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It either made her the worst kind of optimist or a complete and utter fool.
Only time would tell.
* * *
He watched her survey the room, turning in place, taking it all in, and fought the urge to pull her into his arms. He’d been imagining this moment — the moment when he would unveil his gift — since he’d bought the place. Then, after she’d left, he’d tucked the dream into the furthest recesses of his heart, a key to the Pandora’s box of his feelings for her.
When he’d first purchased the house, he’d rehearsed words likehappy.
You deserve to be happy.
I want you to be happy.
I want to make you happy.
Admittedly,comfortabledidn’t hold the same appeal. It didn’t make his heart lift. It didn’t make her eyes shine with delight.
But it was as close as he dared get to telling her that he cared for her, that he wanted her to feel safe, that he wanted her to feel safe with him.
She looked at him, and he thought he saw a glint of excitement in her eyes. “I think I’d be verycomfortablehere,” she said. “With you.”
“You would?”
She nodded and he found himself moving toward her, his footsteps slow, as if his body was trying to prevent him from making the mistake of getting too close, a mistake his heart wanted him to make.
He stopped in front of her, his mind sounding the alarm. Despite all appearances to the contrary, his leadership of the bratva hung by a thread. Moscow already had people in place, and Ivan was right: there would be more.
The war with Musa, a deadly war, would look like child’s play in comparison to the blood that would flow in a war between the American contingent and those from Russia, and he still didn’t know if Kira had his own interest in mind or her own.
Maybe he would never truly know.
But looking down at her, the sun lighting her still bruised face — still bruised and still the loveliest face he’d ever seen — she was the only bet he was willing to make.
He reached out to touch her face, gently, careful not to brush against the cuts that had just had their stitches removed the day before.
“Make it your home. Our home.” His voice cracked, and he worked to clear it. Worked to clear his mind of the images of them, happy and with children, in the great house. One step at a time. “Fill it with art and books and music.”
Fill it with love and your laughter. With your ridiculous toasts and stubborn insistence on having your way. With the plans you don’t tell me about until it’s too late to change them and the birds you dote on like children.
She nodded and parted her lips. Was it an invitation?
He didn’t know. He’d been careful not to kiss her, outside of their last time in bed when she’d demanded it. Had been careful to nurse her back to health without doing anything that would elicit his old feelings of affection — of love — for her.
Now he was drawn to her like a honeybee to the sweetest of blooms.
He gave in, lowered his mouth to hers, kissed her carefully, not wanting to hurt her.
She opened her mouth to him, pulled him in, her arms slipping around his neck. Somewhere, in a distant part of his mind, reason whispered that he was making a mistake.
He silenced it and slid his hands into her hair as he took the kiss deeper.
After all, it was only a kiss.
What harm could it do?
