Dmitry's Royal Flush: Rise of the Queen (2 page)

"Damn, Royal," he said, hissing hot breath on her skin. "I wish Dmitry could see what I am doing to you. Not just because it would kill him." He grunted and shifted deeper. "But also because maybe he could finally see how it is done."

Screaming frantically, Royal sat up in her king-sized bed and realized that she was having yet another nightmare about Dmitry's dead brother, Ivan Medlov. Damn him. Damn him to a fiery hell, he had been dead three years now, and yet he frequently visited her in the same taunting ways.

She wiped the sweat from her forehead and ran her fingers over her neck. Her heartbeat raced against her hand. Panting, she closed her eyes and cringed as she felt the old knife mark from his blade. It had left a horrible scar that would always cause questions if she didn't cover it. However, vanity was the last issue she had. She was grateful for the scar, only because her healed wound meant that she had survived.

Pulling the many of layers of thick, plush crimson cover from her legs, she crawled out of bed and went to her bathroom. Hitting the lights, she tiptoed across the cold ceramic tile over to the sink and turned on the faucet. The sound of water filled the room, interrupting thoughts of her ghost. She ran her hands through the cold stream and washed her burning cheeks. The water soothed her soiled thoughts, cleaned her sweaty skin.

"Are you alright?" a deep voice asked behind her.

She looked up startled and saw her husband, Dmitry, standing in the oversized arched doorway. His blue eyes pierced through her, a frown darkened his fair, beautiful features.

Royal sighed. "I had another bad dream," she rolled her eyes. "I'll be fine. Where were you, anyway?" Stilling her shaking hands, she turned towards him and leaned against the vanity.

"Anya woke up and came to sleep with us. I know that you've been trying to get her to stay in her room all night, so I took her back to bed."

Turning away from him, she reached into the medicine cabinet.

"Was it Ivan again? The nightmare?" Dmitry asked softly, his baritone voice pained.

"Who else would it be?" she asked irritated.

Towering over her in on a pair of silk pajama bottoms, he walked up behind her. His bare, clean shaven chest hovered above her. Tanned to a golden bronze and covered in old world tattoos, it pulsated with concrete muscles that came from too much time in the gym and not enough time in his own bed.

Dmitry watched her fumble with the medicine bottle and finally drop two pills into her hand. Royal had been on valium for over two years. At first, it had helped her to deal with the postpartum depression after Anya was born. Then, it helped with the depression that had come after her therapy started to get over the rape. Now, it was just because. Plus, it didn't help that he owned the pharmaceutical company that produced her legal heroine; she had it sent to their home by the bulk.

Running his large hands down her sweaty back, he tried to soothe her.

"Come now, I put you back to bed," his Russian accent cut through the silence.

"I don't want to go back to bed," she snapped. Tears ran down her face. She wiped them quickly. "I want it to stop. Can you pay someone to make
that
happen?" She watched his face. "No? I didn't think so. Just leave me alone, alright. Like I said, I'll be fine."

Dmitry's guilt consumed him again for the millionth time as he watched her swallow the hand full of pills and dip her head to the faucet to drink the running water. Her long black hair fell over the sink and into the water. She ignored it, letting it whip against her gown leaving water marks as she stood back up.

"I wish there was something I could do," his voice sounded desperate.

"Just leave me alone." She held on to the sides of the water basin and looked down.

Besides the fact that she had a screeching headache and if she had to look up nearly two feet to eye him she would probably pass out, she also did not want him to see her cry anymore. She was tired of the constant pity and the constant reminder of what had happened to her. She wanted desperately for it to all go away.

"Are you sure?" he asked, hoping she wouldn't send him away.

"Yes," she hissed.

"Alright. Goodnight." He let his hand trail off of her body.

Turning away with a defeated sigh, he left her in the bathroom and wondered back down the long corridor to his daughter's room.

Opening the door slowly, he looked on as Anya slept peacefully in her twin canopy bed. He went into the bedroom, closed the door behind him and lay on the floor beside her bed.

Taking one of her oversized teddy bears from the corner, he stuck it under his head and looked up at the painted ceiling, glowing under pink night lights. Suddenly, there was a knock on the door.

"Come in," he said curiously, hoping it was Royal. He sat up.

"Master Medlov, I heard screaming. Is everything alright?" the muscular butler asked with loaded guns in the holsters under his large arms.

"
Da Da
. Were fine, Stepan," Dmitry lay back down. "Royal was just having another nightmare."

"Yes, sir," Stepan closed the door.

In the darkness of his daughter's room, Dmitry allowed his thoughts to consume him. Royal had been a real handful over the last six months, but she had been stricken with spells of depression since Anya's birth three years ago.

His beautiful daughter had been both a blessing and a curse at ten pounds of natural birth. Understandably, Royal had passed out only minutes after seeing her baby, a black-haired, blue-eyed doll that looked like the spitting image of his brother, Ivan.

At first sight, Dmitry had been taken back by Anya's striking beauty, but Royal had been stunned by her resemblance to the devil she had known.

Postpartum had immediately set in with Royal refusing to breast feed and spending days at a time locked in her room. Finally, the doctors were called. Dr. Finlen suggested therapy after he was told of the rape, along with time to heal the wounds and valium for the edge.

Overall, the remedy had helped, but the days that it didn't were nearly unbearable. She would have sweaty fits in her sleep and scream his brothers name in a horrible, heart-stopping cry that would send Dmitry running for her whenever he heard it.

It was like Ivan would come to rape her again and again, every time that she dared close her eyes. This led to Royal spending many nights awake, staring blankly into the television or tossing and turning in the bed, which led to dark circles under her eyes and constant irritability.

However torturous the nightmares of Ivan were, they had not been the only thing to torment their rocky marriage. The two also hadn't been intimate in many months. The last time had been horrible for both of them.

Unknowing of the wretched words that his brother had said to her during
the assault
, Dmitry had whispered something that sent Royal into a frenzy. Beating his chest and crying, she had begged him to stop, to
get it out
of her. He did so immediately, withdrawing ashamed and alarmed.

Like a crazed woman, Royal jumped up and literally ran out of the room, locking herself in the bathroom, where she spent the remainder of the night. He had slept on the floor beside the door that night, hoping that she might come out and talk to him. She did not.

Since that horrible event, Dmitry had barely slept in their bedroom. While her passion for him had fizzled into something repugnant, he still desired every inch of her.

To keep himself from being tempted and to continue to be cognizant of Royal's fragile state, he normally stayed in his sons bedroom when Anatoly wasn't visiting or in one of the guest bedrooms on the second level of the chateau.

He tried to never be too far from his wife that he could not be there if she needed him, but never too close—because he knew that she found him unbearable.

For the most part, he roamed the hallways at night, bored out of his mind, working out in his gym, reading volumes of classic works, and most of all waiting for a call from his son about news of the Vory.

To add insult to his injured ego, Royal also never showed him affection out of the bedroom. She was still a very gracious woman, reminding herself to always play the kind, courteous wife, but when he looked very closely, he could see the icy, angry and potentially violent woman that she had come to be.

In response to her depression, Dmitry had doubled her gifts, flying diamonds and furs in by the bus loads, just to see them pile up in her dressing rooms unopened and unworn. He had flown their family around the world on trips to exotic locales, but Royal had spent the entire time in her room, curled up in bed, crying and shaking or drugged and drinking.

When he tried to make love to her, she fled. If he saw her naked, she covered herself. The sexual frustration had nearly driven him mad. He had gone to confession only weeks ago to beg God for his forgiveness for his desire at times to take from her what was rightfully his. He had not, of course, taken it. He would never hurt her. And he had not been unfaithful. How could he?

His only desire was to be with his beautiful young wife. Even in her callous nature, she had only gotten more beautiful and refined in age. Her rich, dark caramel skin, her wide catlike eyes, her inky mane of curly black hair with untimely streaks of grey and her voluptuous body were all exotically combined to make him livid with lust. And in a way, her razor sharp tongue provided him with a sense of humility that only she could bring.

But how he wished that the peak of her young womanhood could be spent happy and in love with him. Only, Royal was not in love. She preferred to be alone, wasting away in her bedroom with valium and scotch while her child and her husband suffered.

"Daddy, can I get in the floor with you?" Anya asked, leaning over the side of her bed. The little soft voice sounded like bells jingling.

"Of course, Angel," he said, pulling her down from her bed onto his chest.

With a doll in her hand, the small girl nestled her head down on his chest to listen to his massive heartbeat and closed her eyes.

There was an unspoken and spoken love between the two. Father and Daughter. Even with the drama of a broken home, he sheltered her and gave her materialistically and emotionally all that he could in the world.

However, unlike most children who would have spoiled because of the attention, Anya was not. She was wise for her age with a cool disposition that made most people nervous when they met her.

Kissing the crown of her head, Dmitry wrapped his arms around his daughter and sighed. At least he had her.

* * *

Morning came early for Royal. She was met by a door knock and her devoted young maid, who brought in her breakfast and set it on the nightstand beside her.

The French woman greeted her mistress only to receive a groan in response but that was typical. Dutifully, she then went to the large windows to pull the drapes open to receive the foggy, half-sunny day and raised the mechanical blinds that unveiled the breathtaking view of acres and acres of unspoiled, mountainous green land.

Wrapped in sweat-stained sheets, Royal rose from her slumber in a daze. Vision blurred and hair wild, she rested her feet on the side of the bed and stared blankly at the oversized fireplace in front of her.

If she had any balls at all, she would simply jump into the large fire pit and meet her miserable end, but she didn't have balls at all so she settled for grabbing the remote and turning on the flat screen hoisted above the mantle.

"Madame, would you like for me to run your bath?" the young maid asked in a thick French accent, picking up dirty clothes off the bedroom floor.

"No," Royal said absently. "And put those clothes back. I'll clean up my own mess."

"Yes, Madame," she said, dropping the clothes. "Is there anything else I can do for you this morning?"

Royal sighed. "Where's my daughter?" She scratched her head.

"Having breakfast downstairs with Master Medlov."

"Of course, she is," Royal stood up. "Tell me, Brigitte, how's your mom these days?"

"I'm afraid that she is not doing so well, Madame."

"The treatments didn't help, huh?"

"No, not enough to make it go away," the woman lamented.

"You have… bags under your eyes," Royal observed lazily. "You look like shit." She yawned and stretched.

"Forgive my presentation, Madame. I have acquired another job at night to help with the bills. Keeping it all together has been most difficult."

"Another job?" Royal shook her head. "Does Dmitry not pay you enough?"

"It's the best paying job I've ever had, Madame. I am very grateful for your family and your gracious… "

"Save it. Dmitry could pay you more. He knows your situation," Royal grabbed her bottle of valium by the bed. "But I'm afraid you'd have to give him something in return." She smirked. "You're a pretty girl, so it's probably something you don't even have anymore."

"Excuse me, Mistress Medlov?"

"Nothing. I'm being hateful, Brigitte. Do you know this term,
hateful
?"

"Yes."

"Well, you'll have to excuse me for it." Dropping pills in her hand, she put them in her mouth quickly and drank the last of the scotch sitting in the glass by her nightstand. "You didn't see that," she snapped at Brigitte. "I know Dmitry will ask you questions as soon as you leave out of here. He always does. Makes you spy for him." She cut her eyes at the woman.

"He is just concerned," Brigitte explained.

"
Concerned
my overpriced ass. He's just bored."

Royal walked into her large, adjoining dressing room with her long satin gown trailing behind her. Quickly, she turned on the lights and sat down at her hand-carved wooden vanity. Pulling out a small drawer, she flipped open the velvet Velcro box and pulled out a new necklace from Tiffanys that Dmitry had recently purchased for her.

"Money is so hard to come by these days," she said, running her finger over the diamonds. "Had it not been for my cursed womb, I might be cleaning rooms just like you. Don't ever be ashamed of what you do. It's a respectable job."