Page 6 of Crown

Kira had offered him a room at the penthouse, but he’d declined, citing security redundancy since Rurik was already there.

He shook his head. “No, thank you. I have an appointment.”

It was what he almost always said, and she suspected it was a lie. Annie had spotted him sitting in the Rover in the penthouse’s parking garage late one night while returning from a date with one of her many suitors.

“Please,” she said. “It will make me feel better to know you’ve had a good meal.”

He hesitated. “All right.”

They made their way into the kitchen, following the sound of Annie’s cheerful chatter. Kira smiled to herself imagining Zoya rolling her eyes, pretending to be annoyed by Annie’s bright nature and constant stream of conversation when deep down Kira knew she was grateful for the company.

“Ah, there you are,” Zoya said, spotting Kira as she emerged from the hall with Alek. “You’re getting later and later.”

“There’s so much to do,” Kira said.

And there was. Not just reconnaissance on the sites where Lyon might be held prisoner, but management of the bratva’s day to day operations. There were never enough hours in the day, and it was always tempting to stay just one more hour.

What was the point of being in the penthouse anyway? She hardly noticed the wall of glass anymore, the terrace on the other side of it, the sweeping views of Lake Michigan. The penthouse was an homage to luxury, to Lyon’s determination.

But it was nothing without him here.

“Sit,” Zoya said. “It’s not good for the baby, all this work.”

Annie set a glass of seltzer in front of Kira at the table, then smiled flirtatiously at Alek. “Hello, Alek. Will you be joining us for dinner?”

“Yes, I think so,” he said stiffly.

Kira suppressed a smile. It was always fun to watch Annie work her magic on hardened cynics, and none so much as her husband’s best friend and right-hand man.

Annie clapped her hands together, her dark eyes bright with excitement. “Oh, good! I’m trying a new recipe. You can tell me how you like it.”

“It smells amazing,” Kira said. She had no idea what Annie was cooking, but she smelled garlic and rosemary and cooking meat.

Her mouth began to water.

“It’s just steak,” Annie said, “but I’m braising it in rosemary butter, and I made some roasted potatoes with crushed garlic to go with it.”

“Oh my god,” Kira groaned.

Annie laughed. “I’ll just finish it up.”

Kira felt a pang of loss. She’d never been much of a cook before her marriage to Lyon — Lina had done all the cooking at her father’s house — but she’d been enjoying cooking for Lyon before he’d gone missing.

She hadn’t cooked a meal since. She couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t bear to make herself a nice meal, to enjoy it, when Lyon was out there, being hurt by Vadim Ivanov’s men.

It was easier when Annie cooked. She or Zoya would put the food in front of Kira and smile expectantly, and Kira would be forced to eat out of appreciation, forced to smile and make conversation when all she really wanted to do was curl up and sleep until Lyon came home.

“Anything new?” Annie asked from the oversize kitchen island where she was plating the food.

“We’ve eliminated one of the three possibilities,” Kira said.

Annie froze, a skillet held in one hand. “That’s good right?”

“It doesn’t feel fast enough,” Kira said, her despair getting the better of her. Lyon’s absence sat on her chest like a lead weight. She could hardly breath around it.

“That’s understandable,” Annie said. “And it isn’t. Not really. We all wish Lyon had come home weeks ago. But this is progress. You’re closer than ever before.”

“I think we need wine,” Zoya said, bustling to get wine glasses. She sniffed and gestured at Kira’s glass. “That… water with bubbles will not make you feel better.”

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