Page 3 of Bride By Coronation

A young girl with bright-green hair, four nose rings, and three eyebrow hoops slaps two cookies, wrapped in paper sleeves, on the quartz. "Your drinks will be up in a moment."

"Thank you," I reply.

Kirill steps closer to me and unbuttons his peacoat, and the same delicious scent he wore the night we met in the club slinks around us.

I hold in my groan. The number of times I tried to find that smell at cologne counters is uncountable. I inhale deeply, basking in the leather, rosewater, saffron, jasmine, and other notes I can't identify.

"You aren't dressed very appropriately," Kirill states in disapproval, his gaze drifting over my body.

I squeeze my thighs together, babbling, "I was late for Pilates. When I got outside, it wasn't snowing, so I ran, thinking I'd sweat last night's wine out of me. I was at a dinner party. I didn't get drunk or anything. I just had a few more glasses than normal. Anyway, when I left class, the weather had turned, and I forgot my phone." I stare at him, my heart thudding so hard that I'm sure he can hear it.

Tiny wrinkles crinkle around his blues. He teases, "It's a good thing you didn't turn into an icicle. I'd have to defrost you in front of everyone."

My breath catches in my lungs. The throbbing in my core accelerates. I add, "I detoured to my brother and sister-in-law's place since the snow was beating me up too badly."

Something passes in Kirill's expression, but I don't understand what it means.

"Bob," the girl calls out.

I bite on my smile.

Kirill winks, picks up our drinks, and holds mine out to me.

I reach for it and freeze, gaping as goose bumps cover my skin.

What is he doing with that on his hand?

Kirill has the same skull adorned with roses that my deceased father designed and then branded on his hand. It's in the same spot, near his thumb and index finger. It's also the same mark my brother branded on his hand and Zara got on the back of her neck. The only difference is theirs have soft pink accents while his has gold.

I've asked Sean and Zara to explain what it means, but they only say they did it when they married as a tribute to my father. I don't buy it, nor does my mother or stepfather, Dante.

Kirill puts my drink in his other hand, then picks up his.

My voice shakes when I ask, "Why do you have my father's mark on you?"

Guilt flickers over his face, then turns to a hardened expression. "It's nothing."

"Like hell it is!" I object.

"Take your drink, Fiona," he orders in a low tone.

I grab it, my hand trembling.

He snatches the bags of cookies and then slides his arm around me so I'm forced to walk with him.

After several steps, I push away. "Tell me how you got my father's mark!"

"It's just a design I found. I don't know how it could be your father's," he claims.

I seethe, "Liar! My brother and sister-in-law have one too!"

His eyes turn darker. He clenches his jaw, then sets his drink and the cookies on the table. He pulls out a chair. "Sit down."

"Tell me. Now," I insist through gritted teeth.

He steps closer, slides his arm around my waist, and tugs me into him.

A surge of electricity races through every one of my cells. I gasp, my body molding against his looming frame.

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