Beautiful Revenge (A Good Wife Book 1) Page 2

  3

  ____________

  Dimitri

  Alena and I tumble onto the bed, my body filling to bursting as I kiss her. I’m swollen with love and fire and the overwhelming need to protect her. If only I could wrap her up in cotton and keep her safe. If only I could hide her from the bitter unfairness of the world. If only I could give her everything her generous heart desires.

  I want to see her radiating with happiness, to see her thin girlish figure fill out with healthy soft curves because she has enough to eat. She is skinny now. Too skinny. Every time my hands brush over her protruding hip bones, I feel the stab of failure. Despite that, she is still the most stunning creature in the world. I want her. I need her.

  I stiffen as her soft tongue dances with mine, lust burning a trail through me. My hand slips under her shirt. I find her warm belly. She lets out a gasp but she doesn’t pull away. She presses closer to me, her kisses growing wilder, her fingers tugging at my hair. My hand trails up, up to brush the underside of her budding breasts.

  Stop it, Dimi. She’s only fifteen.

  I snatch my hand off her and tear my lips off hers. She groans, a mirror of my body crying out to touch her again.

  “Why did you stop?” Alena pouts. It takes every fibre of my willpower not to take her bottom lip into my mouth and suck.

  “You know why,” I say, my breathing heavy. I struggle to control myself—my breath, my hands, my need.

  She sighs. “Because I’m not even sixteen yet.”

  “And I’m nineteen.”

  “I turn sixteen in seven days. Is seven days really going to make a difference?”

  “Yes.”

  “No one’s going to turn you in for taking a minor’s virginity.” Her face screws up. “My parents certainly don’t give a shit. They don’t care if I’m alive or dead.”

  I let out a low curse. “It’s not about the law.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I know. I know. It’s about your damn morals.” Despite being annoyed at me, she honours me with one of her half-smiles. “It’s one of the reasons I love you, you know? You’d never take advantage of me.” She stares at me through her long lashes, chewing on her full bottom lip. She looks almost shy when she does it. The shyness is a ruse.

  I let out a groan as she presses her soft body against me, slipping one leg in between mine so her core presses right up against me. Fuck. I can feel her soft heat through our clothes. I grit my teeth. “You make it so hard for me to stick to my damn morals.”

  She giggles. “I know.” She grinds herself against my thigh.

  My dick throbs. I curse. My fingers grip onto her hips, unsure whether to stop her or urge her on. “You enjoy torturing me.”

  “You torture me too,” she says in a breathless whisper, her breathing growing heavy as she continues to rock her core against me. “I’m so…wet. I want you so fucking bad.”

  Jesus Christ. Those dirty words coming off her tongue, out of her innocent plump mouth, sends another aching pulse through me.

  “Alena, stop,” I beg. She has to stop. I can’t stop her.

  She’s too far gone.

  I can do nothing but watch as the thunder shudders through her, the lightning snapping her fingers into fists in my shirt. Her lashes flutter closed, shutting off those hypnotic green eyes. I can smell her desire, thick in the air like summer rain. God, how I want to taste it. I want to lick every last drop. Her pink mouth drops open. A siren’s cry releases from inside her. She is the most stunning creature I have ever seen.

  I’m a mass of coiled, painful tension as I watch her come down from the pleasure I am not allowing myself to enjoy with her yet. I’m shaking, my fingers gripping her like claws.

  Seven more days.

  I’ve waited so long for her. Seven days shouldn’t be so hard. For some reason these seven days feel painfully swollen out towards eternity.

  Stay strong, Dimi.

  Her eyes flutter open. Once again I am trapped in her stare. I can see by the way she chews her bottom lip she expects me to be angry with her.

  “That was so fucking beautiful,” I whisper.

  She smiles, reaching down between us for my aching dick. For a second I almost let her. If I do, I can kiss good-fucking-bye to my morals. I grab her wrist and hold her hand away, attempting a stern look.

  She pouts. “I just want to make it good for you, too.”

  “You do.”

  Her frown deepens. “You won’t even let me make you come.”

  That’s because I know if she touches me, I’ll give in and take everything. I’ll let myself sink into her precious untouched folds. “You will. Sixteen is only seven days away.”

  She sighs. “I guess.”

  I smile at her and rub my nose along hers. “Besides, the first time I come with you, it’ll be inside you. You’ll be able to feel me, to watch me fall apart.”

  She shudders. Her tiny pink tongue slides out to wet her bottom lip. That little move has my dick screaming.

  Mother Russia, give me strength.

  I shuffle her to face the other way before I lose all control, and tuck her against me with a delicate touch as if she is made of porcelain. When she shivers again my lungs squeeze so hard that it hurts. She is my everything. My heart. My breath. My sun and spring.

  I think of the box I have hidden away for her birthday and the demure white lace inside it. She said once that she’d love to know what having pretty, matching underwear felt like. I splurged and bought them on sale from one of those specialty shops. It wasn’t every day that a girl became a woman. I want to make it perfect for her. So fucking perfect.

  I have to stop thinking of my lamb in white lace panties or else I’ll lose my mind.

  She coughs, the sound sharp and dry. My fingers dig into her side.

  “Alena?” I say, worry clear in my voice.

  “I’m fine. Just…something in my throat.”

  She’s lying. She’s getting sick. I need to keep her warm. But our tiny studio apartment, no insulation, single-paned windows, in a near-derelict building is so expensive to heat. We need to get out of Russia. Somewhere warmer. Anywhere warmer. Somewhere where two unskilled teens can find work. I squeeze my eyes shut, imagining a large stone woman in robes holding a torch in her hand. America. The land of opportunity. The land of the free. One day we’ll get to see the great lady statue greeting us on our arrival.

  I think back to the pathetic slip of rubles I have hidden behind a vent. That’s my get-the-fuck-out-of-here fund. At the moment, there is only enough for one plane ticket to America plus change. For the last few months I’ve barely added to it. I’m doing my best. But my best is never good enough.

  Anger curls in my gut. Hello, my old friend. Sometimes I’m not even sure why I’m angry, I just know that I am. I’m angry at God for bestowing such shitty lives to Alena and me. I’m angry because it seems that no matter how hard I work at the factory, I can’t seem to get ahead. I’m angry that this piece of shit government doesn’t care about us. I hate that there are always more bills to pay. Rent. Food. Heating. Electricity. School books. Clothes. On and fucking on.

  We still need more money. I can’t use the money I have saved to pay for heating this coming winter. We need it to leave, to make a better life for us both.

  If Alena freezes to death there won’t be any life for either of you, you stupid boy, the sharp voice of my dead mother says in my head.

  My heart cracks at the thought of losing Alena. I can’t. I would die. I grip her tighter to me, clinging to her as if it could stop her from ever leaving.

  We’re going to have to take another risk. One more risk. One more score. One that is big enough to get us both out of here and to a better life.

  4

  ____________

  Alena

  St Petersburg is a city of extremes. Grey blocks of communist apartments like prisons right next to cathedrals with soaring domes like fat rings on the end of fingers. Palaces built of solid marble peo
pled with kneeling virgins and weeping angels.

  I wandered through the Peterhof Palace once on a school trip. The floors were inlaid with precious and exotic woods, the soaring hand-painted ceiling cast with enough gold leaf that gold dust shone in the air, making the streaks of light that came through the tall windows gleam. There is so much opulence in a city of the desperate that it makes me sick.

  In summer, walking along the Griboedov Canal at night when the sun barely dips under the horizon’s surface like a seagull snatching up fish, the air takes on a magical light. It glistens off the jewelled domes of the Church of Our Savior on the Spilled Blood, dancing over the golden dragons that line the Bank Bridge. It’s on one of these white nights that I believe the world is full of magic. That wishes can be bought with the light of the stars. That dreams are more than mist and smoke.

  Dimitri says I’m a romantic. He warns me, half-jokingly, that I live in the clouds, that my dreams are held together with wax. It will melt one day and I’ll come crashing down to the earth like Icarus.

  In winter, the city is suffocated by the low-hanging grey woollen sky. The air is as sharp as daggers. The thick layer of snow covers the patches of ice underneath lying in wait to send you to your knees. I envy the couples walking hand in hand, wrapped tight in their real mink, sable or polar furs and valenki felt boots. My clothes are all second-hand and ill-fitting. I want to sit in one of those plush chairs in a warm, glowing penthouse and lift a glass of sparkling wine in a toast to my charmed life.

  As I walk into the bar of the Kempinski Hotel, a luxury riverside hotel set in a nineteenth century mansion, my stomach tumbles with nerves and bitterness. The smell of spiced wine and money doesn’t help. Nor does the sombre Russian rock ballad humming from the speakers in the ceiling, “My Heart” by KIT-I.

  Part of me doesn’t want to take this risk again. The other part thinks that it’s one little way that Dimitri and I can tip the unfair balance a little towards us. Our desperate lives have been so unfairly dealt to us.

  I’m wearing a simple black knee-length dress and black stockings under an overly large fur coat, both stolen. As are my black boots, two sizes too large for me so that I have to wear three pairs of thick socks just so they don’t clomp when I walk. I’d never get into a place as fancy as this if I wore my own clothes, another bitter thought. I don’t own any makeup. I’ve smudged ash around my eyes to make them pop and pinched my cheeks to make them rosy. It’s the best I can do.

  I shrug my coat off my shoulders and drape it over one arm. They’re so generous with the heating in here that I have a small bead of sweat on my upper lip.

  I spot Dimitri, making my breath catch in my throat. He is stunning in a dark grey suit, also stolen. Luckily for him, the suit is his size, showing off his broad shoulders and slim waist. His dark hair is pushed back off his strong forehead, his blue eyes like chips of ice against the dark frame of thick lashes.

  He’s leaning against the bar, chatting to a woman clothed in a white tailored pantsuit, a daring choice of attire here in traditionalist Russia. She must be foreign. She has dark hair coiffed into a stylish twist, so complex and perfect that she couldn’t have possibly done it herself. Foreign, and too pompous to do her own damn hair.

  My steps are surer as I wind my way towards them, taking a languid route through the glossy tables and chairs so as not to appear to be aiming for them. As I near, I catch her voice and a lilt of an accent. She’s speaking Russian with what sounds like an American accent.

  Dimitri catches my eye over her shoulder. He pulls the woman closer to him and lowers his mouth to her ear as if to whisper something. A stab of jealousy goes through me. I shove it down. Dimitri is just acting. He’s pretending to want her. He’s not drawing her closer, he’s drawing her farther away from her purse, a fat white leather clutch, sitting forgotten on the bar stool behind her.

  The bar stool I am almost upon.

  My steps are light and quick. Dimitri says something to her. She laughs loudly, her hands all over his chest, forcing me to fight another stab of pain. This was my plan, after all. Dimitri was always better at being charming and distracting. She’s totally distracted. I am barely breathing as I hold my coat beside me to hide my actions. I reach for her purse and—

  A large, firm hand grips my upper arm, sending a jolt through me. I let go of the clutch. It falls to the floor with a clatter.

  Everything seems to stop. Even the music. I look up. A huge man in a suit with hair cut close to his skull is gripping me, glaring at me.

  Oh my God. I’ve been busted.

  “What’s going on?” the woman says in her accented Russian as she turns her back on Dimitri.

  I suck in a breath as her eyes lock onto mine, her irises as dark as crows’ feathers. Her skin glows with the perfect amount of blush, her lashes thick and lush. Her deep red lipstick matches her perfectly manicured nails. I can smell her expensive woodsy perfume wafting seductively in the air, not too light, not too heavy. Her ears drip with diamond chandelier earrings that brush against her collarbones. Her fingers glint with more jewels, all costing more money than I’ll ever know in my entire life. I’m filled with a sudden hateful rage, my fingers digging into my palms. She’s everything that I want to be but am not. Why does she deserve to have everything while I have nothing?

  Behind her, another large man in a suit grabs Dimitri by the elbows, locking them behind his back. Dimitri is strong, but he’s no match for the overfed bulldog holding him.

  She has bodyguards? Who the hell did Dimitri pick as a mark?

  The woman says something in English to the man holding me hostage. From what little I’ve learned in school, I pick up the words “purse” and “thief”.

  Shit. We’re so screwed.

  I attempt to appear indignant, like I’m just another rich, entitled princess, as I demand to be let go. I claim it was just an accident that my coat caught the edge of her purse, knocking it over.

  The woman doesn’t buy it. I can see it in the way she narrows her eyes at me. Dimitri demands to be let go as well, but it’s not helping.

  “Both of you shut up or I’ll call the authorities,” she commands in Russian.

  Dimitri and I fall silent at the word authorities. We catch each other’s gaze and when I look back, the woman is looking at me, nodding slightly. She knows Dimitri and I have been working together. She waves off the hotel manager, who has rushed over to see what the problem is.

  “I have this under control,” she says, and refocuses her eyes on me.

  Her look suddenly changes. She studies me, eyeing me up and down my entire body. I feel stripped. I’ve never felt so scrutinized. She hums under her breath. “You have real potential. Even in stolen rags you are…” she lifts her onyx eyes up to drill into mine, “stunning.”

  I feel a chill settle down my spine. A series of thoughts runs through my head.

  How the hell could she tell that my dress and coat were stolen?

  Potential? For what?

  She flicks her hand towards the bodyguard holding Dimitri. “Take him outside,” she says. “I want to have a word with her. Alone.” Her eyes remain steadily on me.

  “No,” Dimitri cries out, ripping my attention to him as the bulldog drags him away. “Let her go.”

  “Dimitri!” I struggle to free myself of my captor. He’s too strong, gripping my arm tighter until I wince. The woman’s hand comes down on mine, startling me. It is soft and supple. She has never done an hour of real work in her life.

  “I promise he won’t be harmed,” she says, her voice like honeyed poison. “If you don’t want me to go to the police and tell them of your little scam, then you’ll give me two minutes of your time.”

  Two minutes.

  I feel the gravity in her request, the unseen weight. I sense these two minutes have the potential to affect everything.

  “I won’t leave her alone with you.” Dimitri elbows the man holding him, causing a grunt to burst from him. He’s almost
free.

  “Stop!” I cry. “Let me hear what she has to say.”

  A flash of betrayal thunders across his face. He doesn’t try to hide it. He’s never been good at hiding how he feels. “Alena—”

  “Just two minutes, Dimi,” I say in that soft voice I know brings him to his knees. “Please.”

  Dimitri’s eyes are fixed on me, his dark brows furrowed in disapproval. “I don’t trust her.”

  “I don’t either. But I don’t want us to end up in jail.” I’m not entirely truthful. I am desperate to know what the woman has to say. The way she said that I had potential makes me…hopeful. She’s the only one who’s ever seen anything more in me except for Dimitri. I can feel her gaze on me. She seems pleased. It might be my imagination.

  I know I’ve won when Dimitri’s shoulders fall. “Two minutes.” He glares at the woman and repeats himself. “Two minutes, or else I’m coming back in here for her.”

  Dimitri shrugs out of the bulldog’s grasp and storms out of the hotel bar. The hair on my neck stands on end the way it does when I know he’s looking at me. When I look over my shoulder, he’s glaring at us through the front windows as he paces back and forth, the night wind whipping his hair around.

  The bodyguard releases his grip on my arm, moving to stand at a respectable distance away at the end of the bar. So does the other bulldog. I am left with her.

  Her eyes have not left my face, a smile toying at the corner of her lush, painted lips. “Alena, is it? You look young. Eighteen? Nineteen?”

  “Eighteen,” I lie. I don’t want to get into any more trouble for being underage. “You said I had potential. Potential for what?”

  “My name is Isabelle. I manage an agency. An international agency with offices worldwide.”

  I straighten. “A modelling agency?” Models make money. Real money. They’re clothed and adored and everybody loves them. Could I be a model? I always thought I was just an inch too short.