A slow shake of his head. “Only me. From now on, you’ll only do what your husband says.”
I let out a shaky breath. I shouldn’t stand here and listen to this utter nonsense. I shouldneverwant to please this man. Yet the question—the shameless flirt—pours out of me before I can stop it.
“And what if you’ll corrupt me? What then?” I ask.
His head lowers to take in my silhouette, and I can feel his warm breath tickling my back.
“If I manage to corrupt you, Cecilia, it only means you want to be mine.”
I try not to notice the bitter taste of disappointment on my tongue when he steps back.
Back at the penthouse,we shuck our coats and unwind our scarves after Mikhail tells me we’re staying the night. The energy between us feels dense, crackling from whatever happened earlier. A simple accidental brush of our arms would be enough to set me ablaze.
Had he not said those things to me…had he not touched me the way he did, I would’ve convinced myself I imagined it.But the feel of his fingers on my collarbone, in my hair—God, it lingers, warm and treacherous, even under all these layers of clothes.
I wrap my arms around myself, following him farther into the apartment, because I don’t know what else to do.
The living room is now empty of all the ugly dresses, as if he snapped his fingers and banished them from existence. Does he have any staff here? And if yes, why do I never see any of them? Somehow, Mikhail feels like an outcast by choice—someone who does things his way without asking anyone for permission. That would explain the lack of guards. And the torture he endured a few days ago.
“Hungry?” he asks. Right on cue, my stomach grumbles, and the corner of his mouth curves up.
I simply shrug. “Areyougoing to cook?”
“Please,” he snorts. “You need food, not a night in the ER. What do you want?”
What do I want.
Always that question. I climb a bar stool, flicking my mind over the possibilities as a kernel of silent power coils around me. I could ask for anything, couldn’t I? He’d make it happen. Not because he cares about me, of course, but because I’ll share his name.
“Maybe pizza?” I suggest, sheepishly. “The deep-dish kind?”
“Sweetheart…” He slumps his powerful shoulders, arms propped on the kitchen island as he sighs dramatically. “One, that was a question, not a statement. It invites the other person to push back on your request. Two, deep-dish pizza is gross, but sure…have at it.”
My body tingles at his reaction, and it’s too much of an effort not to smile as I watch him make a call to put in the order. Chewing on my lower lip, I wonder what all of this means. Him advocating for me, wanting me to tell him what I need…I neverexpected it, and it makes me realize I don’t, in fact, know that much about the man I’m about to marry.
“Yes?” he asks when he’s done with the phone, looking to where the golden-brown of my hair cascades over my shoulders. It’s in the depths of those green eyes I see something different from amusement and nonchalance for once—curiosity. A fascination that takes over his stance as he leans in ever so slightly.
“Why do you have this apartment? I thought you lived at the estate,” I say, suppressing the bigger questions I want to ask.
“I prefer it here. No one’s breathing down my neck. Plus, I always come to New York for business anyway, and, unlike my brother, I don’t need to hide in my hometown.”
“Hm. No hiding, no bodyguards,” I say, pensively. “Exactly how many lives do you have?”
“One. But I make it good enough to feel like nine.”
I huff out a laugh. “Is this where we’ll live?”
“I will. You can choose wherever you want. If you don’t want the estate or the penthouse, I can arrange for something else.”
Disappointment bangs at that space beneath my breastbone, but I make sure to keep the careless smile on my face. “So I can just go back to the West Coast? To San Maleno?”
“Pass. It would be too difficult to get to you. And I don’t like the weather there.”
“Oh,” I blurt out. “So I can only choose what I want to do with my life as long as you don’t veto it. Noted.”
He pulls back with a smile, snatching two crystal glasses and a bottle of Macallan whiskey. “Whatdoyou want to do with your life?”
His question surprises me, because he asks it as if he’s actually interested. “Why does it matter if I’m to do what you want anyway?”
