The Miami penthousesuite overlooks Biscayne Bay, all glass and steel and expensive views. I pour myself three fingers of whiskey and try to process what just happened.
We won.
Four hours of negotiations with men who torture people for sport, and Kasimira sat across from them like she was discussing the weather.
When Boris Petrov started screaming about his brother’s death, she didn’t flinch. When they demanded fifty million instead of twenty, she calmly translated their threats and waited for my response.
When that bastard Dimitri suggested she might enjoy paying Viktor’s debt “personally,” she looked him dead in the eye and told him in perfect Russian that his mother had raised him poorly.
The room went silent. Then Boris started laughing.
“Your woman has steel in her spine,” he said in broken English. “I respect this.”
By the time we shook hands on twenty-five million and shared Miami territory, they were treating her like an equal.
“You’re staring at me,” she says from across the room.
She’s standing by the windows, still wearing the black dress she chose for the meeting. Conservative neckline, long sleeves, nothing that could be construed as provocative. But the way it hugs her curves makes me want to tear that dress off with my teeth.
“You did well today.”
“I only spoke Russian and didn’t cry. Hardly worth celebrating.”
“You stared down three killers and made them respect you. That’s worth celebrating.”
She turns from the window, and I catch the slight smile playing at her lips. “Are we celebrating?”
The real question sits unspoken. We’ve been dancing around this attraction for weeks, pretending our wedding night was a fluke, acting like every accidental touch doesn’t set us both on fire.
“We should discuss tomorrow’s flight arrangements,” I say, reaching for safer ground.
“Should we?”
She walks toward me, movements liquid and deliberate. The whiskey burns in my throat as I watch her approach.
“The jet’s ready. We can leave first thing?—”
“Alaric.”
“What?”
“Stop talking about the jet.”
She steps closer, and suddenly the air feels charged. I have to resist the urge to reach out and touch her. “What should I talk about?”
“You could start by admitting you’re proud of me.”
Her eyes sparkle with mischief as she says it, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. She knows exactly what she’s doing.
“Iamproud of you,” I say.
“Then why do you look like you’re about to run?”
I laugh, the sound rich and low in the quiet room. She’s baiting me, and we both know it. I set my whiskey glass aside and run a hand through my beard, studying her face.
“You have no idea what you’re asking for, Kasimira.”
“Don’t I?” She takes another step closer, that teasing smile growing bolder.
