A Taste of the Bratva King

Tamara

The low hum of my ringtone pulls my attention from the book I'm reading. My boyfriend's name is on the screen, causing me to sigh. I pick up the call and put the phone up to my left ear. "Hi-"

"Where are you?" he asks briskly.

I close my eyes and suppress a sigh. "I'm home, Viktor."

"You told me we'd see tonight."

I did? "When?"

"Don't play with me, Tamara. We spoke yesterday, and you promised you'd be spending the weekend at my place."

I search my brain for the exact moment I made such a promise, but nothing comes forth. And not wanting to aggravate him further, I say finally. "I'll pack a bag. Expect me there in twenty minutes."

"Good girl."

-----------------------------

I get to his place an hour later.

He sits next to me on the leather couch, his hands already moving up my thighs with that familiar possessive confidence. Like he knows he owns me. He owns my body. But my body is on fire. I shift on the couch, trying to find a position that doesn't make me want to curl into a ball.

The cramping has been my unwelcome companion for the past three weeks.

"Hey," I murmur, catching his wrists. "Can we just... talk tonight? I've had this headache all day."

It's not entirely a lie. The pain radiating from my belly has definitely triggered a headache, but I can't bring myself to tell him about the real issue. Not when I don't understand it myself.

Viktor's penthouse apartment stretches around us in all its minimalist glory— chrome fixtures, glass tables, and furniture that looks like it belongs in an architectural magazine rather than someone's home. The city lights of Boston glitter beyond the ceiling-high windows, but somehow the view only makes the space feel more isolated. More cold.

"Talk about what?" Viktor doesn't move his hands. If anything, his grip tightens slightly. "We just spent dinner talking."

"I know, but—"

"But what, Tamara?" His voice carries that edge I've been hearing more frequently lately. "We've barely touched each other in two weeks."

Two weeks.

Has it really been that long?

The days have been blurring together lately, each one punctuated by these episodes of pain that leave me exhausted and on edge. I've been making lame excuses— work stress, family drama, anything but the truth that something feels very wrong with my body.

"I'm just tired," I say, which is also true. The kind of bone-deep exhaustion that sleep doesn't fix.

"You're always tired." Viktor releases my wrists and leans back, studying me with those dark eyes that once made me feel desired but now feel like they're only looking for flaws. "When's the last time you initiated anything between us?"

The question catches me off guard. "I don't know. Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters. I'm starting to feel like I'm dating a fucking roommate."

The profanity hits harder than it should. Viktor rarely swears around me— he prides himself on being refined, controlled. The fact that his composure is cracking tells me this conversation is about to go somewhere I'm not prepared for.

"Viktor, that's not fair. I've been dealing with some health stuff—"

"What health stuff?" He sits forward, but it doesn't feel like concern. It feels like interrogation. "You look fine to me."

You look fine.

Three words that sum up everything wrong with trying to explain invisible pain to someone who's never experienced it. I look fine because I've gotten good at hiding the moments when I double over in bathroom stalls, when I have to grip the edge of my desk until the cramping passes, when I take longer showers because the heat is the only thing that helps.

"It's probably nothing," I say, because admitting I'm scared feels too vulnerable right now. "Just some cramping."

"Cramping?" Viktor's expression shifts to something between annoyance and disbelief. "Like period cramps?"

"Something like that."

"So take some ibuprofen and get over it. Women have been dealing with periods since the beginning of time."

The dismissiveness in his tone makes my stomach clench in a different way entirely. This isn't period pain— I know what that feels like. This is something else, something that's been steadily getting worse and starting to interfere with every aspect of my life. But Viktor has already decided it's not worth his consideration.

"It's not that simple, Vik," I say quietly.

"Isn't it?" He stands up and walks to the bar cart in the corner, pouring himself a scotch with deliberate movements. "Or is this just another excuse?"

"Excuse for what?"

Viktor takes a slow sip of his drink, watching me over the rim of the glass. "For whatever the hell has been going on with you lately. The distance. The mood swings. The way you flinch every time I touch you."

"I don't flinch."

"You flinched just now."

Did I? I replay the last few minutes in my head and realize he might be right. When he grabbed my wrists, my instinct was to pull away. But not because of him— because any pressure on my lower body sends shockwaves of discomfort through my system.

"I'm in pain, Viktor. That's not a mood swing or an excuse. That's a medical issue that I'm trying to figure out."

"Have you seen a doctor?"

"Not yet."

"Why not?"

It's a reasonable question with an unreasonable answer. Because I'm procrastinating, afraid of what they might find. Because my mother spent years dismissing my concerns about painful periods as "something women just deal with." Because part of me keeps hoping it will just go away on its own.

"I've been busy with work, and—"

"Bullshit." Viktor sets down his glass with enough force to make me jump. "You've got excellent health insurance through your job. You could see a specialist tomorrow if you wanted to. So either this pain isn't as serious as you're making it out to be, or you're using it as an excuse to avoid having sex with me."

The accusation hangs between us like a loaded weapon. I stare at him, this man I've shared a bed with for eighteen months, and realize I don't recognize the person standing in front of me. When did he become so cold? So calculating?

"You think I'm lying about being in pain?"

"I think you're avoiding me. And I think there's a reason for it."

The pain in my abdomen chooses that moment to flare again, a sharp twist that makes me press my hand to my side instinctively. Viktor notices the gesture and his expression hardens further.

"See? You're fine until I try to touch you. Then suddenly you're clutching your stomach like you're dying."

"That's not—" I stop myself before I can finish the sentence. What's the point? He's already made up his mind about what's happening here.

"What I think," Viktor continues, his voice dropping dangerously quiet, "is that you're fucking someone else."