Page 8 of King’s Promise

“We’ll have to leave out the back.”

“I’ll start the car,” Pavel volunteers as he carries the large titanium luggage and holds his hand out for her backpack. She relinquishes it when she notices me holding her coat. She quietly slips her arms into it and drapes her purse across the lovely, delicate shoulder I’d love to kiss.

“Good,” I reply, noticing her every move, “you might have to ditch the shoes. If the media discovers us, we’re making a run for the car.”

“It’s wet outside,” she furrows her brows.

“Maybe sensible shoes would have been more appropriate,” I point out smugly.

Anya pulls her keys out, locks the door behind us and we make our way to a wooden gate in the hedges. The walkway is covered in puddles.

“I might have to carry you,” I murmur.

“I’m fine,” she huffs as she splashes through puddles and ruins her shoes.

“Alright. Let’s try to look like a happy couple, in case the tabloids get a picture.”

“I’m not interested in what the press thinks. It’s not like I’m important,” she replies as I slip my arm around her. I can’t deny I like being protective of her as my eyes quickly scan the area for trespassers.

“That’s about to change,” I snarl. The Volkov name will be more prominent with me opening the family residence in London. I normally would go to the coast of France in the fall with the elite and enjoy warmer weather. However, with an impromptu wedding, maybe a quick getaway on my yacht visiting the French Riviera will suffice for a honeymoon destination. It will be safer than sitting here while we figure out who Igor’s enemies are. If we’re a target, it’s better to be a moving target. Then again, maybe I’m being overly cautious.

Anya bristles as I pull her closer. I place my other hand over her arm to keep her in line. Just the way it should be. She’ll learn how to be a Bratva wife with time. She’s young, she’ll learn to adapt. Young girls tend to be superficial and immature. They live on their phones and can’t carry a conversation.

The familiar clicks of high-powered cameras hand in the air as we pile into the SUV. Pavel drives us outside the burbs to my sprawling estate. No doubt, it once belonged to an Earl, or the Queen herself.

“What will they do with the pictures?”

“Probably make up outlandish captions.”

She settles back in the seat and accepts me sitting beside her without a fuss. “Woman taken by a thug,” she murmurs.

I suppress my chuckle.

“Who is your father’s guard?” There is so much to accomplish in a short amount of time. I hope Igor was smart enough to keep encrypted information in a safe place.

“Baran.”

“Was he with your father the day… y’know?”

“As far as I know. Why?”

“Get on that, Pavel,” I command.

“Sure thing.” He maneuvers in traffic and the SUV zips through roundabouts.

“Any other guards? I assume you have more than one?”

“Sergei, he’s nice, he mostly stays at the house in case we need him. Why?” Her eyes beseech me to provide more information.

“I have to meet these people, and you are the one with the list of players on the chessboard,” I reply smugly.

“Are they suspects?” she asks cautiously. Spoken like a dedicated daughter.

I turn my body to face her and remind myself her father just died. I need to give her time to process the loss and not give her information which will put her in harm’s way. I keep busy to deal with my loss and wonder how Mama is doing back home. The wedding will cheer her up, as will the London scenery.

“I have no clue. Do you think someone is capable of being bought?” My eyebrows furrow together like two caterpillars kissing. Her gaze meets mine. My cock fills my fitted overpriced jeans.

“I have no clue. I don’t think so, but I didn’t think we’d be going to Papa’s funeral this week, either. Or that I’d be getting married.” She shrugs.

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