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She laughed. “So ready.”
She felt him behind her, felt the brush of his fingers against her shoulders, her hair.A few seconds later, the blindfold dropped away, and she blinked against the glare of sun on snow, trying to get her bearings.
They stood in a familiar driveway that encircled an old fountain, a large Tudor-style Victorian rising from a clearing surrounded by trees.
But not just any house.
Thehouse.
The house where Lyon had kept her when he brought her back to Chicago. Was it only a month before?
“It’s… the house,” she said, searching for reasons they might be standing in front of it.
“It’s your house,” Lyon said.
She looked up at him. “Mine?”
He took her hand, led her up the walkway and the wide steps leading to the spacious wraparound porch.
“I know it might seem strange after… after what happened here when you came back,” Lyon said, using a key to unlock the door. “And if you don’t want it, we can buy another.”
They stepped into the foyer, and she took in the high ceilings, the original moldings and chandelier.
He led her through the foyer and into a paneled front parlor. The windows were huge, the fireplace almost big enough for her to stand in, but it was neither of those things that stole her attention.
What stole her attention was the piano.
A gleaming grand piano set against the big bay windows that looked out over the snowy lawn, the trees in the distance.
“I bought this place for you before you left in the fall,” he said. “I wanted you to have the choice whether to keep it.”
“You… bought this for me? This house?” she asked.
He nodded. “The penthouse isn’t right for you. It never was. I should have seen that. You deserve a home.”
She moved toward the piano, let her fingers brush against its polished ebony surface. “You want us to live here?”
“I want…” He hesitated and she turned to look at him. “I want you to be comfortable.”
It wasn’t the sweeping declaration of love she might have hoped for, but that was no surprise. She’d wounded him, and like the wounded king he was, it would take time to earn back his trust.
She knew the feeling. He’d been kinder to her since the attack, gentler, but she had no way of knowing if that was a permanent change. Had no way of knowing if he would include her in his plans for the bratva or if, like so many of the men in their business, he would consign her to the life of a bratva wife and mother, something to be forgotten, to be trotted out when his image needed softening.
And yet, she couldn’t deny the hope that had taken root in her heart. Hope that with time, they might find a way back to each other.
“It’s a beautiful home. I can’t believe you bought it.” She laughed a little. “I can’t believe you held me prisoner in my own house.”
The ghost of a smile touched his lips. He’d been smiling — or almost smiling — more in the past week. “I’ve never claimed to be conventional.”
She returned his smile. No. The Lion was his own man.
And hers, in a way at least.
Her husband.
Could they make it work? Could they even be happy in their way?
Looking at him, standing across from her in the house she would make a home, she dared to believe it was possible.
