The Unspoken Vow

Chapter Seventeen

Nyah

           Ivan and Malachi had to go out during the day to take care of something before they left for the business trip so that gave me time to go to the mall with Eliana to buy Ivan a gift. I wanted it to be thoughtful because all of his gifts were but I had no idea what to get him.
         "He's your brother, Lia, how do you not know what he likes?" I asked Eliana who was looking at Chanel bags.
          She shrugged. "Back when Ivan was younger, he really liked toy cars but now, the man literally has everything, it's hard to get a wealthy person a gift because they could probably buy it themselves,"
          "That's literally not helping the situation, Eliana,"
          "Okay, sorry, maybe get him a watch or something, I really don't know."
          I rolled my eyes at her and she laughed.
          "Okay, fine," she said, then a grin slowly consumed her face. "Or maybe you could get really sexy underwear, take pictures in it and print it for his wallet," she winked.
          I felt myself heat up and I smack her on the arm.       "There's no freaking way I'm doing that," I told her, looking around to see if anyone heard her.
         "What? There's nothing wrong with giving your significant other a souvenir, and anyway, it's not like he hasn't seen you in sexy mode, sleeping in the same house as both of you is proof of that, unless you guys fuck with your clothes on-"
         "Eliana, please stop talking!" I exclaimed, pinching her.
         She laughed, rubbing the spot on her arm. "Or maybe you could get him a mug that says 'Greatest daddy in the world'" she giggled. "Ivan would love that,"
         "I'm leaving you," I said, walking away. She kept laughing as she followed me.
        "Okay, okay, serious this time, what if you just did something for him, something nice before he leaves? I don't know, a nice dinner, maybe?"
        I thought about it and honestly, that wasn't a bad idea. It was only noon so I had time to get things ready.
       "Okay, that's not bad, but I'll go to Victoria's Secret anyway just in case things go wrong,"
        And to that, Eliana laughed her heart out.

~~~

       After dropping Eliana off at home, I drove to the grocery store, bought ingredients for a spaghetti with chicken Parmesan and drove to the lodge.
       I texted Ivan telling him I wanted to spend the night there and got to cooking.
       I have never cooked in my entire life, but what could go wrong, right? There were a lot of recipe books in the kitchen and found one with a recipe for spaghetti and another one for chicken Parmesan.
        I did my best to chop up the ingredients the right way and the spaghetti sauce was doing pretty well, the spaghetti on the other hand was a bit over cooked but not bad for my first time.
        I went upstairs with the golden dress Ivan bought me yesterday and began to get ready. I showered, I brushed my teeth, then dried my hair and did my makeup.
        I admired the dress before putting it on, slipping so easily on my body and I grinned, excited to see Ivan's reaction.
         As I made my way down the stairs, I smelled burning and internally screamed at myself for forgetting the chicken. I semi ran down the stairs because I was wearing heels and right when I get to the landing the door opened, letting Ivan in. He had takeout food with him - thank God - and when he looked at me, he stopped in his tracks and stared, his eyes roaming up and down my body.
       "The chicken is burning!" I told him, scurrying to the kitchen. I opened the oven and the heat was practically a slap in the face. Without much thought, I made a grab for the pan and immediately was proven the stupidity of that action because the searing hot pan burned my fingers and I dropped it back.
        "Shit," I hissed, taking my hand back.
Ivan was beside me in seconds, he took my wrist, holding up my hand for inspection, his jaw clenching.
"I'm okay, it's just a burn,"
        "Nyah," he gritted out. He pulled me towards the sink, then lifted me onto the counter, turning on the tap, not fully so only a little water poured out and he gently put my fingers under the cold water.
        "I'm sorry," I whispered after a few beats of silence, his hand still wrapped around my wrist, holding it under the water.
        He looked at me, his face softening. "Don't apologize, love,"
        "It was supposed to be romantic, Ivan." I told him, looking at the spaghetti in the large bowl. "It was supposed to be my gift for you,"
        He chuckled and kissed my bare shoulder. "It's more than I could ask for, thank you,"
        I sighed. "You're just saying that to make me feel better,"
        "I'm not," he shrugged. "I would rather eat dirt than make you cook,"
        "Because I'm not good at it?"
        "Because I don't want you to get hurt," he said, turning off the water. His way with words effortlessly gave me butterflies.
         He cut off a little piece of aloe vera plant and slowly rubbed it on the burned skin, the cool gel immediately soothing the sting.
        "I didn't know aloe Vera did that, how'd you know?"
       "My father taught me, he taught us everything; taught us how to cook, how to drive, how to use a gun, everything we know we learned from him or with him."
       It must be why everything that they did reminded them of their father.
       He went upstairs and came back with a first aid kit. Silently, he took my hand, examined it then wrapped it in a bandage.
       "Thank you," I said, getting off the counter. "So, Mr. Volkov, would you like to try the spaghetti I made?" I asked.
        A small smile appeared on his lips and he got two plates, spoons and forks, two glasses and made his way to the dining table.
        "I wouldn't mind a bite," he answered.
        I looked down at the pot of spaghetti. "I don't know, you sound skeptical, but if you insist," I shrugged, amusement in my tone.
        I put some in a small plate and an extra fork. I twirled some pasta on it. "Ok, brace yourself," I said, then fed it to him.
        I waited for him to throw up but he didn't, he just swallowed the food with a straight face.
        "It's a bit sweet, love, did you put sugar?" He asked, calmly, going to the fridge to pour himself water.
I tried the pasta and immediately spit it out into the sink.
        "Ivan! You did not have to eat that! I did put sugar instead of salt, oh my god,"
        He laughed, handing me my own glass of water and kissed my forehead. "I've had worse," he said.
        "Don't lie to me! What could possibly be worse than sugared spaghetti?"
        "My dad made us all cook at the age of eight, no guidance, no help except for when we had to turn on the stove or take something out of the oven. All we had was a recipe book," he said, leading me to the dining table with the bag of food that was about to save our night. "I tried to cook this Spanish dish called Paella because for some reason, I thought it would be easy, and the challenge of the whole cooking thing was to eat a whole plate of the dish; it was my dad's way of making sure we did it right the next time so we wouldn't waste food." He explained. "Anyway, it was horrible, the rice was burned, some of the vegetables were undercooked, some were over cooked and the fish, god I still remember how disgusted I was after that. I can't even eat fish to this day,"
         I laughed at that, imagining a younger Ivan who was still a little clueless, a little innocent and it warmed my heart to know that he was young once. That everything he's been through until today didn't exist a lifetime ago. "And your dad still made you eat it?" I asked, trying to suppress my laughter.
        His eyes were bright when he looked at me, a smile on his face too. "After about three bites, he said I didn't have to finish it then laughed so hard at me that tears came out of his eyes. He got me a giant tub of ice cream after that though, then taught me how to properly cook,"
        I smiled, glad that memories of his father didn't bring as much pain as it did before. Ivan and I were never this close, we never spoke to each other this much until our marriage and yet I know his father's death hit him hard. It did its damage to each of them.
        "I got tacos," he said, breaking the silence.
        "Tacos? I thought you were an expensive restaurant person,"
        "Well, it seems you've brought out the better me," he smiled, his eyes so genuine and kind.
       I loved him so much in this moment, knew that my heart couldn't handle the thought of him not being mine and I ached. Ached that I couldn't tell him because it was too damn soon, that if I pushed it too far, so soon, it might ruin it.
        I let him put food on my plate, then we ate as we told each other stories of our childhood, making each other laugh and smile, reminiscing the years before everything took away any ounce of happiness there was.
        And I enjoyed it, liked the way he talked to me about how he grew up, because it made me feel so much closer to him. It made me get to know him so much more and it made me appreciate how amazing of a father Bricrui Volkov was for raising such an amazing man and for giving him to me to call my husband.
         He is, out of all the great things a Volkov has given me, the greatest gift of all, one that I will do anything to keep forever.