Page 34 of Unveiled

Which is worse—disobeying him by not undressing as he ordered or leaving a mess in his pristine room?

Semyon is always precise. Impeccable.

I scoop up the clothes and toss them into a nearby hamper, stripping the rest of my garments as quickly as I can. My gaze catches on the full-length oval mirror in the corner.

For a moment, I freeze, staring at my reflection.

My cheeks are flushed, my hair wild in soft waves over my shoulders. Standing naked, I take in what I haven’t seen in years. My body is unfamiliar, the curves of my full breasts and the flare of my hips foreign after years of not looking. My belly is soft but flat, and my thighs strong. My hands trail down my sides unconsciously.

Semyon’s voice echoes in my mind:I like my wife with curves.

I swallow hard and avert my eyes, wrapping my arms around myself. What is he going to do?

The door handle clicks. My heart leaps into my throat. I stand frozen, my breath shallow. I have never felt more vulnerable in my life.

“Good,” Semyon says, his voice tired and taut. “For once, you did something I asked you to.” He steps into the room and removes his tie, unloosening it with his large, thick hand. I watch, mesmerized. I cross my arms over my chest, but he only shakes his head sternly at me.

“No. Don’t cover up. You’re my wife. Hiding accomplishes nothing.”

“I’m your wife, but I hardly know you.”

He doesn’t respond because he’s too busy staring at me.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, his voice softer than before, as if testing the words aloud. Nodding, satisfied, he repeats himself. “Beautiful.”

I blink, caught off guard. “What?”

His clinical gaze lingers. “A simple observation, but it’s true.” It’s the first time I realize he’s soaked to the skin like I was.

“Are you trying to manage me with compliments?”

The furrow of his brow hints at confusion. Frustration? “No.”

He's standing before me, wearing nothing but the white T-shirt clinging to his skin, tucked into a pair of soaking-wet pants. He walks over to me, and I stand stock still. I don't know what to expect.

"Your hair is wet." He strokes it out of my face—not like a gesture of tenderness, but as though he needs to see my eyes. "Where did you get that dress?"

I swallow hard. "It was my mother's."

"I thought so.” Wordlessly, he trails a finger over my shoulder and down the length of my arm.

"Your skin is so soft," he whispers.

I shiver.

"Are you cold?" His brow furrows.

Does he have no idea what he does to me?

"No." My voice is a husky whisper.

He circles me, staring as if I’m a work of art he’s trying to understand. "Do you know the rule of the Bratva?”

I lick my lips. “Which one?”

“We have to consummate our marriage."

Heat floods through me. I nod. "No, but I figured as much."

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