Fedya’s grin widened. “Oh, I’d love that actually.” He straightened, spine uncoiling like a beast waking. “Go ahead, my love. Shoot me. Kill me and get it over with. Leave me to rot, and you can get what you’ve been craving for since your father pushed you in front of me. What you’ve been craving for, for God knows how long. Your freedom. Kill me and walk out that door a free woman. No shackles, no husband, nothing.”
“I’m not your love. Don’t call me that,” she snapped. “Never call me that.”
But Fedya didn’t stop. He walked closer to her even as her finger hovered hesitantly over the trigger.
“Don’t come any closer,” she warned as she stepped back.
“Funny, isn’t it?” he said softly. “You’re the one with the power in your hands, and yet you’re the onerunning. From me.” He closed the space between them and, in one devastatingly bold moment, he turned the barrel towards himself and slid the revolver into his mouth.
Maeve’s breath hitched, her eyes widened in disbelief.
“Do it,” he whispered, words muffled around the barrel. “I’m a monster, remember? Your father sold you cheap, like livestock, to a monster. A monster who has become your husband. You have the gun.Kill him.”
He saw the flash of confusion and fear in her eyes, probably wondering what kind of demon he was to utter such formidable words as if he weren’t talking about himself. He saw the brief hesitation in her eyes and the tremble in her hands. Then, the second her resolve tightened, her anger returned with renewed vigor, and she squeezed her eyes shut so tightly he was sure her eyeballs would melt into their sockets. Her face crumpled into an ugly, broken thing, her jaw set.
Then she pulled the trigger.
Silence.
Nothing happened. No bang. No explosive gunshot. No death. No blood. Nothing.
Fedya smiled around the gun before pulling it from his mouth with a lazy, almost amused grace. Dimples appeared on his cheeks, disturbingly at odds with the madness in his eyes. Maeve’s eyes flashed open, and before she could comprehend what was happening, the gun was wrenched from her hands, spun in his palm, and pressed to the underside of her chin.
She froze. The breath stilled in her lungs. He could see her pulse hammering beneath the delicate skin of her throat, and he swallowed the urge to kiss her neck, to feel her pulse pound against his teeth.
His voice dropped, a strip of ice on her skin. “You want to know something about that little stunt?”
She didn’t answer.
“Only two chambers of this revolver are loaded,” he said. “The rest are empty.” He clicked the cylinder open with a flick of his thumb, turning it so she could see the glint of gold bullets nestled along the emptiness.
“Statistically,” Fedya added with a shrug, “you had one in three chances of blowing my brains out.” He leaned in, the muzzle still kissing her throat. Her eyes flickered, a muscle throbbing in her jaw.
“I would’ve let you,” he whispered. “Would’ve died right there if that’s what you wanted. But you were unlucky and you hesitated.”
Maeve’s breath shook as she stared at him. Her mouth opened, but no words came out.
Fedya lowered the gun slowly. “If you’re going to be a Nikolai woman, you don’t flinch when you hold a fucking gun. You don’t falter. You see your enemy, you get rid of them.Chistaya ubiystvo. Immediately.” Then he was smiling another dimpled smile. “But I’m not your enemy, am I?”
He leaned even closer, brushing the edge of his lips near her ear. He felt her goosebumps against his lips.
“Ya vash muzh,” he whispered, nipping her earlobe with his teeth. “And you, for the nth time, are my wife. And your attempt at getting rid of me was incredibly entertaining. The cutest thing I’ve seen in my entire life.”
He stepped back, finally easing the pressure between them, letting her breathe again. His words were branded under her skin, just how he wanted it.
“Next time,” he said, tossing the revolver onto the table with a dull thud, “don’t miss.” He turned around and headed to the door from earlier. The one that led totheirroom. “Now come and see our matrimonial bed.”
Chapter 6 - Maeve
Psychopath. The word bounced up and down the space of Maeve’s brain as she stared at the bed that sat in the middle of the dark room.I’m married to a psychopath.
Everything about the bed was snow white. White sheets, white blankets, white pillows, white everything. The room was small, splattered in depressing shades of black and gray. It was far from appealing, far from being aesthetically pleasing. There wasn’t a single portrait on the walls, not a single thing that beautified.
It was an artist’s worst nightmare, and Maeve was convinced her life had become it.
“What do you think?” his voice came from behind. He was leaning against the door, hands in his pockets, as he watched her take in the space. “It’s not much, but it will do.”
His voice was slowly becoming the worst thing to ever happen to her. She hated how deep it was, how alluring the timbre of it was, how every Russian accented word touched her spine and words. He had proven to her, without any doubt whatsoever, that he was a crazy bastard.
