Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 36428 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 182(@200wpm)___ 146(@250wpm)___ 121(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36428 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 182(@200wpm)___ 146(@250wpm)___ 121(@300wpm)
“What next?! Give Vladislav brass knuckles?!”
“He’s only one.”
“Da,” snark drips from his tone, “how old Remy got her first pair?”
I’d rather not answer that.
He won’t like the response.
He never likes the responses or recommendations or requirements that come with raising our daughter in this organization.
And he never will.
The sooner he learns that what he likes regarding her doesn’t matter, the better.
This isn’t about what we want, but what’s best for our daughter. It’s not always going to be easy. It’s often going to be grim. Gruesome. Gut wrenching. However, she will eventually thank us for it like I have my parents.
I just hope we’re alive for her to speak the sentiment to our faces rather than to our graves.
Leaving flowers at their headstones while expressing gratitude for giving me the strength it takes to stay alive some days isn’t always my favorite but has most certainly become a necessity.
For equanimity.
Sanity.
It’s damn near impossible to swallow my frustrated sigh. “Yavok, I wanted her to start lessons at three yet opted for martial arts training instead because you couldn’t handle the idea.”
“Da. Only three!”
“I accepted your position and reopened the discussion two days after her fourth birthday. You – once more – responded poorly, so I conceded for a second time. Remember?”
His blue-gray gaze cuts the marble floors a brief glance at the same time he begrudgingly replies, “Da.”
“I said fine. That she could take an additional pointe class to keep building her dexterity skills rather than fencing which is why I’m stuck scheduling business brunches around dance recitals.”
My husband’s tight, white t-shirt covered shoulders slightly sag. “Nash malysh ochen' khoroshiy.”
“She is very good. That’s why she’s in an advanced performance class out of her age bracket that we agreed she could be in as long as she began fencing lessons shortly after her sixth birthday.” He tries to look elsewhere prompting my head to swivel to keep our eyes connected. “I waited almost a fucking month, specifically to avoid this,” the hand wielding my wedding ring rolls around in a circle his direction, “tantrum. A tantrum that I do not need today of all days, nor do I need here in my fucking office.” My fingers find their way back together in my lap. “Which is where we are. Now, unless you have something in that aspect to discuss with me, you may escort yourself out.”
He twitches a noticeable glare that summons a vicious smirk to my red painted lips.
“And if you do not, I will have Evans assist you in the process.”
His eyes roll as he shoves his hands into his white tailored dress pants. “Cannot throw out. Yavok’s home too.”
“Yes, but this is my office, and the rules regarding the discussion of our family still stand. I entertained your outburst out of marital courtesy. If you choose to continue to test my patience, Pet, you will be reminded very quickly of how ruthless Kessler can be.”
Yavok steals a glimpse of the dangling key around my neck prior to quietly apologizing, “Anteeksi vaimoni.”
The reason I still wear the keys to what was once his cage is the same reason that he still wears the engraved accessory around his neck. It’s not out of fear, but love. Adoration versus obligation. Most women require their husbands to drape them in diamonds and rubies to prove their theoretical devotion; however, mine has always tailored his actions to me.
He still wears white whenever we’re at the estate, an action that provides comfort in knowing he’s never hiding anything, his collar is worn as much as the band I placed on his finger that bears the same engraving, and he never hesitates to explain to whoever asks how he’s proud to love as well as be loved by me.
He even took it upon himself to explain to our daughter how important it is for your actions to match your words, which is why her mother does more things to express her love rather than just mutter sentiments all the time.
And of course, I love my daughter.
And my son who I was not at all expecting to have.
And Yavok.
And I tell them all that, it’s just not as often as I’m sure “I should”.
Wendell tries to claim I should practice it more.
I claim he should practice it less and perhaps he’d stop knocking up his wife.
“You have…” his head slightly bounces back and forth, “problema?”
“I have a headache.”
The sassy retort receives a crooked grin. “Pet can help, da?”
God knows he can.
Our inability not to fuck like rabbits is how we ended up parents to a baby boy so gorgeous that I’m already contemplating Rapunzel scenarios for his dating years because I know it’s only going to get worse in that department. Plus, if he has an accent like his father, it’ll make him even more irresistible, and I don’t need a reputation for butchering women – or men – who couldn’t stay away from my son.