He presses a kiss to the back of my neck as the water runs over us. “You good?” he asks again.
“Yes,” I answer, turning slightly to look at him through the steam. “I’m good.”
His hand slides along my jaw, thumb brushing my cheekbone. “Good.”
We dry off, and get dressed. I dress in jeans and a long sleeve blouse. Roman pulls on his pants and shirt from last night.
When we step out into the sitting room of the suite, the atmosphere shifts immediately.
Papa is seated at the table with coffee in front of him, posture straight, gaze already assessing. Dmitri stands near the window, phone in hand. Mikhail leans back in his chair, mug resting loosely in his grip, expression unreadable.
All three look up and take in everything. The fact that Roman is standing close to me and I’m not unraveling. No one comments on where we slept.
Papa gestures toward the coffee pot. “Sit.”
We do. Roman pulls out a chair for me then takes the one beside mine. His presence is steady, not intrusive.
Dmitri is the first to speak. “He left early.”
“I expected that,” I reply.
“He said if the alliance wasn’t forged, there would be consequences.” My voice is steady. I make sure of it. “He said he would kill you.”
Dmitri exhales sharply through his nose.
“And when I laughed,” I continue, because I did laugh, stupid and angry and reckless, “he told me he was able to get to me.”
Silence.
Mikhail sets his mug down with deliberate care. The porcelain clicks against the wood like a final move. “He is either reckless or desperate.”
“Both,” Dmitri says instantly. “Everything is shifting. He is losing influence. Losing territory. This marriage was leverage.”
Roman hasn’t looked away from Papa. His posture is loose but coiled, like a man waiting for permission.
Papa steeples his fingers beneath his chin. His gaze moves between us, assessing, calculating. Not panicked. Never panicked. “Desperate men make mistakes,” he says. His eyes land on me. “Reckless men die.”
The words settle over my skin like cold silk.
“I am going to speak with Orlovsky,” Papa continues, as if we are discussing trade routes instead of murder. “I will make it known the marriage is off. Publicly. Immediately. We do not need them as much as they need us.”
The finality in his voice is absolute.
Dmitri exhales slowly. “That will provoke him.”
“Yes,” Papa says.
Mikhail’s lips curve faintly. “And that is the point.”
Roman finally turns toward me fully, closing the small space between us without touching me. His presence is a wall. A shield. “He told you he could get to you,” he says quietly.
“Yes.”
“And he is wrong.”
My breath catches. It is not bravado. It is a promise.
Papa watches the two of us for a long moment. I feel it. The weight of it. The awareness.
