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I was, however, surprised to find that she’d waited for me, but I noticed that the hand closest to me was balled into a fist and I wondered if she wanted me to take it. To slide my fingers around hers as I’d done in her pretty, battered prison.
She was in fight mode—I didn’t think Lodestar had a flight mode to be fair—so it didn’t make sense for her to want tenderness from me. Support, yes. Gentleness? Affection? No.
If anyone understood that she had to play harder, faster, and stronger than a man in this situation, it was me. I had no desire to undermine her. So instead, I moved alongside and, very carefully, let my pinkie connect with her knuckles.
Though we were both staring straight ahead, I heard her quick inhalation. Then, I hid another smile when she bounced pinkies with me too.
My fingers flexed with the desire to reach out but I kept myself under control, fortuitous considering a man appeared at the end of the corridor.
Her tension was immediate, and I knew she expected him to be a guard, but I thought it was a servant. Something the stranger confirmed by nodding at us, his arms fixed at his side, his back to us as he descended the same staircase I’d used to get up here.
The edifice itself was constructed like a fortress, but inside, it was more of a five-star hotel than anything else. It was strange that Kuznetsov had used his home as a prison, but everyone had a different way of dealing with family, I guessed.
Her gaze darted around as we traversed different hallways, and I knew she was marking exits. Much as I permitted Eoghan to do the same thing wherever we were, like I’d let him sit with his back to the wall so he was looking out onto any given room, I stayed quiet as she found her bearings.
When we reached a large set of doors that opened up into a dining room, that was where we discovered her grandfather. Standing at the head of the table, one that ran the length of the thirty feet-long room, he remained behind his chair, clearly waiting for us.
The man was old. His skin was more papery than Da’s had been. But his back was straight, his shoulders weren’t hunched, and he appeared to be as sharp as ever from the intensity of his study during our walk over to him.
The state of the room she’d been kept in was proof enough of what her grandfather had said—she’d been like a caged wild animal. But it was the number of guards in the dining room that confirmed what I already knew—how deadly she was.
Nine of them.
Nine fucking guards all hovering in place around Kuznetsov because ofonewoman.
Upon our approach, I braced for Star to hurl herself at him, for her to pick up a spoon from the table and to use it to stab him. I knew the guards who were standing nearby did the same, but she didn’t mistreat the silver cutlery. No, she retained her composure, casting me a knowing glance as she calmly sank into the chair the servant held out for her.
Kuznetsov and I withdrew our own seats and took our places, sandwiching her between us.
Her spine would make a ruler seem curved. Her shoulders weren’t high, but her tension was so fierce that she was practically vibrating.
It was only at that moment that I really got a chance to study her.
Sure, I’d been looking at her before, but in the silence that settled among us, I took in the almond eyes that missed nothing, the gentle lines of a mouth that had a tendency to angle downwards at the corners—her inherent discontent visible in the flesh.
Fuck, I wanted to change that.
I also wanted to kiss her more than I wanted my heart to take its next beat because her upper lip was full, the bottom fuller. I just knew kissing her would feel like heaven.
Her nose was strong, and there was the tiniest of breaks at the bridge. Her brows were arched and they led to the faintest of widow’s peaks that sank into rich brown hair that was just a couple of shades lighter than mine.
Her body was strong. Compact. A weapon.
I didn’t want that to turn me on, but it did.
She was more than a weapon. She was a woman. She needed to be respected as such because, until now, that had been her worth—her ability to kill.
My body didn’t understand the nuance even if my mind did.
Three servants appeared out of the woodwork to disturb the awkward silence. They brought soup, but I thanked God that it wasn’t purple. Even starving, beet soup wasn’t my jam despite my Russian sisters-in-law trying to tempt us with it.
Give me a goddamn steak any day of the week.
Star tensed at the sight. What had offended her about cheesy soup, I didn’t know, but her fingers bled white around the spoon in her hand.
“French onion soup was her favorite dish,” Kuznetsov said demurely.
“You turned your daughter into a weapon,” was her flat response. “Don’t think I’m impressed that you remember her favorite foods.”
