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Then there are five maids. Inez and Daria are the oldest, clocking in somewhere in their late fifties. Selma, Nina, and Rada are all younger, mid-thirties or so, with shy smiles and dimples in their cheeks.
Misha gestures to Rada. The woman turns beet red from her neck all the way to her blonde hairline. “Rada will be your personal maid. She’ll see to whatever it is you need.”
“That’s nice,” I say awkwardly, not sure how to react to being told I have a human being at my beck and call. “But I’m not sure I need a personal maid.”
“It’s already arranged,” Misha says impatiently. He waves a hand at his employees. “You are all dismissed. Thank you.”
The staff file out of the mezzanine, leaving me to contemplate the kind of lifestyle I’ve signed up for.
“Jesus Christ,” I breathe, keeping my voice low to make sure none of the staff can still hear me. "I feel like next you're going to hand me a whip."
"I only whip the staff on Wednesdays, but I can show you where I keep it in case they act up," he says with a straight face.
My mouth falls open. "You're… you’re kidding. You’re kidding, right?"
Misha smirks, and I feel my heart wilt like a flower burning up under a too-hot sun. I clear my throat and try to re-focus. His pretty smile isn’t going to distract me that easily.
“Anyway… my things?”
Professionalism stiffens his broad shoulders and the light leaves his eyes. “Follow me.”
22
PAIGE
I stand at the threshold of the door, refusing to go in.
“Your bedroom,” I finally manage. I sound like a cavewoman discovering fire. I feel that way, too. Even though I’ve been in here once already, the realization that Misha is a normal human being with a normal human bedroom is, strange as it sounds, almost too much for my brain to comprehend.
Stepping inside again might overwhelm the light hold I have on my sanity.
“Very astute,” Misha drawls. “Now, it is your bedroom, too.”
I turn to him, waiting for him to slap his knee and laugh. He doesn’t. He just stares back at me, unreadable and immovable.
“Another joke?” I ask tentatively.
Her eyes are tiny glints of chipped ice. He steps closer, forcing me to stumble back into the room. “No,kiska.It’s not a joke at all.”
“You want me to move into your bedroom?”
“That is the customary sleeping arrangement of husbands and wives.”
“Except I won’t be your wife. Not really.”
“Legally speaking, that’s exactly what you’ll be.”
“Legal doesn’t mean it’s real,” I snap back. “Tell me this: if I weren’t pregnant, would you have even considered marrying me?”
He rolls his eyes. “Of course not.”
I glare at him. “A simple ‘no’ would have sufficed.”
I’m fully in his room now, and it’s annoying how much I want to take off my sandals and run my toes through the plush blue carpet under my feet. Almost as much as I want to run my hands through his—
Concentrate, Paige.
“You’re only marrying me because of some archaic sense of obligation. You don’t actually want to be a husband. I’m not entirely sure you even want to be a father. But you’ve knocked me up and now, you feel you have to see this through.”
