Here we go.
By the time the car turns through the gates, I’ve already told myself six different versions of,Calm down, honey,and none of them have done a blessed thing.
The estate comes into view, all stone and glass, lit up so it looks more like a place people whisper about than a regular house. Thedriveway curves through manicured lawns and neatly trimmed hedges, with low lights along the path giving everything a warm, rich glow. Even the fountain at the center of the driveway has an understated elegance that fits right in. I don’t know how else to describe it. It’s not flashy or loud like some wealthy places. It’s just… tasteful.
“Well, alright then,” I murmur under my breath, my fingertips brushing my lips just as the driver comes around to open my door.
The air outside is cooler than I expected, with a hint of salt from the water. I gather my wrap a little tighter around my shoulders and step out, my heels clicking against stone so smooth it almost shines under the lights.
The front doors open before I can reach them. A woman in a dark dress with her brown hair pinned neatly at the nape of her neck steps forward.
“Miss Hayes,” she says. “This way, please.”
“Thank you,” I answer, trying not to sound like I’ve never in my life been escorted into a private estate for dinner by a woman who looks more polished than I’ll ever be on my best day.
I take a breath and step inside, eyes wide. The entry hall is big and bright without feeling cold, all clean lines, dark wood, and pale stone. Art hangs on the walls like it belongs in a museum, and a staircase curves up to the second floor. The ceilings are so high that every step echoes. The rich smell of garlic and butter lingers through the room, reminding me I didn’t eat much all day.
I’m still trying to take all of it in when I hear a high, excited voice.
“Maggie!”
I turn just in time for Ivy to come flying at me in a blur of curls and pale pink dress, and then she’s hugging me around the waist with all the force a six-year-old can manage. I laugh, the sound slipping out of me before I can stop it, and crouch down enough to wrap my arms around her.
“Well, hey there, sweetheart,” I say, smiling into her hair. “Don’t you look pretty as a picture.”
“I know,” she says with complete seriousness, pulling back just enough for me to see the pleased little lift of her chin.
That gets me laughing again, and then Daisy is nosing at my knee, tail wagging hard enough to move her whole back end, while the puppy, still all ears and feet, bounces near my shoes like he’s got springs where his bones ought to be.
“Oh, look at y’all,” I say, reaching down to pet Daisy first, then scooping the puppy up long enough to kiss the top of his head. “Ain’t this a welcome committee.”
“He has a name now,” Ivy tells me at once, taking my hand as if she’s got places to be and I’d best keep up.
“Oh, does he?”
“Yes, and you have to like it because I already decided.”
“That sounds fair,” I say.
She starts pulling me toward the dining room before she even answers. “His name is Winston.”
“Winston,” I echo.
She nods. “Because it sounds important.”
I look down at the puppy, who is currently trying to chew the hem of my wrap. “Well, I do believe he looks like a Winston.”
“I knew you’d say that,” she smiles.
She leads me into the dining room, and that’s when I see him.
Alexei is standing at the far end of the table with one hand resting lightly against the back of a chair, dressed in dark slacks and a black button-down with the sleeves rolled just enough to show the tattoos on his forearms. No jacket this time. No coat between me and the full, unfair reality of him. His hair is neat, his jaw shadowed, his shoulders broad enough to make the room around him feel smaller, and for one helpless second, all I can think isLord have mercy.
Ivy tugs me forward another step, and his eyes find mine before slowly sliding over me, from my shoes to the hem of my dress and higher, taking me in thoroughly and without apology. Heat rises along my skin so fast I’m grateful for the low lighting, my breath going tight in my chest as I stand there hating how much I like it. He comes toward us, closing the distance confidently, and by the time he stops in front of me, close enough that I can smell the musk of his cologne and the warmth of his skin underneath it, my pulse is running like I climbed the stairs instead of walking through a doorway.
His eyes hold mine for one more second, then his throat works once.
“Krasivaya,” he says, his voice lower than usual.
