Page 27 of Keeping Ruby

He releases a tense breath, quirking a boyishly charming smile I can’t help but respond to in kind. “Good.” He gestures down a long hall. “This way.”

As I follow him, I take in my surroundings. I haven’t seen a whole lot of the house, and although I’d been taken to the kitchen last night, I’d been, admittedly, distracted. Now, I take it all in.

Kirill’s house is not only massive and ornate, but also deeply masculine. Outside my bedroom, the colors are all deep and rich. Mahogany wainscoting is paired with a shockingly deep, navy blue on the uppermost half of the tall walls. The mahogany wood floors are cut by a buttery, nut colored runner that adds just a hint of something feminine to the unbreakable, timeless masculine decor. The furniture in the sitting room we pass is dark, accented by shades of blue no lighter than cobalt.

The eat-in kitchen is warm, and attached to a grand, and, as far as appearances go, mostly unused dining room that is currently closed off by dark wood French doors. With its painted butter-yellow cabinets and honeyed walnut countertops, I think the kitchen is my favorite room in the house. I can see it’s also well used.

I take a seat at the matching walnut table that the unfamiliar man gestures me to, and fold my hands in my lap. I watch as he moves into the kitchen where the older woman works, her dark eyes drifting to me, kind with curiosity.

The man speaks in Russian, bends low, and presses a kiss to her hair that is twisted into a low bun. She returns something I have no hope of understanding, before she moves to one of the wall ovens. She pulls a plate from inside and hands it to him, tossing me a warm smile over his shoulder.

With the plate in front of me, he asks, “Coffee?”

It’s the first time I’ve been offered the brew since being here. In the cellar, my meals had been bland and meant to nourish. Nothing more.

Apparently, being Kirill’s wife carries some weight when it comes to the little extras.

Still, I shake my head. “Would tea be too much trouble?”

“Not at all.” The man’s blue eyes dance. “What kind?”

“Chamomile, please.”

He nods, says something to Tatiana, and I watch as she begins to fix the tea. Sliding my attention back to the man, I ask, “Who are you?”

“My name is Maxim. And as of this morning, when Kirill is working or not with you, I am to be your guard.”

I blink. “My guard?”

“Yes.” He looks so proud.

I straighten my spine, pulling back my shoulders. “What do I need a guard for?”

His blue eyes dance over my face. “I think you should ask Kirill that question.”

“Ah.” I nod, rolling my lips. “And where is Kirill?”

“Working.”

I fork fluffy eggs onto my fork. “What is it that he does?”

“Kirill? He’s the owner and CEO of Volk Vault Bank.”

A bank? The man who kidnapped me is the owner of a bank? The man who kidnapped me—who claims to know terrible things about my father, and my newly realized terrible brother—holds a reputable profession?

Had he not told me his family was Russian Mafia? Had he not told me my father had been his competition?

A bank? It must be a front.

“Is it a small bank? Something, I don’t know, mom-and pop, like?”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean by mom-and-pop.”

“Like, a little family operation. Something that caters to a small, mostly local, group of people.” Is there even such a thing as a mom-and-pop bank?

Maxim laughs. It’s a nice, warm sound. I think he might be a genuinely nice, warm person. Which begs the question: What is he doing working for a man like Kirill?

“No. Volk Vault Bank is a conglomerate with multiple locations across Europe, and Asia. Soon expanding into the America’s, including Canada.”

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