Ruthless Saint

XXXIV

        MIKA MALIKOV

I didn't sleep. I laid on the edge of his massive bed, body wrapped in one of his shirts, eyes wide open as the sun started to bleed through the curtains.

I stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours, replaying everything: the way he picked me up, the way he fucked me like it would satisfy his craving, the way he refused to kiss me.

        He never came back to the room.

        I wondered if he went out to fuck another woman or sought comfort from one of the women from his club.

        I shook my head at the thought, feeling unsettled by my new profound emotion. Jealousy.

        I'd never been jealous before in my life over a man but now I understood.

        An hour later and I was on my way back to the mansion for my clothes. I didn't have any clothes in Mischa's loft and neither did he.

        I'd snuck into his closet earlier but there was nothing than his collection of watches and expensive leather shoes.

        I was a bit shocked when Mikhail was the one to drive me because usually Pavel accompanied me everywhere, but I suspected it had something to do with what I'd pulled that night.

        As Mikhail pulled into the driveway of the loft, I recognized the sleek Royce often drove and I knew that he was back at the loft.

        The walk towards the front door felt like a mix of anxiety and anticipation. I wondered what kind of mood he was in.

        I didn't think I could handle another rough fuck and a part of me hoped he'd cooled down enough for us to have a conversation.

        It was the second time I'd lied to him straight to his face and I knew he wouldn't be able to trust me with anything for a while.

        I walked into the loft, my slippers quiet against the hardwood floors. I caught a glimpse of my husband as I took a sharp corner into the living room.

        He was sitting on the plush sofa with a lit cigarette in his mouth and his gaze fixed on his phone.

        His hand was filled with busted knuckles and the wedding ring caught my attention then the bruises.

        I wondered if the bruises came from Alessio... or from everything Mischa didn't know how to say.

        He met my gaze as soon as I walked in, giving his attention briefly. He ran his eyes down my body and the edges of his mouth twisted at the oversized shirt I was wearing.

        It wasn't one of his dress shirts, but it was one of my usual shirts I wore at night.

        I stood in the doorway, arms wrapped around myself, suddenly aware of how ridiculous I looked—bare legs, damp hair, the shirt hanging off one shoulder.

        "Hi." I muttered under my breath.

        "Hi." The words sounded foreign as they slipped out of his mouth. I was shocked. I wasn't expecting him to say anything back, but I supposed this was a start.

        Mischa dropped his gaze back to the phone.

        "You don't drink whiskey," I said softly, not looking at him.

        I didn't expect him to respond but he did. "I did last night."

        "Why?"

        Another pause. A sip of his coffee. "Because vodka wasn't strong enough."