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26
She wasn’t letting him have his way. She wasn’t. She’d agreed to breakfast because it was smart, because the intimacy they’d shared the night before had advanced their relationship in a way that could be favorable to her.
That was all.
They took a shower together, and he sudsed her body slowly and carefully, his hands roaming over every inch of her. Then he’d turned her against the tile and fucked her from behind, his hand snaking around her waist to rub circles on her clit until she came hard, hands pressed against the tile, water streaming down their joined bodies.
She didn’t let herself think too much about the emotions roiling inside of her. There would be time enough for that later. For now, she would allow herself a few hours to be a newlywed, a few hours free of the bratva and her responsibility to her father and her family name.
She dressed in jeans and a sweater, then grabbed a jacket after remembering the cold wind from the deck that morning. It was almost November in upstate New York. Soon there would be snow, although she didn’t plan to wait around to see it.
Under other circumstances, she might have enjoyed staying in the lake house with Lyon, pretending the rest of the world didn’t exist, that they weren’t business partners with potentially opposing agendas.
Now, she just wanted to get back to Chicago — to her father and her birds and the war she knew was being waged for control of the bratva.
They drove to town in silence, and Kira cracked her window to catch some of the autumn breeze. It ruffled the changing leaves, which fell like red, gold, and orange confetti, swirling on the road as they drove past.
Every now and then she got a glimpse of Lake George, shimmering mysteriously under the clear blue October sky. No wonder Lyon’s family had chosen it for a getaway. It was gorgeous and remote, yet still a stone’s throw from New York City and Brighton Beach, where the Russian mafia had first taken hold.
“Is this it?” she asked when they finally turned off the winding road that had taken them away from the house.
“This is it,” he said as they entered Lake George Village.
Main Street ran between rows of old buildings that had been transformed into restaurants and boutiques, gift shops and antique stores. Pedestrians wandered the sidewalks with cups of coffee and hot cocoa in their hands, stopping to look in the shop windows. The harbor was nestled at the center of it all, a handful of boats heading into the marina or out into the deeper waters of the lake.
“My father had a boat,” Lyon said wistfully, his eyes on the water as they came to a red light.
“You didn’t keep it?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I sold it right after my father went to prison. There was too much to do, too much to organize.”
She hesitated over her next question, wondering if he would answer it. Then she remembered his mouth on her sex the night before, the way he’d pulled her into his arms and held her while she slept. “How long did it take you? To plan it all?”
He looked at her, then returned his eyes to the road when the light turned green. “Almost two decades.”
She did the math. “You started planing right after your father went to prison.”
He nodded, and she felt an unwelcome pang of sympathy. He’d been just eighteen when his father went to jail. Kira had been a child, but she’d learned enough to know that Stefan Antonov had been a hero of the bratva. His was the longest sentence handed down for one of their own in over fifty years. Everyone knew he could have taken a deal to shorten it — or even eliminate it, had he been willing to go into the Witness Protection Program.
He hadn’t. He’d kept his mouth shut and done his time, even when it meant dying in prison. Then Lyon’s mother had gone back to Russia, leaving Lyon to fend for himself.
“You were alone,” she said softly. “I’m sorry.”
He turned briefly to look at her. “Don’t be. It made me what I am.”
She turned her face to the window and battled a sudden anger with her father. Why had he abandoned Lyon as a brigadier? Worse, why had he agreed to assign him to Yakov’s security detail when Lyon should have been bratva royalty after the sacrifices his father had made for the organization?
No wonder Lyon was working to win the role of pakhan. He wasn’t a man who waited around for what he wanted, although he’d fooled everyone into thinking he was.
He was a man who took what he wanted. He would lie in wait if necessary, planning, plotting, lulling his prey into a false sense of security, striking when they least expected it.
A chill ran up her spine and she stole a glance at him. His profile was as fine as a classical sculpture, his hair tousled from the wind blowing in through the cracked windows.
He was beautiful and dangerous. Her husband. And her opponent.
They parked in a small lot and headed for Main Street. She was surprised when he took her hand, surprised that it felt so natural, surprised at the thrill that ran through her.
It’s just for today. It doesn’t mean anything. I’m still in control.
