"Russia."
He leaned back in his chair, long fingers tapping absently on the dark table.
"Back to my homeland. I need to handle some things. And I want to show you the manor where I grew up."
My heart skipped a beat. The fork nearly clattered onto my plate.
Russia. His homeland. Kirill was opening the door to his past, inviting me in.
This acceptance meant more than any sweet words ever could.
"Really?" I whispered, voice dreamlike, hardly sounding real to my own ears.
"The private jet's already arranged." He stood, walking behind me. Hands braced on my chair back, he leaned down to murmur in my ear, hot breath tunneling inside, voice low enough only we could hear but filthy and seductive all the same.
"You'll love it there, Harper. I'm going to pin you down on my old bed and fill every inch of you."
"Kirill!"
I gasped. God, how could he say something like that here, now? Madam Olga was sitting less than six feet away! If she heard...
I shot a panicked glance at Olga, terrified she'd caught it.
"I'm coming too!"
Olga's voice cut in at exactly the wrong moment—though clearly she hadn't heard his obscene promise. The old woman set down hersilverware, face bright with excitement. "I haven't been back to the old estate in ages. I want to see the hunting grounds..."
Kirill straightened, composure restored, and turned to his grandmother with an expression that screamed, "Are you serious right now?"
"You really think we need a chaperone?"
Olga paused, looking between my flushed face and Kirill's calm one, then burst into hearty laughter.
"Fine, fine! I won't make myself a nuisance." She waved cheerfully, eyes twinkling with mischief as they bounced between us. "I won't go—but when you come back, you'd better bring me good news. Like... my great-grandchild is on the way."
My face went scarlet to the tips of my ears. Kirill didn't argue, just gave me a loaded look while his palm traced slow circles on my shoulder.
All of this felt like a dream.
My brother Aiden's surgery was paid for. The best doctors were planning his treatment. And I was in love with the most powerful man in New York—who was falling for me too.
Twenty-four years, and fate had finally smiled on me, turning all my suffering into sugar.
But the night we were supposed to leave, New York was hit by the worst rainstorm since spring began. Wind whipped fat raindrops against the windows in violent bursts.
I stood at the manor's black lacquered door wearing the camel cashmere coat Kirill had picked out himself, anticipating our honeymoon trip. The first trip after our wedding—I could call it a honeymoon, right?
A line of black armored Escalades idled at the entrance, engines rumbling low through the rain. Security loaded luggage into the trunks, every face grim.
"Cold?"
Kirill appeared beside me. He wore a black trench coat, one hand casually pocketed, the other sliding around my shoulders to pull me close, shielding me from the rainblowing in.
"Hell of a time for a storm." I breathed in his comforting scent of fir. "I've never been this far from home."
"I've got you." He bent down, pressing warm lips to my forehead. "Don't be scared."
He held me close, signaling Boris to get the car ready.
