Page 4 of Bride By Coronation

His lips graze my lobe as he murmurs in my ear, "I said sit, Fiona."

I glance at his darkening features, illuminated by the faded scar, unsure what to do.

"Sit," he quietly repeats.

I cave, sitting and holding the macchiato too tightly.

The lid pops off, and my hot drink spills over my hands.

"Ouch," I cry out.

"Shit!" Kirill sits, grabs napkins off the table, and secures my hands in his. He dabs the liquid until it disappears onto the paper, and assesses my hand. With relief in his voice, he states, "I don't think you're going to blister or scar."

"How'd you get your scar?" I blurt out, then my chest tightens.

His head jerks backward, and pain crosses his expression. It's a small move but enough to notice. He recovers, putting on a poker face, but grinds his molars.

I almost apologize, but I don't. He's wearing my father's skull design. I want answers, and he hasn't given them to me yet. So it's time he starts talking.

He picks up his coffee, takes a large mouthful, then sets it down, refocusing on me.

I fight the ache in my core with the fear over who he is and what he might be involved in. Since he doesn't answer me, I question, "Did you know my father?"

He maintains his silence and takes another sip of coffee, studying me.

Tension builds between us, creating an intense anger inside me, pushing me to the point I might explode.

I'm tired of asking for the truth about my father and getting nowhere. No one lets me in on anything. Not my mother, Dante, Sean, or even Zara. It's not even her father, and she has more information about my dad than I do.

I fume, "I want answers."

"It's not the right time," he declares.

Shock fills me. "Not the right time? You have my father's mark on you, and you have the audacity to tell me it's not the right time?!"

"Keep your voice down," he reprimands.

"No. Don't you dare tell me what to do!" I cry out.

Disapproval appears in his gaze, and he pins it on me, breathing through his nose.

"Tell me," I demand.

He doesn't move for a moment, then unwinds his scarf from his neck. He leans forward, loops it behind my neck, and secures the soft cashmere around me. He grabs the material in his hand and tugs me closer.

The ache resurfaces, numbing out the anger.

Kirill's hot breath teases my lips. He warns, "When I say it's not the right time, I mean it. It was nice having you run into me again. Don't forget to try the cookie. Have a good day, Fiona." He releases me and rises.

I stare at him.

He picks up a cookie, slides it in my jacket pocket, then shoves the other in his coat. He turns and walks away, exiting the building.

I jump up, race toward the door, and face the bitter cold head-on. The outline of his body is hard to see through the snow, but I jog as best as I can on the slippery pavement and catch up to him. I grab his arm, screaming, "You don't get to do that!"

He spins, wraps his arm around me, and moves me around the corner. He pins me against the wall, caging his body around mine. His fingers close around my throat, and he uses his wrist to lift my head.

Millions of sensations flame to life inside me, singeing me so I can't even feel the cold air.

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