I nod, though the words don’t quite soothe me. I’ve spent years feeling like I had to earn my place. Sitting still feels wrong. “You’re probably right,” I say anyway.
“I am,” she says with a playful lilt. Then her eyes soften again. “Take the time to find your footing. You’ll be grateful you did.”
I manage a small smile and take another sip of coffee. The warmth doesn’t fill the hollow space in my chest. “I guess I’ll wander a bit,” I say at last.
“That’s a good idea,” she says, rising from the table. “The house is large. You might as well get familiar with it.”
She pats my shoulder on her way out, and I sit there for a moment longer, the echo of her touch a small anchor in the strange, vast space I now occupy.
Despite last night’s activities, I haven’t found my appetite yet—probably just the residual nerves of being in a foreign home. So, when I finish my coffee, I push back from the table and wander out of the breakfast room.
The Novikov mansion is big enough to swallow me whole. I trail my fingers along the walls as I go, cataloging doors, stairways, windows. The house smells faintly of cedar and polish, overlaid by the rich, lingering scent of last night’s feast.
There’s a small sitting room near the back of the house, a library with shelves that reach the ceiling, a corridor lined with old portraits of stern-eyed men and women whose gazes follow me as I move. I imagine them whispering among themselves, Who is this girl? Does she belong here?
I swallow against the tightness in my throat and keep moving.
I end up near the back terrace, where sunlight streams through tall windows, casting golden patterns onto the floor. I stop there for a moment, soaking it in. In the broad light of day, without a major life event looming on the immediate horizon, the house doesn’t look as cold and unwelcoming today. It feels a bit less like a fortress and more like a home. Maybe I can learn to love this place, if I give it time.
A sound draws my attention—a door opening down the hall—and I glance up just as Sandro strides into view. My heart leaps before I can stop it. He moves like a force of nature, his broad shoulders square, his head held high despite the sheen of perspiration that coats his bare, tattoo-covered chest and dark hair dripping with sweat. He’s freshly bruised from his sparring session with Miko, his knuckles red, and yet he’s still impossibly beautiful, radiating a coiled, dangerous energy that makes my breath catch.
I freeze, like a deer in the headlights, unsure of whether I should even be in this part of the house or if he’ll think I was following him. “Good morning,” I say, my voice mortifyingly shy.
He glances at me, eyes dark and unreadable, and my stomach knots. Gone is the man from last night, the one who touched me like I was something precious. This is Sandro Chiaroscuro, the man the world calls a mad dog. I can see the violent fury in the storm that brews beneath his hazel gaze. His face is all hard edges and shadows, his mouth set in a grim line.
“Morning,” he mutters, already moving past me.
The small warmth in my chest flickers. I force a smile. “Did you have a good workout?”
He stops, just for a beat, then turns enough to look at me over his shoulder. “Yes,” he says flatly.
The sharp edge to his single-word response stings more than it should, and I clasp my hands together tightly, trying to steady myself. “I just wanted to know if there’s anything you’d like me to do today,” I say quickly, oddly desperate to keep him there. “To help, or?—”
“Just… stay out of the way.” His tone is clipped, distracted, like my question alone is drawing his attention from far more important matters. “That’s the best thing you can do.”
It feels like a slap. My throat closes, but I force myself to nod. “Of course,” I say softly, keeping my voice steady, though my eyes start to burn. “Have a good day.”
He doesn’t answer as he continues on down the hall, his shoulders stiff, his presence like a stormfront receding.
I stand frozen for a moment, hands trembling, heat crawling up my neck.Stupid. Why did I expect anything different?Last night was last night. This is reality. When it comes down to it, I know next to nothing about my new husband aside from his reputation, and men like Sandro earn those through a lifetime of acting a certain way around people.Why should I think I’m special?
A movement at the edge of my vision draws my attention.
Raf stands at the end of the corridor, arms crossed, having apparently caught the end of our exchange. He shakes his head faintly, then walks over and gives my shoulder a brief, almost pitying pat. “Don’t take it personally,” he says, his voice low and rough. “He’s got a lot on his mind.”
I swallow hard and manage a faint nod. “I know,” I whisper.
Raf hesitates like he wants to say more, but then he just squeezes my shoulder once and follows his brother down the hall.
I’m left standing alone again, the house suddenly feeling too large, too quiet.
Then Miko appears. He’s taller than the twins, his shoulders somehow—impossibly—wider than Sandro’s even. He’s a behemoth of a man, and his sharp blue eyes, so different from Sandro’s rich hazel ones, remind me that he’s the adopted Chiaroscuro brother. Though, I suppose he’s not even that anymore. Now he’s the Russian Novikov heir. And he has the formidable presence of a man worthy of the title.
I find it somewhat astonishing that a man so inherently intimidating could be such a perfect match for a petite young woman like Anika. When they’re apart, I could easily mistake Miko for being as dangerous and unpredictable as Sandro. But when I see him with Anika, when I see the connection they share, it makes my heart ache with longing. Clearly, Sandro and I are never going to reach that place. But after last night, I’d hoped—at least momentarily—that we might findsomethingof an understanding.
As if he can hear my thoughts, Miko gives me a small smile as he approaches. “Rough morning?”
I laugh weakly. “I just feel a bit… useless,” I admit, glancing around as if searching the immediate area will give me a purpose.
