Page 32 of Frozen Heart

But he might want to,a little voice whispered, and I hated how vulnerable I suddenly felt.

I took a deep breath. “I have a problem with my joints,” I muttered.

He nodded. “What sort of problem?”

I looked at the graffiti on the stairwell wall. “Rheumatoid arthritis.” And I waited for him to say what everybody says:but you’re young!

Except he didn’t say that. He said, “You should have told me.” And he said it with a tenderness I hadn’t thought he was capable of. Slowly, tentatively, my gaze crept back to him. I could see that warmth in his eyes again, like sunlight breaking through ice, and it was so beautiful I had to force myself to remember who he was.Whathe was.

I swallowed and turned away. “Would it have changed things?” I asked, my voice hollow. “Would you have let them kill me instead if you’d known I was...flawed?”

His hands went straight to my shoulders, and he turned me to look at him. When I looked away, he took my chin between thumb and forefinger and made me meet his eyes. He softly shook his head. “You are not flawed. Don’t ever say that.”

I glared:of course I am.But he just gazed steadily back at me.

And as he soaked up all my defensive anger, that tiny, fragile light he’d sparked in me grew and spread. I gave a quick, embarrassed nod and looked away.

Then I yelped because he slid his arms under my knees and back and lifted me into the air. “What are you doing?!”

“Carrying you.” He cradled me against his chest.

I tried to ignore the feeling of his pec pressing against my boob. “You can’t carry me up three more flights of?—”

He started climbing and I discovered that yes, he could quite easily carry me up three flights without even slowing down. And when we passed an old lady coming the other way and she gave me an approving nod, I felt ridiculous and... lucky.

I changed out of my dress, packed a small bag, and he drove me downtown. We rode an elevator up to the penthouse of one of his buildings. As we stepped out into the hallway, I gazed around at the thick scarlet carpet and pristine white walls.His hallway is nicer than my apartment.

He held out a silver key and I blinked stupidly at it, then stared at him. “You’re giving me a key?”

“You’re my fiancée, Bronwyn, not a prisoner. Or did you think I was going to keep you chained to the bed?”

That rare ghost of a smile again. But I didn’t miss how his eyes flared. And I was very aware of the treacherous ribbon of heat that lashed straight down to my groin. I focused very intently on sliding the key into the lock, turning it and?—

Wow.

There was an echoey rush ofspace.Polished wood floor seemed to stretch on to infinity and there was so much light and air. As soon as I stepped inside, I saw why: the place was double height, the ceiling at least twenty feet high. And one whole wall was glass, with sliding doors that opened onto a balcony. Even with the storm clouds overhead and rain sluicing down the windows, it was beautifully light and open. When the sun came out... I could imagine lounging on one of the soft leather couches, reading a book: it’d be like being outdoors.

Most of the penthouse was one huge room. There was a fancy kitchen at one end with a granite countertop and island and lots of stainless-steel appliances. A big TV hung on the opposite wall and there was enough floor space for a seriously lavish party.

But something about the place felt...off. It wasn’t just that everything was expensive, or achingly cool. It wasn’t that it wasall hard surfaces and clean lines: that was very Radimir, cold and efficient. Something else…

I finally figured it out. There was nostuff,no personal clutter. No books, no photos, no ugly porcelain figurine given to you by an aunt that you feel too guilty to throw away, no piece of driftwood that you found on a beach on your first date with your partner. Nothing that washim.I glanced sideways at him, my stomach knotting.He must think anything sentimental is...weak.

I turned on the spot, taking it all in. I felt like I was on the set of a movie, or in a show home butthis is my home now.I glanced at Radimir.And he’s going to be my husband.

I stumbled over to the wall of glass and pressed my forehead against it. The rain was coming down so heavily it looked like we were underwater, and I was looking down on a blurry, undersea city. My head went light and my stomach flipped, but it wasn’t vertigo. This was the first time since he’d proposed that I’d had a chance to just stop and process things.

I was going to be a mafia wife, like Liliya. Maybe Radimir would treat me a little better than Spartak treated her, but he was still a criminal. People were terrified of him. Hekilledpeople. It didn’t matter how much I was attracted to him, I couldn’tlovehim.

I heard him walk over and caught his reflection in the glass. He stopped behind me, watching me. “You must have questions. Ask them.” His voice was tight, like he was bracing himself. “They won’t be able to make you testify, once we’re married.”

I didn’t turn around. I wasn’t sure I could ask this stuff if I looked into his eyes. “How many people have you killed?”

“More than twenty, over the years. I didn’t always do it myself, but I gave the order.”

“They were all bad people, though, right?”

“They were all part of my world, yes. We don’t kill civilians.”

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