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A faint blush creeps up her cheeks, coloring them a pretty pink as she swats my hand away. “This wedding is a farce, and you know it.”
“I know no such thing.”
“Well, I do.” Staring at me defiantly, she backs away. “I’m not wearing white. Maybe black.”
“Suit yourself.”
The truth is, I don’t care what she wears. I prefer her as she was last night—naked and warm in my arms. If we were alone on the boat, that’s exactly how I’d have her all the time, including during our wedding.
I turn to go to the table underneath the overhang, where I expect Vika to serve breakfast any minute, when Alina calls out, “Wait!”
I face her, curious about her latest ploy. Sure enough, she’s eyeing me speculatively. “I could wear white…” She lets her voice trail off.
Here we go. “In exchange for?”
“I don’t want you touching me for at least a week.”
Her words sting like needles, even though I half-expected them. Even though I know she doesn’t mean them. At least her body doesn’t. She’s attracted to me, always has been; it’s her mind that’s placing obstacles in our path.
“No fucking way,” I say and mean it. I’ve waited more than a decade to have her, and now that I do, I’m not about to waste a single night.
She bites her lip. “Five days?”
“No.”
“Three?”
It’s my turn to scoff. “No.”
She’s beginning to look desperate. “Two? Please, I’m really sore.”
Fuck. She probably is—I wasn’t exactly gentle last night. I did my best to restrain myself, but once I was inside her, the rigid self-control I’ve cultivated over the years unraveled like a ball of yarn.
“One day,” I say grimly. “I won’t fuck you today, and that’s it.” I will do other things to her, however. I’m not spending our wedding night without enjoying her in some way.
She looks conflicted, but then she pulls her shoulders back and nods resolutely. “Deal. I’ll wear white, and you’ll keep your hands off me.”
My poor, sweet Alinyonok. She thinks she’s won this round. I let her keep thinking that as we walk together to the table. As if on cue, Vika appears from the galley, pushing a cart ahead of her. It’s filled with every breakfast food imaginable, even though I told Vika that in the morning, Alina favors simple Russian dishes such as grechka, roasted buckwheat. My cook must be bored and looking to show off her skills.
I pull out a chair for Alina, and she sits in it gracefully, tucking her skirt underneath her in a smooth, fluid motion. The dress she’s chosen this morning is jewel green, matching her eyes. Held up by a thick halter strap, it’s made of some diaphanous, flowing fabric that conceals her slim curves but exposes her long, toned legs and delicate shoulders—the tops of which are starting to look a little pink.
Taking my own seat, I pull out my phone and message Larson to bring us some sunblock. In the meantime, Vika sets all the dishes on the table as Alina oohs and ahhs over each one in an obvious attempt to flatter my cook.
“It won’t work, you know,” I say after Vika rolls the cart back into the galley. “She’s very loyal to me and my family.”
Alina is all wide eyes and innocence. “I wasn’t—”
“Yes, you were.” Despite her promises, she’s still trying to find a way out, to escape, and I won’t stand for it. Placing my hands on either side of my plate, I lean in, holding her gaze, and say softly, “Just so you know, if you do succeed in winning over anyone on my staff, you’ll be signing their death warrant.”
Her face goes white.
I sit back and reach for the teapot Vika placed in the middle of the table. I don’t want my relationship with Alina to be all bargains and threats, but she has to understand that the game has changed. I’ve given her all the time she’s going to get—too much time. I should’ve claimed her on her eighteenth birthday, as I originally planned, but she was so sick and miserable the evening of her party that I went against my every instinct and gave her six more months.
Six months that turned into seven hellish years.
No, I don’t want to threaten her into submission, but I will. I will do whatever it takes to ensure she never runs from me again.
“Tea?” I ask calmly, lifting the pot.
She gives a tiny nod, dropping her gaze to her plate. I fill her cup with the steaming liquid before pouring coffee for myself. I don’t add any milk or sugar because I like my coffee the way she likes her tea—strong and black, unflavored by anything.
“What would you like to eat?” I ask, gesturing at the spread before us. There’s everything from various types of smoked fish to oatmeal and fruit to American-style eggs, bacon, and pancakes.
