The smile returns, going all the way up to his eyes. My heart tightens at the sight, and I can’t believe I’m admitting it, but I actually find it so cute.
My eyes trace his intimidating profile as he steps forward and stops just inches beside me by the sink before turning on the faucet. His body heat scorches me, seeping through the thin fabric of my T-shirt and warming my arm.
He scrubs his hands under the rushing water and angles his head to the side, staring at me with a smirk. “Nice to know you’ll be the first person to pop a celebratory bottle before my funeral.”
“Don’t get your hopes up. I might be the second,” I tease, and I don’t expect what comes next.
He laughs. It’s a full-blown sound of pure joy that doesn’t only rumble at the back of his throat, but makes my body thrum with satisfaction that I made that happen.
It’s silly. I shouldn’t care about this moment, being squished beside my husband by the sink in this massive kitchen. But Idocare. I take notice of everything: the ease in his deep voice, the light in his beautiful gray eyes, and the casual way his broad shoulders relax as he speaks to me.
He shuts off the tap, but doesn’t move away. The smile lingers, but the look in his eyes grows serious with concern. “Talk to me, Elena. I know you don’t believe it, but I want to know what goes on in that pretty head of yours.”
“You think my head is pretty,” I deviate.
“And you think mine is, too.” He sighs. “Don’t change the topic.”
You, I want to say.I was thinking about you.
The words hang heavy at the tip of my tongue. I want to tell him, I really do. But trust is a powerful thing, and as much as I’m pulled to him, I’m not sure we’re at the point where I feelcomfortable enough to reveal the deepest and darkest desires of my heart.
The subtle tick in his jaw lets me know he senses my reluctance.
With a grunt, he pushes away from the sink and struts over to the refrigerator. Pale blue light washes over his hard facial features as he opens it, and I watch in complete suspense as his hands work. First, he grabs two apples, followed by a bunch of grapes and two water bottles. He closes the fridge, grabs a big bowl, stuffs the items inside, and walks back to me.
He hands me the bowl. “Here, hold this.”
Frowning, I take the bowl quietly, then yelp as my feet leave the cold ground.
“Leo, what is this? My legs work perfectly fine.”
“I know that.” His reply is gruff and unbothered. “But your feet are bare.”
I want to murmur something sarcastic, but in my peripheral vision I catch sight of his big feet, which are covered by black slippers. It’s extremely strange how extraordinary he looks in these ordinary clothes.
I bite my tongue and roll my eyes. “We’re out of the kitchen now. Can youpleaseput me down?”
Our faces are so close that our lips are barely inches apart. Why on earth am I suddenly being cradled in his arms like a big baby? Does it feel nice? Heck, yes. My side squishes against his hard chest and his body warmth works likes magic, having an immediate stress-relief effect on me. His heady scent makes my knees weak and stirs a flutter that settles between my thighs. But it’s unusual and suspicious to be carried like this in Leonid Narazov’s arms. I could be on my way to my death and wouldn’t have any idea.
He gives me a fleeting look, then looks away. “No.”
“Of course,” I scoff. “Your favorite word.”
He goes quiet, and my curiosity rears its head. My grip on the bowl tightens and I draw it closer to my chest. The silence and suspense is killing me.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Somewhere,” is all he offers.
I decide to remain quiet and, perhaps, enjoy the ride. I know, sooner or later, everyone is going to die. If it’s my turn tonight, there’s nothing I can do to change my fate.
Leonid takes us past the spacious living room, the grand foyer, and finally through the heavy doors. He practically skips off the porch and down the steps leading to the yard. A cold breeze greets us, immediately pulling at our hair and ruffling our clothes. His men stationed by the entrance keep straight faces, looking toward nothing in particular, like they don’t see us.
Hot awareness creeps up my neck, but Leonid ignores them and doesn’t stop walking. He takes a curve around the side of the house, where green grass stretches endlessly across a field. He crosses the picket barricade, edges into the field, and finally stops by a large brown hammock tied between two trees I could have sworn I’ve never seen before.
He drops me on the hammock and I scoot over to the side, folding my legs beneath me as I create room for him.
“How’s it possible that I’ve never noticed this place before now?” I ask as he sits down beside me.
