Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 79211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
“Are you alright? How are you feeling?”
“About the same as I was when I saw you fifteen minutes ago,” she says, her eyes twinkling. A stab of jealousy hits me. I woke up in bed bound and captive.
I don’t deserve tenderness like that.
I don’t deserve to be loved.
Disgrace.
Disgust.
Whore.
“Come, sit. My mother will be joining us later. She’s getting things ready for tomorrow night.”
I blink. Tomorrow night. My wedding.
I nod, still mute, then notice a shadow looming from behind me. I shiver when the temperature in the room drops.
My fiancé has arrived.
While everyone else is dressed in business-casual, Aleksandr’s wearing gym shorts and a white tee. His hair’s still damp as if from a shower, the masculine scent of his bodywash lingering in the air. I’d bet good money he just worked out. His muscles are evident under his T-shirt, a physique born of hard work and heavy labor.
He nods coolly to me and pulls out a chair for me to sit down. It’s almost an intimate gesture but feels so fake, so rehearsed, that it doesn’t give me the warm glow I got from watching Mikhail with Aria.
“Not all of my family’s here,” he begins, as I sit down. Is he just on his best behavior for his family? “But I’ll introduce you to who is. You’ll meet most of them at the wedding.”
I nod.
“Ollie’s in Moscow, but you’ll eventually meet him. My other brothers.” He jerks his head toward the other side of the table, where a few of his brothers sit.
To his right sits a dangerous-looking man, heavily tattooed with a rugged, primal appeal to him. His large frame and menacing scowl make me want to hide. “Nikko, and next to him, Viktor.”
Viktor, a hulking, muscular man with a shaved head and a scar running down one cheek, lifts a hand. His strong, scarred features are a bit terrifying.
Polina said she had six brothers, though. Including Aleksandr, I’ve only met four and one is in Moscow.
“Our youngest brother was recently injured… he’s spent some time in the hospital but should be well enough to attend the wedding.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, but my words are quickly drowned out by the swishing of doors and the footsteps of staff bringing in large trays of food. I note standard American foods like sausage, bacon, and scrambled eggs alongside a platter of open-faced sandwiches topped with a variety of ingredients. I’m intrigued by the large tray of little pancakes served with sides of sour cream, jam, and honey.
I usually completely skip breakfast even though my socials paint me as the high-protein yogurt lover. Today, though, I’m going to feast.
Aleksandr sits beside me and pours a glass of orange juice and a cup of coffee, placing them both next to my plate.
I look at him curiously, wondering if he had a personality transplant somewhere down in the gym. I mean, I didn’t imagine waking up handcuffed and gagged, did I? And now he’s the gentleman, serving me juice?
“Smile, you two!” Polina says, holding her phone up to take a picture.
I flash a radiant smile for the camera on cue. I do it without conscious thought. I feel the warmth and weight of his arm across my shoulders and freeze. It’s too familiar. Too gentlemanly. Too inconsistent with the way he’s treated me.
“Aleks,” Polina says. “It’s okay to smile for a picture.”
Out of the corner of my eye, he flips her the bird.
Maybe we will get along.
“Aren’t you cold?” Polina asks him, as she walks past us and takes a seat on my other side.
He shrugs. “This is nothing. It’s warm here compared to Russian winters.”
“Not just the winters,” I mutter under my breath. Polina snickers but Aleks only moves a little closer to me.
He leans across me to grab a platter of the little pancake things. His warmth makes my skin glow, and his undeniable masculine scent makes every one of my nerves snap to attention. Aleks radiates testosterone, and my body’s taking note.
Dammit.
“What are those little pancake things?”
“Syrniki. Fried cottage cheese pancakes traditionally eaten with sour cream or something sweet like jam or honey. The sandwiches are also a Russian tradition — buterbrody. Here, try them.”
“Not sure what I like but I’ll try anything once,” I say.
He freezes, his fork halfway to piercing one of the small, plump pancakes. “Anything?” he whispers in my ear. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
I ignore the flush in my cheeks. I hate how easily he undoes me. I have to get back on solid footing.
“Is frowning at your food a Romanov tradition, or are you improvising?” I ask sweetly, before I take a large bite of the pancake. It’s rich and sweet and delicious.
“Is unbridled sarcasm a Bianchi trait, or are you perfecting the art?”
“Oh, that’s just for you.”
A corner of his lips quirks up, but he doesn’t look amused. “You wear your defenses like a second skin, Princess.”