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“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 inlarge 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 wewillget 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.”
My heart beats faster. “And you wear your arrogance like a crown, Your Majesty.”
Polina chuckles beside me. “I like you, Harper. Oh, I like you very much.”
Aleksandr scowls at her. “Stay out of this.”
“Not on your life,” she answers sweetly, batting her eyelashes at him.
“Behave yourself,” he says in a low voice in my ear. He may have no control over his sister, but apparently needs to exercise control overme.My skin heats, the small hairs on the back of my neck standing up.
“Or what? You’ll break off the engagement?” I whisper back. I lean toward him, so I’m pressed against his bare arm, my breasts flush up against him. I lay my hand delicately on his chest. “I don’t seem to remember you having a readily available lineup of women ready to marry you, do you?”
