Page 35 of His Disobedient Bride

I even dared to share a little bit of my fears with Cerise, and she listened attentively and then tsked in annoyance.

“Probably trying to be a gentleman,” she said, in a tone of loathing. “Give him a little time. He will have to work out his own way of accepting who he is.”

26

ANDREI

My investigations into the attack are finally starting to show something useful. I’ve figured out that Boris was being paid off by a rival Bratva, and I’ve learned from my informants that there is another, undiscovered, spy in my organization. Boris was meant to drive the women off track so that they could all be killed, but Boris didn’t know he was going to be killed, too. The spy who is left is too high-ranking to be killed. I need to find out who the other traitor is, and who arranged the hit, so I can kill them.

It is then that we get contacted by Pyotr Zharkov. He is not a member of any Bratva. He is private collector of art and antiquities and, of course, Faberge eggs. Since Cerise loves the tiny, delicate, golden-spun eggs I know of Pyotr. He is extremely wealthy and powerful, and he deals in information as much as he does art and antiquities.

The invitation is for the higher-ranking Petrovic Bratva and their wives to come for tea.

“He must have some information,” Cerise says eagerly when I mention this at dinner. “I can’t wait to see his house. He has some rarer Faberge eggs I have never seen before.”

“You will not be coming,” I say. My stomach twists at the idea that Cerise would be involved in anything to do with finding information about who ordered a hit on the women.

“The invitation says and their lovely wives,” she retorts, flipping her long dark hair across her shoulder, and looking at me with those dark eyes that ensnare me with a desire so deep that it’s a primal, urgent need as essential to me as breathing. “If you want something from him, you should bring your wife. My Russian is getting pretty good.”

“She’s right,” my father says. “We can’t afford to ignore the invitation.”

Cerise’s full lips curve up in a smile and my hand itches to assert my dominance over her, fist her hair and force her to her knees before me, her full lips around my cock.

“And Mary,” Cerise says serenely. “Pyotr obviously knows Frederik is married, too.”

27

MARY

My stomach twists as our limousine pulls up to the Zharkov residence. Like the Petrovic house, it’s heavily guarded by men with big guns and a high wrought iron gate. I want to throw up as the gates open slowly and our limo moves down the driveway. It’s a big, luxurious Greek-style mansion overlooking the Black Sea, with creamy curved windows, big columns, and a line of luxury cars outside.

I can feel my palms sweating as we get out of the limo and pass the graceful sparkling fountain. I’m wearing a dress that cost more than my entire apartment rental back home, a backless deep green dress with a long train. I watched Frederik’s eyes as I came out with it on, and I thought I saw a flash in them. Then he looked away.

I want so badly for him to take me tonight, do something to show me that he wants to be married to me.

Like the other Petrovics, he has a crisp white shirt and dark suit on, and it’s molded perfectly to his tall, lean body. He turns his head back slightly to wait for me, and I see his neat white beard, those lips that can turn me into liquid with just the brush of them on my skin.

“Don’t touch anything in here,” he says. “Just stay next to me. You’ll do fine.”

We go up the sweeping staircase and past even more armed guards. Inside, we meet the Zharkov family. Pyotr Zharkov is a short, cultured-looking man in his 60s with a narrow aristocratic face, and we are introduced to a bewildering number of sons and nephews and cousins, and his mother, a deeply respected woman in her 80s who is seated in the place of honor at the table.

I force myself to move slowly at the table, putting only one lump of sugar in my tea and refusing the cream, for fear I’ll spill anything on the tablecloth, which is a delicate lace with elaborate decorations.

The conversation is in a mixture of Russian and English, and Cerise and Grigoriy or Cerise and Frederik talk to Pyotr about the weather, the beach, the sun, and the tea.

We don’t mention the attack on the Petrovic house, and Pyotr doesn’t mention why he invited us here.

Frederik talks to Pyotr about a book I’m unfamiliar with, his voice low and musical to me, and I feel a stab of pride listening to what he says, the feeling so sharp and instant that I ache with the joy of being married to him. Even if it was an arranged marriage. Even if he only did it to be a gentleman. Even if he doesn’t really love me. The joy of being married to him fills me and vibrates through my core.

Pyotr is happy to show us around his home, stopping by each sculpture and piece of artwork and explaining it all, sometimes in English, but mostly in Russian.

There are various other men around, some less cultured-looking than Pyotr. He introduces us to all of them too. There’s a Vadim, and a Vladimir, and a Lev, and they all look like Pyotr’s guards. I am amazed at Cerise. Her Russian comes out so quickly and well, with even the same cadence and tone to the native speakers. She moves over to a piece of art by the window, gesturing at it and talking in Russian. I wander around beside her and stop by a display case with a Faberge egg.

I have never seen one before. It is a brilliant jewel green, and shaped like a dragon, each individual scale perfectly and delicately made. The egg is open, just slightly, enough to see the tiny crystalline diamonds inside.

I want to see what else is inside, and I try to move the egg, just slightly, to get a better view and, in one second, my clumsy awkward fingers stumble over the delicate Faberge egg, and it breaks into pieces in front of me.

There’s a sudden shocked, utter silence. Then I feel a knife point prick at my throat and it’s Vadim, his dark eyes glaring at me, hissing a stream of Russian at me that I can’t understand. My heart is pounding in my chest, and I see that the Petrovics and Pyotr are all momentarily frozen in place.

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