Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 66833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Chapter 25
Alexei
Alina is still asleep, her head resting on my shoulder as we pull up to the suburban mansion I built for us. I gently shake her awake, glad we’ve made it home without any misadventures.
Since the Molotovs didn’t try to take her in Geneva, I was fully expecting them to pull something on the way to or from the funeral. I was ready for anything and everything, and they must’ve known that.
They’re waiting for me to lower my guard, probing for weaknesses.
Well, they won’t find any.
Alina is mine for good.
Lifting her head off my shoulder, she blinks open her eyes and yawns delicately, covering her mouth with one hand. “We’ve arrived?” She sounds deliciously sleepy.
I smile and bring her hand to my lips to place a kiss on the back. “We have.”
Now that the funeral is over, some of the bitter rage choking me has subsided, though it’s not gone by any means. But she makes it better. Having her with me at the funeral, touching her, looking at her—it made those awful hours go by faster. I could focus on the warmth of her hand instead of the bullshit praise the priest was spouting off, could think about the way her lips curved softly as she spoke to Aunt Sonia instead of the hollow agony I felt when I looked at the coffin and pictured Ksenia’s body in there instead of my father’s.
“Good,” Alina says softly. She sits up straighter, looking more awake. “I want to see our new home.”
Our new home. My pulse skips a beat. Does she mean it? Is that how she truly sees it, or is she saying that to make me believe she loves me?
Fuck. I need to nip this paranoia in the bud. There’s no good reason for me to distrust her. Except… her brothers still haven’t tried to rescue her.
Why not?
Could they be waiting for her to execute her part of the plan? Which involves convincing me that she wants to be with me?
It would be easier for them to take her if I didn’t expect her to escape at the first opportunity… if I gave her the freedom my wife would normally have.
Fucking fuck. I need to stop this and just fucking enjoy her not fighting me at every step.
“I’ll show you around first thing tomorrow,” I say as I help her out of the car. “Tonight, we should get some sleep.”
Fuck knows, I need it.
She nods, her brow furrowing as she studies my face. “You look exhausted. When was the last time you slept?”
Real or not, I can’t help smiling at the wifely concern in her tone. “It’s been a minute. But don’t worry, our bed is waiting.”
Whether we’re going to sleep right away is a different story.
As tired as I am, what I’m looking forward to most is sinking deep inside her and hearing her tell me again that she loves me.
Even if it’s a lie.
Chapter 26
Alina
Our new residence is everything I’d expected and more. A strikingly modern slate-gray mansion surrounded by immaculately landscaped trees that partially hide the sky-high fences surrounding it, it’s equal parts fortress and architectural marvel. Extending some dozen meters above ground—and, I bet, deep underground—it boasts a flat roof with raised edges (presumably for the guards to have cover if they’re repelling an attack), a front door made of a solid stone slab located deep within a recessed niche, and zero windows. At least as of this moment.
I’m guessing some of the thick walls slide apart to reveal floor-to-ceiling windows when it’s deemed safe. Which is apparently not this evening.
As we approach, the stone-slab door retracts sideways into the wall with a barely audible pneumatic hiss, revealing a foyer that manages to be both imposing and welcoming. The floor is a warm-toned travertine, contrasting with walls paneled in dark, vertically grained wood. Subtle warm light washes down from recessed fixtures, catching the metallic sheen of abstract sculptures placed in rectangular niches. It smells faintly of winter pine and expensive leather, a scent that reminds me of Alexei himself.
A wide archway leads into the main living area. Cathedral-height ceilings arc high above polished concrete floors that are warmed by vast deep-pile rugs in charcoal gray. While one wall is indeed a massive, unbroken surface that likely hides the windows, the others feature integrated shelving units displaying curated objects d’art and strategically placed panels that probably conceal screens or weapon safes.
As Alexei shepherds me through the space toward a glass-and-chrome staircase in the left corner, I notice that the furniture is modern with a cozy vibe—deep sofas upholstered in rich velvet paired with sleek armchairs and glass tables. I also spot small, almost invisible sensors integrated into the ceiling corners, their dark lenses blending seamlessly.
I tear my gaze from them, only to find myself captured by the intense look on Alexei’s face. He’s watching me, assessing my reaction to our surroundings, and the naked hunger in his eyes makes my breath stall in my lungs. All of a sudden, I become aware of the warmth emanating from his strong hand that rests on the small of my back, of the way he’s subtly but determinedly forcing me to move faster as we reach the top of the stairs.