Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83221 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83221 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
“We come bearing gifts,” Viktor says with a sardonic smile.
“I can fetch a silver platter…” Nikko says, his eyes twinkling.
Mikhail stands in front of me, his large, muscled back rippling under the thin fabric of his tee when he places his hands on his hips. “On your knees,” he snaps, in that voice that makes a shiver go from the base of my neck down the length of my spine. “Now.”
Viktor and Nikko shove the men to their knees. I quietly peek to the left to catch a glimpse. Okay, cute is not a word I’d use to describe either of them, but I can report back to my sister-in-law that one of them is hot.
Even while pushed to their knees, they’re just a few inches shorter than I am. The first is blond with ice-blue eyes that chill me, an athletic build with taut muscles under simple street clothes. The other is older and stockier, with dark hair and midnight eyes.
“Tell me why you dare defile my family home with your presence,” Mikhail snaps. Okay so maybe he isn’t more relaxed in Russia. I’m pulling stats and info as quickly as possible. “You’ll speak in English so my wife can understand every word you say.”
Um. About that…
How sweet is he, though?
“Aria. Report, please.”
God, I love when he gets all bossy on me, and I can show off.
“Dmitri Petrov. Thirty-two. Born in Siberia. Father former KGB operative. First came on the scene in the arms trade. Oversees international arms smuggling.” I look up. “Likes eighties rock music and matcha lattes.”
Mikhail’s lips twitch. I like to throw a little personal touch in just to show that I can. I have his financial records, medical history, record of online communications and the names of every woman he’s fucked in the last three years, but I don’t want to bog my husband down with unnecessary details.
Mikhail jerks his chin at the second.
“Pavel Kuznetsov. Forty-two. Raised in Moscow where his family makes their home. Father died when he was young, forcing his hand to learn to earn money. Overseas high-end prostitution in the Red Square. D’awww. Has a penchant for owning long-haired cats.”
“Do you confirm or deny your identities?”
“Confirm,” the men say in unison.
“You have thirty seconds to tell me why you defiled my family home with your presence.”
Thirty seconds or what? I look around the room and cringe when I notice a large open floor space with no carpet. He can do a lot of damage and still maintain clean carpets…
The older one speaks first. “You will soon hear news of the death of Fyodor Volkov, our former pakhan. He died by his own hand two hours ago in America. Volkov intentionally kept his men at odds with one another with no strong leadership. In the wake of his death, our group is unstable.”
The second continues. “Your brotherhood is built on loyalty and a hierarchy of power. We come to you of our own accord and submit ourselves to your authority. You are a man worthy of respect, Mr. Romanov, and we humbly ask you to consider us as future men of the brotherhood.”
Mikhail scowls at them. “The only reason I’m still allowing you to live is because I’m curious what you have to offer.” These men knew they could be facing a death sentence with Mikhail. And yet they’re here. He nods to Nikko. “Keep them in holding until further notice.”
The men are brought to their feet and led out. They hang their heads in silence, their fates undetermined and resting in the palm of my husband’s hand.
Yikes.
Mikhail reaches for my hand. “Would you like to go out to dinner?”
So we won’t talk about the fact that he has two men “in holding,” which means that this gorgeous home has a dungeon somewhere or something. He won’t talk about what just went down at all.
Double yikes.
“Sure,” I say. “That sounds perfect.”
We walk hand in hand out of the room. “Am I wobbling?”
“Of course not.”
“I’ll eventually wobble, though.”
“And if you wobble, you wobble. You’ll still be gorgeous and adorable, and mine.” I love the feel of his heavy hand on the small of my back.
It’s kind of cute hearing him say “wobble” in his accent.
“I can’t tell you how pleased I am to have you here in Russia, my love. My homeland. Bearing my child. It seems at times to be more than I deserve.”
“Oh, it’s definitely more than you deserve,” I tease. We’re in a vacant hallway with a large window that overlooks the garden nestled behind this house.
“Is that right?” he asks. I squeal when he presses me against the window and slaps my butt, hard.
A rush of heat suffuses my cheeks. I turn to him, my tone demure. “I was only teasing, of course. You deserve so much more.”
“Do I?” He turns me to face him. The sun from the window glints on his handsome features. Shadows dance along the walls. He stands in front of me, his warm eyes reflecting a storm of feelings.