Ava
When I was a little girl, Aaron and I were playing in my mother’s garden and he accidentally knocked over one of her paintings. It wasn’t just any painting, it was her favourite piece. She’d spent weeks creating it and propped it up against an easel near the rose bushes, where she left it to dry.
I still remember the exact moment it happened. We had spent the entire afternoon chasing each other, laughing our little hearts out at a game our mother had warned us to be careful while playing. Aaron had tripped, and while he tried to stop himself from crashing into the grass, he swung his arms out for balance, which unfortunately caused him to knock over our mother’s paintings.
Time seemed to stop as we both lifted the painting out of the rose bush and even as we straightened it, we both knew that the damage had already been done.
“She’s going to kill me,” Aaron muttered when we took in the smeared painting. I’d never seen him look as scared as he did at that moment.
He begged me to keep it a secret, and even though I knew it was wrong when our mother asked us if we knew what had happened to her painting, I lied.
I kept my brother’s secret.
The guilt ate at me for days but I knew that there was no way I could tell my mother the truth after lying to her. So I let it sit.
By the afternoon of the fourth day, I was burning up, with a headache and a throat that felt dryer than the Sahara and by evening I was too weak to leave my bed. My mother stayed by my side all night, pressing a damp cloth to my forehead and whispering words of comfort as she stroked my hair.
By the fifth day, I couldn’t take it anymore and told her the truth. I got better later that afternoon.
That wasn’t the only time my body had had a visceral reaction to keeping secrets. There was another time when I was six and a girl in my dance studio told me that her father used to hurt her after I saw the bruises on her arm while we were changing. Her name was Charissa, and she begged me not to tell anyone about the bruises, so I didn’t. For about two days.
When I started burning up again and I could barely focus during practice, I knew I had to tell someone before I got worse.
Eventually, I told my dance teacher what I saw and she assured me that she would handle it and called Charissa to see her. Charissa left early that day and never showed up to the dance studio again. I heard months later that she’d been living with her aunt after her father got locked up for what he did to her.
It wasn’t until the third time someone asked me to keep a secret and I fell sick that I realised that I couldn’t quite literally keep a secret to save my life.
Now, you would think that with my streak, I would’ve seen this coming, but I was foolish enough to believe somehow, over the years, my body had toughened up.
It hadn’t.
My body was still very much allergic to keeping secrets.
Nikolai hasn’t moved from my side since I asked him to stay. Which is honestly kind of surprising.
I thought he might at a point but he didn’t. Pressing my face deeper against his chest, I inhale deeply.
His arm is wrapped around me as he traces slow circles over my hip. Goosebumps erupt along my skin at the tempered motion but I’m too weak to react beyond a slight shiver that dances along my spine.
I have no idea how long we’ve been like this but the lightheadedness I felt when he first came in has faded, leaving behind only a dull ache and an unbearable warmth.
I shift slightly, nuzzling closer into his body, seeking the warmth of his skin despite the fever making it feel like I was burning from the inside out.
“You’re still so warm, Solnyshko”, Nikolai whispers, and I force myself to crack one eye open. His handsome face hovers over me, watching me closely.
He squeezes my hip once, gently, and then I feel him move. My body protests against his absence but soon dies down when he only reaches for the cloth on my forehead. I groan before sighing in relief when he presses it back.
“You should’ve told me when you started hurting,” he says, swiping the cloth over my forehead, “I could’ve helped you sooner.”
“I know” I murmur, ignoring the abrasiveness of my throat as I continue, “I didn’t want to worry you.”
His fingers pause on my skin, “Worry me? Fuck baby, you were in pain all night and you thought telling me would be worrying me?”
I nod, too exhausted to speak.
He lets out a low curse in Russian before continuing the motions. His touch is softer, more deliberate like he’s trying to soothe more than just my fever.
“I’m your husband Ava. It’s my job to be worried about you. Worry me if that’s what you want. Worry me if that’s what you need. Worry me, Solnyshko, worry me whenever you want so that I don’t have to sit here helplessly ever again.”
There’s something entirely unbelievable about having the big bad mafia boss turn into this feral being simply because I refused to tell him I was running a fever that makes my heartstrings do a little dance.
“Next time, you tell me the moment you start feeling off. Understand?”
I want to say yes, I do, but my eyes grow heavy, slipping shut before I can fully form the words. When I crack them open again, a pair of worried emerald eyes look down at me. The damp cloth on my forehead is long gone by now, replaced by a big, warm hand.
“Nikolai…” His name comes out as a jumbled mumble.
“Chert, ty drozhish’.” He mutters, brows furrowing as he adjusts the cloth on my forehead.
(Shit, you’re trembling)
“That’s it I am calling a doctor”
He leaves the bed and I don’t bother stopping him as he picks up his phone and dials a number.
I think I pass out again because when I open my eyes for the second time this evening there’s a different set of eyes staring down at me. These ones are grey and belong to a man who looks much older and has a few grey streaks on his otherwise black hair.
“Is she going to be okay?” Nikolai’s voice pierces through my haze concerned and impatient. I turn to find him standing just a few inches away from the doctor, the worried expression he had earlier now deepened into distress.
“Her fever is still high,” The doctor responds, straightening, “But she’ll be fine. The medication I gave her should bring it down soon, but in the meantime, she needs to rest.”
My gaze finds Nikolai. His jaw is tight, his stance rigid as he nods once.
“I’ll leave you some instructions,” he says, pulling a pen and a piece of paper from his bag. He quickly scribbles something down before handing it to Nikolai. “Follow them and If her fever doesn’t break by morning, call me again,” he adds.
Nikolai gives a brief nod, and the doctor tosses me one final glance before he walks out, leaving Nikolai and me alone in our bedroom.
My husband lingers at the edge of the bed, long after the doctor leaves, silent. My eyes fall, tracing the sharp lines of his silhouette, highlighted by the moonlight.
Even when he’s worried he manages to look scary.
He doesn’t try to hide the tightness in his fists by his sides, or the harshness in his eyes as they roam over my face.
I lick my lips, my throat still raw as I try to sit up. Nikolai is beside me in an instant, crossing the room in two easy strides. He presses a firm but gentle hand to my shoulder to stop me from moving any more than I already have and I fall without resistance.
“Stay down,” he orders, his voice gruffer than usual. I open my mouth to tell him that I’m perfectly capable of lying down by myself but the words never make it past my lips. His fingers dally on my skin for a second longer before he pulls away and grabs a fresh cloth, soaking it in the bowl of water by the nightstand.
I watch him through half-lidded eyes as he wrings out the excess water.
“You’re still burning up,” he mutters, more to himself than to me then presses the damp cloth against my forehead. I let him dab the cloth on my skin, wiping away the excess sweat on my neck and shoulders before finally letting it rest on my forehead.
“You scared me, Solnyshko” The words are quiet, barely a whisper, but somehow, it’s enough to make me open my eyes again.
“I’m sorry,” I croak.
His lips flatten into a thin line, his expression unreadable as he continues tending to me. The tenderness in his touch contradicts the hardness in his eyes, and I wonder if he’s still upset with me for not telling him sooner.
My gaze drifts towards the window. It’s dark outside.
“How long have I been out?”
He sighs, shifting slightly on the mattress, “About an hour. I called the doctor as soon as I realized your fever was getting worse.”
I nod and then shift slightly, attempting to get comfortable, but my body feels like dead weight. Too heavy to move, too heavy not to move.
Nikolai notices my struggle and immediately stands to help me, adjusting the pillow behind my head. His actions tonight have been surprisingly gentle for a man such as himself.
“Comfortable?” He asks and I nod.
“Thank you.”
He straightens and turns to leave, and I don’t even realise that I’ve reached until my hand wraps around his wrist.
He pauses, his gaze, flickering to where my hand meets his. He’s been with me all day, and he deserves some time to himself if that’s what he needs, but I don’t want him to be away from me. I need him, if that makes any sense.
And maybe it doesn’t.
Maybe I’m being irrational and this fever is screwing with my head and making me needy.
I swallow past the dryness in my throat, my fingers tightening slightly around his wrist. “Don’t go,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper. It’s a silent demand, one I hope he agrees to.
Nikolai lets out a measured breath, crouching slightly. He carefully unwraps my hand from his wrist, placing it in his open palm. He caresses the back of my hand with his thumb slowly as if trying to soothe my fears.
“I wasn’t planning on leaving you, Solnyshko. How could I when It’s so clear that you need me? I just wanted to go to the bathroom.”
Oh.
His lips twitch in amusement at my obvious embarrassment, and if I wasn’t so sick, I would’ve fallen back and buried my face into the pillow to hide my flaming cheeks. Fuck.
Nikolai huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. He presses a tender kiss to the back of my hand before he straightens and exits into the bathroom.
He returns seconds later and slips into bed with me. His scent engulfs me, his warmth providing me with a warmth that instantly melts some of the pain away.
The mattress dips as he settles beside me, his arm circles my waist with ease, pulling me against him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Better?” he murmurs against my temple and I nod. He studies me for a moment longer, then exhales softly pressing his lips to my forehead. “Sleep,”
I close my eyes, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, I try to fall asleep.
Except I can’t. Because my mind won’t stop racing.
All day, Nikolai has been nothing but kind and steadfast in his actions to me. He’s been here, never leaving my side, pressing cool clothes against my forehead, taking care of me and yet here I am, keeping a secret that could change his life as well as mine.
My father was back and in as much as I wanted answers, in as much as I deserved them, Nikolai deserved them too.
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the thoughts to quiet, but they only grow louder.
I don’t deserve it.
I don’t deserve him.
A tear slips down my cheek, then another. I barely notice them until I feel a thumb brushing my skin, wiping them away.
I blink up at Nikolai, his face hovering over mine, his brows furrowed in concern.
“What’s wrong?”
My father is back, I want to say. Please don’t kill him, I want to beg.
I shake my head, but he won’t have it. His fingers tighten on my hip. “Tell me, Solnyshko.”
“I don’t deserve this. I don’t …. you’re just so good and… I … I didn’t expect you to be good. I didn’t… and I’m… I’m terrible.” I sob.
“No, you’re not”
“But I am. I’ve been keeping a secret from you and I feel terrible about it. It’s why I’m sick. My body is literally punishing me for not telling you.”
He sighs, pulling me closer and tilts my chin with his finger so that I can meet his gaze, “Moyo solnyshko, is that why you’re crying?”
I nod sniffing.
“I don’t need your secrets, Ava. What I need is for you to be better.” He presses a kiss to my temple. “And when you’re better you can tell me what it is that’s been weighing on your mind, Da?”
I want to argue and tell him that he’s wrong and that he needs to know this because it’s why he married me, to begin with. But I don’t.
I let him brush the tears from my cheek and pull me against his chest. He brushes his lips against my forehead and I close my eyes, relishing in the contact.
Tomorrow, I promise myself.
I’ll tell him tomorrow.