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Kira sat out on the terrace, her legs stretched out in front of her on the lounge chair as she gazed out over the abyss of the lake. It was a warm summer night down in the city, but this high up, chill air blew in off the water, and she wrapped her sweater more tightly around her, trying to think of the right words to say to Lyon.
She should have been tired. It was after midnight, and she’d been up half the night, ever since Lyon had woken gasping and calling out in his sleep.
She’d rested a hand on his chest, felt his rapidly beating heart beneath her palm, told him it was okay, it was just nightmare.
Told him he was safe.
He grabbed her hand and kissed it, held it until he fell back asleep.
But he still didn’t say anything.
It had to end. His outer wounds were almost healed, but he was obviously in pain.
She’d hoped waking up with him when he had nightmares might help, that instead of pretending to be asleep under the guise of giving him the dignity she knew he valued, if she’d beenthere, awake and ready to talk, he might open up in the intimacy of their bed.
It hadn’t worked. He allowed her to comfort him, but he didn’t speak about his nightmares, and in the morning it was as if nothing had happened.
A strong breeze blew over the terrace, ruffling her hair, and she caught the scent of the lake far below. From this vantage point — the pool around the corner to her left, the rest of the patio furniture and lights behind her — it almost felt like she was floating, the water a void in the darkness.
She didn’t want to talk to Lyon in the bedroom. It was too easy for him to seduce her there, to distract her with the weakness of her own body, which always wanted him, even when there was something important to talk about.
She’d chosen the terrace instead, not wanting to wake Annie and Zoya. She had a feeling Rurik knew exactly where she was, although she hadn’t seen his face in hours.
He always did.
The private elevator opened from inside the apartment and she took a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves. Lyon was her husband. He was suffering. She had a right to expect him to talk to her about it.
She waited patiently, knowing he would notice the open doors to the expansive terrace, that he would see her sitting on the lounge chair and come to check on her.
Less than a minute later, she heard him approach, felt the gentle kiss he left on the top of her head.
“Hello,malen'kiy sokol. What are you doing still awake?” He came around to take the chair next to her, easing into it with a sigh. He’d been working too hard, leaving the house early, coming home after midnight.
She took a deep breath. “I want to talk to you.”
He looked puzzled. “It’s cold out here. Why don’t we talk inside?” He gave her a slow sexy smile that sparked a fire in her belly. “I hear the bedroom is nice.”
His biceps pulled at his button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled to reveal his corded forearms, and it was hard not to look at the significant bulge in his expensive trousers.
His dark hair was deliciously tousled, his eyes promising the sweet refuge of pure pleasure. She wanted nothing more than to let him lead her upstairs, to pretend this thing didn’t stand between them and forget their troubles in each other arms.
She shook her head. “Not this time, my love.”
He opened his mouth as if to argue, then quickly closed it before easing back onto the lounge chair. “What is it?”
She sat up and threw her legs over the side, wanting to look at him without craning her neck. “You tell me.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” he said curtly. “You know everything there is to know.”
“Not everything,” she said.
He sighed and mimicked her position, his knees bracketing hers between the chairs. He took her hands in his. “I don’t want you to know everything. It would… hurt me if you knew everything.”
“Why?” she asked softly.
He studied their joint hands. “I’ve already let you down.”
She recoiled from the statement. “That’s… that’s not true. Why would you say that?”
