He rose with his fists clenched, the tendons in his arms and neck taut like bowstrings. He jerked his head from side to side, opening his mouth to say something, only to snap it shut. The warring emotions in his eyes reminded me of the feverish colors of that sunset. Just as incomprehensible.
“Dmitri, talk to me, please.”
He disappeared into his dressing room, returning in jeans, but his tension had only ratcheted up. Beginning to pace, he broke into an angry spate of Russian, gesturing heatedly. I heard his own name among those words; talking to himself again?
“Please tell me what your issues are.”
Seeming overwhelmed with confusion and frustration, he squeezed his head once more. The muscles in his forearms contracted, drawing my gaze to that faint scar. Based on his behavior right now, I worried that mark hadn’t been surgical.
Without warning, he launched a fist into one of the cabinets, splintering the wood. Another hit and another.
Once I recovered from my shock, I leapt off the bed to reach him. “Stop that!” I grabbed his arm.
He turned heartbreaking eyes to me. “And if I can’t?”
I should’ve been running the other way, but the torment in his expression was killing me. I took his banged-up fist in my hands, and gradually got him to lower it. “Tell me what’s wrong, Dmitri.”
He shook his head. He was so beautiful outside, and so clearly damaged inside. Beautiful, fucked-up man.
“You told me I would need to help you,” I reminded him. “I want to, but you have to talk to me.”
“If I do this now, and my mind drifts . . . will I come back from it?”
Drifts? “Come back from what?”
His eyes darted. “The more pleasure I feel, the worse it is. And pleasure with you, Vika, is in a different goddamned realm. Your lips could turn any man mad.”
“What does that mean? What did I do?”
“Maybe I didn’t work hard enough, or I wasn’t clever enough.” Again he squeezed his head, as if he wanted to purge it of thoughts. “I believed I could do this. I misjudged everything.” His tone sounded wretched.
“We can figure something out, Dmitri! Just talk to me. Please.”
He drew back from me, then strode toward the bedroom door. Over his shoulder, he murmured, “I am . . . sorry.”
CHAPTER 23
Dazed, I shrugged into a robe, the terry cloth skimming my sensitive nipples. Dmitri had left me in a state, despite my bewilderment.
I curled up in the bed. What should my next move be? My first impulse was to call my sister, but this situation felt too private—as if I’d be betraying Dmitri to reveal this secret.
Wasn’t I betraying him enough already?
Angry Russian words began booming from another room. I really hoped he had made a call and was talking to someone other than himself. Based on the pauses in his tirade, I assumed so.
What had happened to him? What was the source of his damage? I’d never known anyone who’d attempted suicide. Had he?
I gazed down at my ring, and tears welled. There’d been hope in Dmitri’s eyes today, somehow connected to having sex with me. He’d worked and planned, but it hadn’t been enough.
Dmitri’s hopes had been dashed. That wrecked me.
Lightning bolts forked over the Pacific. I got under the duvet and waited for rain. Sure enough, it started to fall. Then pour.
Time ticked by. . . .
I glanced at the nightstand clock. Only nine? The storm still raged outside. Dmitri still raged on the phone.
I reviewed what I knew. Physically, he’d been ready, but not mentally. He’d known difficulties might loom, so this must have happened before. His mind drifted when he felt pleasure.
Benji had once told Karin and me he used to dissociate during sex. I’d looked it up and read cases about sexual abuse survivors who would go into a fugue state of detachment during a sexual encounter, having little to no memory of it.
Benji’s abuse had been on the streets. Once an orphan in India, he’d fallen into the clutches of a ruthless adoption racket. Shortly after he’d arrived in Nevada, the company had shut down, its victims cast to the winds. He’d been defenseless.
When we’d first taken him in, I’d overheard my mom and dad talking about me.
“I’ve never seen Vice so protective of anyone,” Mom had said.
Dad had grated, “Because no one’s ever needed her—or our—protection more.”
But I hadn’t been able to do anything to help my new brother.
Could I help Dmitri?
When he said his mind drifted, did he mean dissociated? Had he been abused?
His parents had died when he was young. Maybe he and his brothers had been shipped off to somewhere dangerous in the remote north of Russia. Who the hell knew what could have happened twenty-five years ago?
This would explain his driving need to be in control. And Dmitri had said his trust had been burned “early along the line.”
I glanced in his direction. My father was right. Marriage cons could feel real, and right now I wanted to murder anyone who harmed my “husband.”
When Dmitri fell silent, I sat up. Would he come back to me or should I go find him?
He returned not long after, much calmer, but he still simmered with . . . something. His hair had dried into tousles—far from his perfect look—but I found him even more compelling this way. He was certainly a mortal tonight.
What should I say? I settled on: “Hi.”
He nodded. In a halting tone, he said, “You must be confused about my behavior. You must be anxious.” He sounded as if he quoted someone. Had Maksim told him that? Whoever he’d called was reasonable at least.