“One suite,” Razvan had told the concierge, and despite my protests in the elevator about broom closets and separate floors, I find myself standing in the middle of a room dominated by a single, sprawling king-sized bed.
“Well,” I say, trying to inject some levity into the suffocating atmosphere. “If I’m going to be a prisoner, at least the wallpaper is nice.”
I immediately start dragging my suitcase, brought up by servants, to the left side of the massive bed. “Okay, rules. This is my side. This half of the bed is the Republic of Lena. You stay on the Russian Federation side. No border crossings. No unauthorized incursions.”
Razvan watches me, leaning against the doorframe. He’s shed his overcoat, and the white silk of his shirt is stretched tight across his shoulders. He has an amused glint in his eyes that I haven’t seen before. “The Republic of Lena? Is that so?”
“Yes. And this vanity is mine,” I say, slamming my makeup bag down. “And I get the first shower. And if you snore, I am authorized to use lethal force with a pillow.”
He walks toward the bed, his footsteps silent on the thick carpet. “Lena, we’ve slept in the same room every night since the wedding. Why are you acting like this is the first time we’ve shared a mattress?”
I feel the heat climb up my neck. I turn around, clutching a set of silk pajamas to my chest like a shield. “Because the estate is…it’s different. Waking up there is a reminder. It’s my prison. Every morning I see the walls and the guards and I remember that I’m only there because you won’t let me leave. But here?”
I gesture to the window, the twinkling lights of St. Petersburg reflecting in the glass.
“Here, if I try hard enough, I can pretend. I can look at the view and the room and think…maybe this is just a vacation. Maybe we’re just a normal couple in a nice hotel.” My voice trails off, the honesty of it stinging. “Waking up next to you here makes the lie harder to maintain.”
Razvan’s expression softens for a fraction of a second. He steps into my space, forcing me to back up until the back of my knees hit the edge of the mattress. “A vacation,” he repeats quietly.
Then, his smirk returns, sharper this time. “Fine. But I want that side of the bed.”
“What? No! I already claimed it!”
“I like the view of the door from there,” he says, his hand reaching out. He just rests his palm on the mattress beside my hip, leaning in until I can feel the heat radiating from his chest. “And I like the way the light hits the pillows.”
“You’re just doing this to rile me up!” I huff, my hands coming up to rest against his chest to keep some distance betweenus. I can feel his heart—steady, slow, and powerful—thumping against my palms.
“Is it working?” he whispers.
He reaches out with his free hand, his fingers grazing the line of my jaw before tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear. His touch is light, agonizingly slow, and it sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the air conditioning. He leans in closer, his breath hot against my cheek. I should push him away. I should scream. But my fingers subconsciously curl into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him a fraction closer.
His gaze drops to my mouth. My breath hitches, my lips parting instinctively. I want it. I want the ruin of his kiss. I want to forget who he is and what he did just for a second.
His thumb brushes over my bottom lip, dragging it down slightly. The look in his eyes is predatory, hungry, and entirely focused on me. He tilts his head, his nose brushing mine, his lips a mere heartbeat away from mine. I can almost taste the sandalwood and the cold night air on him.
My skin feels like it’s on fire. A low thrum of desire starts in my belly and spreads through my limbs, turning my bones to water. I’m leaning into him, my eyes fluttering shut, waiting for the impact?—
Then, the memory of the serpent flashes behind my eyelids. The black ink on the wrist of the man who took everything from me.
I gasp, my eyes snapping open. The “vacation” shatters like glass.
“I…I need to shower,” I stammer, my heart doing a frantic, panicked dance.
I scramble backward, nearly tripping over the corner of the bed. I grab my toiletries and bolt for the bathroom, my face burning with a mix of shame and residual heat. “First shower! Republic rules!”
As I slam the door and lean against it, my chest heaving, I hear it. A low, genuine, and deeply amused chuckle from the other side of the wood.
I sink to the floor, hiding my face in my hands. My body is still humming, still vibrating from his touch, and I hate myself for it. I’m in trouble. I’m in so much trouble.
21
RAZVAN
The door to the en-suite bathroom clicks shut, but in the silence of the St. Petersburg night it might as well be a gunshot.
I don’t move from my side of the bed. I lie back against the overkill of silk pillows, my hands folded behind my head, staring at the gold-leaf molding of the ceiling. But I’m not seeing the decor. I’m hearing.
The rustle of fabric. The sharp, rhythmic zip of her suitcase. Then, the softer sounds—the slide of silk against skin as she sheds that red dress. I can picture it perfectly: the way the fabric pools around her ankles, leaving her standing there in the pale moonlight. Then comes the pitter-patter of bare feet on the cold marble floor.
