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He stops in front of me, his body much too close to mine, forcing my head back in order to meet his gaze. Why does he have to be so damn tall? And smell so good?
I try to step back, but the desk I’ve been working at is right behind me. I’m essentially trapped between Dimitri and a hard surface—again. Irritation mingles with the nervous butterflies in my stomach.
“We’re going out on Friday night.” He studies my face as he speaks. “There’s a big fight at The Pit that we need to attend.”
The Pit. Charming. That definitely inspires my enthusiasm.
“Oh, so you’re going to show me off to all your friends again?”
He scowls at my sarcastic tone. “I don’t have any friends. It’s the biggest fight of the year, everyone who’s important will be there. I need to make sure you’re going to behave yourself.”
“I make no guarantees.” Haughtily, I flip my hair over my shoulder and glance away. Pretending that he doesn’t exist has been my go-to coping mechanism.
He places a finger under my chin, forcing my gaze back to his. “You will behave yourself, kisa.”
“What are you going to bribe me with this time? Or will it be a threat instead?” I stare into his eyes, noticing the tiny flecks of light and dark green and his thick black lashes. Pretty.
Mentally, I shake away that intrusive thought. What is wrong with me?
“Arianna,” he says in a warning tone, then sighs. “What do you want? I’ll give you anything—except a divorce.”
I mull that over. What do I want from this difficult, brutish man?
“The freedom to come and go as I please,” I reply. “I need to go into the city for work on a regular basis. I want to see my sisters and cousins, too.”
“Done. Maks will drive you.”
“Done?” I frown up at him, there has to be a catch. Dimitri is never this agreeable.
“Yes, done.” He trails his fingertips along my jawline, the gesture both intimate and reverent. “I know you don’t believe me yet, but I want you to be happy. You’re my wife. I’ll move heaven and earth for you, kisa.”
My eyes widen at the sincerity in his voice. They’re surely empty promises—lies—but that doesn’t stop my stomach from swooping. My brain and body are not on the same page when it comes to Dimitri Kozlov. He leaves me confused, and agitated, and… warm and tingly whenever I’m around him. It’s disconcerting.
Desperate to change the subject, I glance past him at a gold-framed painting above the fireplace. “This place is for royalty. How did your family end up here? Are you secretly a prince or did you steal all this stuff from one?”
I’ve spent days poking around this mansion, growing more and more confused by its contents. The place looks like a museum rather than a family home. A memorial of another era.
“Well, kisa.” Abruptly, he picks me up and sets me on top of the desk, then steps between my legs, drawing our bodies even closer than before. My breath hitches when he plants his palms on my thighs. “You should know where your husband came from.” His eyes search mine, but I’m not sure what he’s looking for. Reading my reaction to his touch, maybe?
“I was born in Russia. My mother was a prostitute, who died when I was two years old. And my father gambled away what little money we had. When I was seven he sold me to pay off his debts, then he also died not long after. A couple years later, my uncle found me and brought me to America and raised me as his own. My cousin and I were like brothers.”
My lips part in shock. Sold? Young girls like Ilaria are sold, not men like him. I’m unable to imagine this huge, powerful man ever being so small and helpless.
I certainly didn’t expect him to be so forthcoming about his upbringing.
For a moment my chest clenches to think of him so young and all alone. Abandoned by his own father, then orphaned. No child deserves that.
Without thinking, I reach for him, placing my hand on his T-shirt clad chest. His heart pounds, strong and rapid. I didn’t mean to touch him, I just…
“I’m sorry,” I tell him, retracting my hand, but he places his palm over mine, holding me in place. “Your uncle sounds like a good man.”
“He was.” Pain mixed with grief and loss lingers in his eyes.
If he were anyone else, I’d pull him in for a hug. But Dimitri Kozlov is not the huggable type. He’s too large, too intimidating, too… much.
Instead, I settle for a proper response. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Somewhat to my surprise, I am sorry. Truly. I’m sorry for the loss of his uncle, but also for losing his childhood. Losing everyone and everything at seven years old had to have been hard, not to mention the trauma of his own father selling him. I can only imagine what that’s like. What kind of man grows out of such a terrible childhood?
