Disappointment curls through me when he wraps it around his waist and I silently admonish myself. If I still have a job by the end of the day, it will be a miracle.
My shoulders slump. This is it. I’ll be out of a job in the next twenty seconds all because I wanted to pass my Russian exam. “Twenty-five.”
His eyes narrow as he drops them to the name embroidered on my uniform.
“Charlotte.” He says it like he is measuring the weight of it in his mouth, and it sends a quick, hot pulse through my chest and straight to between my legs, which I instinctively clamp together.
“Yes?” My voice is tiny.
He towels water from his hair and looks straight at me. I have to swallow to stop myself from making another inappropriate sound.
“I have a proposition for you.”
Oh.
His eyes darken as he rakes his gaze over me.
Oh.
Vitali
She stands there dripping nerves and stubbornness, clutching cleaning sprays like weapons that wouldn’t hurt a fly. Cheeks flushed. Hair tied back with a few loose strands that have escaped and started frizzing with the steam. She is like a little wild animal caught somewhere between fight, flight and freeze.
She thinks she’s in trouble.
She has no idea she’s already changed everything.
Her name is still warm in my mouth. Charlotte. I want to say it again. I shouldn’t want that. But wanting isn’t something I’ve had to restrain before. I usually don’t want anything.
“I need an heir,” I tell her plainly.
Her lips part. “An… heir?”
“Yes.” I watch confusion ripple across her face, slow and adorable. “A child. Mine.”
She blinks twice. “I— I’m sorry, what?”
I step closer and she matches my steps until her back hits the suite door and she makes a small noise of surprise or regret or something. I don’t know. What I do know is, she doesn’t bolt. I respect that.
“My uncle has issued a command. Within a year, I must produce an heir.”
She swallows. Hard. Then whispers, “Congratulations?” like it’s a question.
I stare at her. She stares back. Her throat moves again, nerves trembling beneath skin I suddenly want to taste.
“I am willing to offer a contractual solution,” I continue, voice flat, businesslike. It’s the only way I know how to do this without reaching out and touching her.
“A contract,” she echoes.
“Yes. Marriage. Temporary.”
Her mouth falls open. “Temporary marriage.”
“Until you conceive, give birth, and nurse the child for six months after.” The details sound obscene coming out of my mouth while she’s still visibly struggling not to stare at the low knot of the towel around my hips. “Once the child is weaned, the arrangement ends.”
“And then what? I’m… fired from being your wife?” The words trip with a nervous, horrified kind of humor.
“You will be compensated.” I name the amount.
