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It’s the mental, emotional comfort of feeling truly content. A hole in my soul that is no longer screaming.
Gray sweatpants, nonetheless. The male equivalent of lingerie.
“You got my son to fall in love with you. If you can do that, you can do anything.”
Seeing her that way, breathtakingly beautiful, swollen with my children inside her… It unearths this primal possessiveness inside me.
“You’re wonderful, Misha Orlov. You may not be able to name five things you like about yourself. But I could keep going forever.”
“And how do you feel?” I look her in the eye and say the only word that feels right: “Alive.”
“You are everything.”
But I want to be the perfect Bratva wife, too. For no other reason than to make my husband proud.
“You belong there because I say you do,”
The woman is fucking beautiful. And she’s all mine.
“I’m proud, Paige. You held your own. You looked like a true Bratva wife. It took everything I had in me not to stand and clap.”
Vse dlya sem’i. Everything for the family.”
I have fallen in love with my wife. And there’s no going back.
I hold her hand and wrack my brain for something to say. I’ve told her she’s beautiful, she’s sexy, she’s wise, and she’s brave. I’ve told her I love her, and I do. I’ve told her I’ll fight for her, and I have. After all that, what else is there to say? Then it occurs to me. I lean down and whisper in my wife’s ear, “Maksim would have loved you.” It’s the highest compliment I can give.
“Because of you, I’m happy. Deliriously, wholly, wonderfully happy,”
