Page 32 of Beautiful Cruelty

"Are you going to hurt me?"

His head turns, and those storm-gray eyes lock onto mine.

"No." He pauses, and then his lips curve into a promise. "Not unless you ask me to."

9

VADIM

The Ferrari travelsdown the long-hidden road. Soon, the highway is far behind us as the rain fades to a light drizzle.

From the corner of my eye, I watch Lacey’s ghostly reflection in the window.

She tucks her legs together and leans forward, inadvertently showing off the graceful line of her calves. I tighten my grip on the steering wheel as I continue driving.

In the distance, the familiar sight of an ivory mansion rises from the misty pines into view. Gradually, her fear is replaced by curiosity as she presses her head to the glass and cranes her neck for a better view.

She has none of the thin and angular lines of the models on the runway, but soft curves in all the right places. Yet she still moves with a natural grace that imbue each motion with an effortless sensuality.

"Where are we?" Lacey's voice breaks through my thoughts, barely a whisper.

"My late father Pyotr's pride and joy." I guide the Ferrari past the gate and around the circular driveway. “Although 'ego trip' might be more accurate."

Her eyes widen as she takes in the sprawling Italianate palazzo, all pale limestone and soaring columns. The morning light catches on the carved balustrades, casting pale shadows across the façade that bears a resemblance to The Breakers of Rhode Island.

Despite its grandeur, the mansion would always remain a pale imitation of its inspiration. After all, Pyotr never saw the originals in person.

"It's beautiful," she mutters.

"I had the same thought my first day here. Pyotr built it to impress his rivals, not to nurture or care for his family." The car comes to a stop at the grand entrance. "He named it Pankration thinking it would give him the class he desperately wanted. I doubt he ever knew that it was just a fancy word without meaning."

Lacey's gaze darts between me and the mansion, disbelief clear in those amber-flecked eyes. I remember that same feeling of unreality when I first arrived—a bastard boy plucked from the mud suddenly thrust into this world of obscene wealth and power.

I kill the engine and step out of the car. "Welcome to my home, Ms. McKinney."

One of my men hurries from the garage to park the car for me, but I shake my head.

“Vasily.” My voice cuts through the morning air. "Fetch Lenka Feliksovna."

"Of course, Vadim Petrovich." With a quick bow, he hurries back inside.

Once we're alone, Lacey lifts her chin. Despite her bound hands, she meets my gaze directly. Even in the dull morning light of Seattle’s gray skies, light seems to dance in her expressive eyes.

"Well, you've brought me to your mansion. Just what do you intend to do with me now that I'm here, Mr. Stravinsky?"

Her question sends my discussion with Demyon in that basement rising back to the surface—about the cathedral, about the Bible, about how the only time someone other than the Archbishop can lay their hands on it, and about finding a woman who's just as stubborn, reckless, and committed to the idea of justice and fairness as me.

And like that, the solution to my problems crystallizes in my head.

The perfect means to an end.

And she’s standing right in front of me.

"What I intend, Ms. McKinney," I say evenly. "Is to marry you."

I expecteda number of different reactions from Lacey. Laughter wasn't one of them.

It starts as a giggle, then builds into full-throated peals that echo across the mansion's façade.

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