I force a sigh, letting the tension drain from my shoulders like I’m accepting defeat. “You’re really dramatic, you know that.”
His smile is slow and dangerous. “You have no idea. Now get out of the tub and get ready.”
“Kind of hard to do with a shackle on my ankle. Unless you want me dripping bathwater all over your pristine floors.”
He pulls a small key from his pocket, crouches down again. His fingers are warm against my skin as he unlocks the cuff, letting it fall away.
“Stand up,” he grits out.
My hesitation is less about modesty and more about the niggling sense I’m not as in control of this situation as I’d like to believe.
“Don’t make me ask twice.”
I rise slowly, water streaming off my body. His gaze tracks every inch of exposed skin, lingering on my breasts, the curve of my waist, the junction of my thighs. Heat envelops me, despite the cool air coating my wet skin.
He grabs the towel from the rack, steps closer until he’s wrapping it around me, his hands brushing my shoulders as he tucks the edge between my breasts.
He offers his hand and I take it, letting him steady me as I step onto the bathmat. His touch lingers for longer than necessary, before he reaches for a second towel and startsworking it through my wet hair, fingers massaging my scalp as he squeezes water from the strands.
It feels so damn good I bite my lip to strangle the moan on the tip of my tongue.
His breath is warm against my temple. “Turn.”
My body complies. His hands settle on my shoulders, the towel dragging down my spine in slow, deliberate strokes. Lower, to the small of my back, then up again across my shoulder blades.
Being toweled dry should not feel like foreplay. Yet the deliberate slide of his hands over my skin is ruining my focus, giving me one more reason to run from him.
When he’s finished, he steps away to open the door. The same middle-aged woman stands in the hallway with a team behind her.
“They’ll help you get ready.” Kirill moves aside as the woman enters, followed by two younger assistants pushing a rolling rack loaded with makeup cases and hair tools. A man brings up the rear, carrying a bottle of champagne and what looks like a charcuterie board that could feed ten people.
Kirill looks back at me, still wrapped in the towel with water dripping from my hair, and flashes a wicked smile. “You have two hours. Don’t keep me waiting.”
The woman nearest me offers a courteous smile. “Shall we begin?”
“Pop the champagne first,” I say, needing liquid courage. “And keep it coming.”
Two hours later, I’m standing in front of a mirror wearing a dress that fits me so perfectly it pisses me off a little.
Ivory silk with delicate lace details both elegant and subtly sexy. It hugs my waist before flowing into a skirt that makes me feel like I’m floating. My hair is swept up with a few loose pieces framing my face, and my makeup is flawless. Glowing and natural, like I’m genuinely a happy bride instead of a woman who’s being backed into a corner.
Elana, the stylist, adjusts my veil one last time, her eyes a little misty. “You look beautiful, Mrs. Baronova.”
A sharp chill settles under my skin. “Nope. Not my name.” At least not yet.
She gives me a patient smile before she opens the door and ushers me into the hallway, toward the main foyer. Her job is to make sure I don’t do a runner, as if I could. She keeps a gentle hand on my lower back that suggests her life depends on me showing up to his farce of a wedding.
Well, joke’s on her, on all of them honestly, because I’ll go through with the wedding. I remember playing dress-up as a kid with my friends. One of us would pose as the man and one as the woman in whatever bridal-looking get-up we could scrounge from our parents’ closets, going through with the ceremony even though none of us had ever been to a wedding.
Those games were always bittersweet for me. There was no mother’s closet to raid, and no happy marriage in my house to emulate. I guess this won’t be so different.
The penthouse is modern and elegant and clearly costly. Every surface gleams, every detail is perfect. It’s the kind of place you see in magazines with giant windows letting in so much natural light that the whole place glows.
As I turn the corner, music drifts toward me. Something classical and romantic, the kind of thing you’d hear at a real wedding. And then the space opens up and I stop breathing for a beat.
White roses and peonies fill the living area, arranged in tall vases and scattered across the floor in delicate patterns.
Peonies. Like the ones that match my tattoos. My mother’s favorite flower.
