Page 135 of Sinful Bride

“Sooner or later, maybe.” His phone buzzes in his pocket and he answers. “What? I can’t—yeah. The fuck do you mean, ‘They’re here’?”

Shit. I know that tone. When I look at him over the rim of my mug, I see his expression darken.

“Say nothing. Do nothing. Have Makari call our lawyers and get Sofiya—what?”

Now, I’m worried.

Pasha is not a man who panics.

“I’m on my way. No, no, I know. This is bullshit and I know exactly who to blame. I’m making the calls now.”

I expect him to fly out the door to handle whatever crisis just occurred. Instead—and catching me by surprise—he scoops me into his arms and cradles my face in his hands. “I need you to listen to me, Daphne.”

“Everything okay?” I know it’s a stupid question to ask. Clearly, the answer is “no.”

Pasha sighs and presses his forehead to mine. “The feds are raiding one of my hangars. Arlo is keeping them busy, but they’ve already taken Mak into custody. I’ve gotta get over there.”

“Go.” I press a warm hand to his chest. “I’ll be fine.”

“Don’t. Leave.” He tips my face up so I’m forced to look him in the eyes. “Do you hear me? Don’t answer the door for anyone. Don’t check the mail. Don’t go in to work. My mother is on her way to keep you and Taty company, but once she’s in here, none of you are leaving until I get back. Understood?”

“But—”

“Please, Daphne.”

I sigh. “I understand. Be careful, okay?”

“I’ll try.”

I grab him by the shirt and make him see I’m just as serious as he is. “I mean it. You can boss me around all you want because you’re my husband, but don’t forget: I am your wife. I get to boss you around a little, too.”

“Are you giving me orders, Mrs. Chekhov?” he asks with a tiny flicker of a smile.

“The first of many. Come back to me, Pasha.”

He kisses me. “Always.”

Feeling him pull away feels like a chasm just opened up in the ground between us. On a logical level, I know I’m being overdramatic, but I can’t help it.

I love him.

I love him.

I hear him say goodbye to Taty, hear her tiny babbles at him when he kisses her sweet face. My heart squeezes. Hot tears threaten to fill my eyes.

Pull yourself together! He’s just going to get this mess cleaned up.

Fortunately, Asya arrives at the door right when he opens it to leave. She rushes in with her bags, says a few things to him in rapid Russian, and kisses both his cheeks for luck.

Pasha glances over his shoulder at me.

My limbs feel like lead. But I still manage a small wave.

And then he’s gone.

“Come, malyshka.” Asya breezes into the kitchen and checks the coffeemaker. “I haven’t had my morning coffee yet. Make me a fresh pot?”

Usually, she’s the one who makes the coffee. But I’m grateful for the distraction of something to do, which I’m pretty sure is her goal. I busy myself with grinding a fresh batch of beans while she checks the fridge for fruit and pastries.

---