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She shudders again when I touch her. I go gently, slowly, methodically. My fingers graze up her ribs, down her back, around her hips. I massage the tension from her neck and snake up through the roots of her hair.
“I usually hate getting my hair washed at the salon,” she mumbles as my thumbs pass in smooth circles over her scalp.
“And now?”
She smiles. “It’s… nice.”
There's something sensual about having my hands buried in her hair. About her giving herself to me, closing her eyes and trusting me with her body.
I rinse her hair, combing my fingers through the thick golden strands until the water runs clear.
Then I turn her to face me again. The hunger in my chest is a painful throb. My cock is twice as bad. She’s dripping wet, hair plastered around her face and neck like a veil of its own.
A fucking angel, I called her. I meant every word of it.
I guess that makes me a devil.
I walk her back until she bumps into the tile wall. She gasps softly at the sudden cold, but then I press the length of my body against hers. Her eyes dance before mine. Tentative, yes—but beneath that, I see the same hunger that’s consuming me.
“It would be so easy to slip inside of you right now,” I whisper.
She swallows. “You can’t just take me anytime you please, you know.”
“I can have anything I want, kiska. And if I want to fuck my wife on my wedding night, I can have that, too.”
My dick twitches, practically begging me to give in. To find my relief inside of her hard and fast.
She pulls back, brows furrowed. “It’s not a real wedding night.”
“Don’t tell that to the priest,” I say. “He might not like knowing he almost died for nothing.”
“I just mean…” She slides down my body slightly, and I’m pressed against her entrance. One thrust is all it would take and I’d be buried in her. “Never mind. I don’t know what I mean.”
She bites her lip. If she just said it, those three little words—I want you—I’d give into the temptation and fuck the life out of her. Fuck the moans out of her. Fuck everything she has to give out of her.
But she doesn’t.
And despite what I said, despite knowing I could take it if I wanted to…
I don’t, either.
I back away and climb out of the shower. She’s still in there when I get dressed and leave.
* * *
“Was the middle of an attack really the time for a quickie?” Stefan asks as soon as I step into the hall.
“Don’t be mad because you don’t have anyone to fuck,” I say, walking past him down the hallway. He quickly falls in line behind me. “And we were showering. Just showering. You should, too.”
“Already did,” he says. “I was alone, so I made faster work of it.”
“Then I'm assuming you had time to get an update?"
He nods. “The priest is at the hospital. He was alive when he left here, but we’re waiting on more information from the doctors."
“Is anyone else sick?”
“Not yet,” he says.
“Good. Call Toma Orlov and get him here. I want him to take a look at Isabella and Emery just to be safe.”
“He’s a Bratva doctor, not a poison-ologist,” Stefan says. “He deals more in gunshot wounds and broken bones, doesn’t he?”
I take out my key and unlock my office. After the attack, it was one of the first rooms that was searched. When I step inside, everything is exactly as I left it, so I know it’s secure.
“I hired him because he’s the best. And I want the best to look over my wife and daughter.”
Stefan holds up his hands in surrender. “You got it. Whatever you want.”
“That’s better. Were their rooms checked?” I ask. “I want everything in there turned over and inspected. No cameras, bugs, or traps we didn’t put there ourselves.”
"Already done,” Stefan says. “Those rooms were second on the list after your office.”
“Check them again.”
I’ve already spent plenty of valuable time and resources making sure Emery and Isabella are safe, but it doesn’t feel like enough. Nothing does.
When Emery and I were kissing and I heard the priest hit the floor, my first thought wasn’t for myself or my Bratva—it was for them.
For my wife.
For my daughter.
I knew immediately we were under attack, and all I wanted to do was get them out of harm’s way as quickly as possible.
Is that what it means to be a husband? When the priest placed the wreath on my head, did he also give me the burden of caring far too much about these other two humans?
Is that a blessing?
Is that a curse?
Fuck if I know any of the answers.
Stefan pulls out his phone. “Sure, boss, whatever you want, but I don’t think we’ll find anything. The priest was probably targeted outside of the compound since—”
“Since he’s one of the only Russian priests in the area,” I finish. “The Volandris must have heard when we were getting married and assumed Reverend Belyaev was performing the ceremony. It was easier to get to him than to me or Emery.”
“So they poisoned a priest to stop your wedding?” Stefan mutters. “Why?”
I drop down into my chair and lean back. “Malcolm Waters somehow knows my father is sick. Maybe he knows about the marriage stipulation, too. It could be an attempt to stop me from becoming don.”
“You said Malcolm wanted you to hand Emery back to him, right?” Stefan asks. “Maybe he just doesn’t want you marrying her.”
“It’s a lot to take on for a little bit of jealousy.”
“It is.” Stefan nods and chews on the corner of his lip. I can tell he’s holding something back.
“What?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Nothing.”
“I won’t get mad. Just fucking say it.”
He arches a brow. “You’re already mad.” But when I glare at him, waiting, he sighs. “Fine. It’s just… have you considered that maybe your wife was in on this plot?”
“Be careful what you say next, sobrat.”
“I’m just saying, isn’t it possible she is a plant here to get information or expose vulnerabilities? You surprised her with the wedding day. Maybe this was the best she could do on short notice. That would make more sense than a lot of our other ideas.”
“I’m not sitting around to bullshit about conspiracy theories, Stefan,” I growl. I push back from my desk and stand up. “Arrange a flight to… fuck, I don’t know. Somewhere tropical. I want a private rental. Secluded.”
“Okay. For what?”
“My honeymoon, obviously.”
Stefan’s eyes widen. “We were just attacked, and you want to go on your honeymoon? With the person who may—probably not, but may—have orchestrated the attack?”
“I want to take her thousands of miles away and drink and fuck and have deep, romantic conversations."
Stefan is looking at me like I’m insane before it finally clicks. “Oh. You’re going to interrogate her.”
“Now, you get it.” I smirk. “Make the arrangements."
