don’t even pretend like there’s a separation anymore. My old room is basically one big walk-in closet now, though I do still spend a lot of time in my living area.
His is too manly. I prefer my decorations.
When I get up to clear the dishes, he makes me sit back down. “You rest now. You’re busy growing our baby.” He cleans everything off and loads the dishwasher. I watch him with a little smile on my lips. I bet he hasn’t done anything domestic in years, and suddenly I come along, and it’s like the guy can’t help himself. If I try to wash a dish, he’s on my case and making me lounge around instead.
I’d pretend like I don’t like it, but the truth is, I love how protective and obsessed he’s become.
We end up in bed together. Most nights go this way. He’s out doing whatever he does, and I want to ask, but I never do. Because whenever a certain Irish name is mentioned, his mood turns black, and I don’t want that energy around the house if I can avoid it.
But after fucking like animals, I can’t help myself. We’re lying together under the sheets, sweat drying on my skin, a happy glow between my legs. I kiss his chest and stare up into his face, and he looks so satisfied it’s almost a shame to mess it up.