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Lyon was surprised when Roman held out his hand. “Congratulations,” he said. “And god help you.”
Lyon’s laughter was short and hard. “Thank you.”
Roman studied him. “How has it been? Being married to Kira Baranov?” Lyon thought Roman was asking for intimate details and was fully prepared to tell him to go fuck himself, but Roman held up a hand to stop him. “What I meant is… it was arranged, yes?”
Lyon hesitated. “By me, yes. And by her.”
She hadn't been forced by her father to marry Lyon. Viktor loved his only child too much to do such a thing. Kira had agreed because Lyon had promised she would have a voice in the bratva, that the Baranov name would continue to mean something.
“And has it been… agreeable?” Roman asked.
Lyon narrowed his eyes. “What are you getting at?”
Roman turned back to the glass case. “My father wants me to marry Valeriya Orlov. Actually,wantsis too mild a word. He is coming very close to demanding it.”
“Because she’s Vladimir’s daughter?” Lyon asked. Roman turned to him, surprise again evident on his face, and Lyon laughed. “It’s my job to know these things, the same way it was your job to know I’d married my wife by arrangement.”
“My father thinks having an Orlov in the family will provide us with more capital,” Roman said.
“He’s not wrong,” Lyon said. “The Orlov’s are powerful, wealthy beyond measure. But then, I suspect you know that.”
“And yet, I’m not agreeable to the idea,” Roman said.
“Why?” Lyon asked. As far as he knew, Roman Kalashnik didn’t have a regular woman.
It took so long for Roman to reply that Lyon almost thought the other man hadn’t heard the question.
“I’m not sure,” Roman finally said, his voice puzzled. He turned to look at Lyon. “So? Are you happy with your decision to marry your wife?”
Kira Baranov is the other half of my soul. The only woman who could ever complete me. The only woman who could ever stand by my side without wavering.
She was made for me.
Such declarations weren’t made for an exchange like this one, with a man who was in some ways Lyon’s rival.
“I can only speak for myself in saying that the arrangement has worked out in my favor,” Lyon said.
Roman nodded. “Perhaps I will be as fortunate.”
Lyon clapped him on the back as he prepared to leave. “I hope so.”
He was surprised to find he meant it.
17
Kira took one last look in the mirror and tried to shelve her self-criticism. Annie had done an amazing job helping her find something to wear, but it was hard to see anything but her belly, which seemed to grow more enormous by the day.
The dress was a vision in raspberry, the neckline a deep V, the empire waist tapered just above her bump. The skirt fell in layers of soft tulle over a forgiving lining that flared out from Kira’s stomach and hips.
It fell well above her knees, which only highlighted the matching Jimmy Choo sandals she’d chosen for the occasion. The heels were sky-high — Kira had a feeling her sky-high days were numbered so she’d thrown caution to the wind — with a tulle bow across the toes of one shoe and on the heel of the other.
Kira had thought it was too much, but Annie had argued that too much was exactly what Kira and Lyon needed, exactly what they deserved.
Now, Kira thought the advice had been a stroke of genius. She still felt as big as a house, but she had to admit the look worked, especially with the limitations of her pre-pregnancy wardrobe.
Lyon had given up the primary bath so she could get ready in peace, and she’d used it to pile a mass of curls on top of her head. She’d kept her makeup light except for a slash of red lipstick that looked slightly subversive against the sweet pink dress, although not as subversive as the fact that she wasn’t wearing a scrap of underclothing.
She was pregnant, not dead, and she didn’t want her husband to see her as some kind of untouchable madonna.
