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Does he even know?
I scoff out loud and shove the phone back into my pocket. Why make excuses for Zakhar’s violent behavior? I’m not defending atraitor. Nikolai repeatedly told me about the man’s true nature. And now, I believe him.
Zakhar proved to me that he is a man so twisted by hate that he would hurt me.
His own flesh and blood.
The mansion is a labyrinth of hallways once I leave the living room. Staircases and hallways in all directions like an Escher print, and I question the physics of dimensions that can seemingly generate a new room each day.
I climb a set of stairs, my hands resting against the cool gray walls, and see the sun ahead of me through a small round window in a door. The second I open the door, the wind whips my hair across my face, and I struggle to see the view of its massive grounds extending into the horizon, dotted with trees and small hills. Somewhere in the distance, I can spy the edges of a fence. Unlike the penthouse, there is no glass to separate the outside from me, and a shiver races down my spine as my teeth clench from a chilly September breeze.
It takes me a moment to recognize that I’m standing on top of a tower, one of many that soar like horns above the massive mansion. The red brick and ivory-colored crenelation seem to disappear against the bright sunlight. I am mesmerized by the view, both breathtaking and terrifying, like the man I’m going to marry.
My life with Nikolai is a remarkable dream, constantly in peril of turning into an ugly, cruel nightmare in the blink of an eye.
I almost leave when I see someone walk out of the blinding light. Nikolai scrubs his face with his hands and stares down at the stone floor under his feet. He turns slowly and looks out towardthe park, and I sense I’m seeing a private moment. Again, I’m witnessing something I shouldn’t know about.
He stands motionless, taking in the view I admired moments ago, but his expression is strained. His jacket is off, and his shirt sleeves are rolled up, exposing the tattoos on his arms. They’re works of art … calligraphy of dark lines that scroll over hard muscle, intricate shading that accents his flesh, and angular Russian letters in a gothic style that I can’t decipher.
Safely unseen, I stare openly at him as if his body is on display for me to study. There’s something powerful in the way Nikolai stands and moves, a slow, controlled manner that I can only feel comfortable watching from a distance.
When the danger is gone, will I still love him? Will he still want me?
The risk makes everything more intense, but would I be here with him if I wasn’t pregnant? Or held captive in a warehouse waiting for my father to rescue me? When the danger is over, will our relationship last?
Not wanting to be caught snooping, I tiptoe toward the door, but a sudden gust of wind blows it out of my hands, and it bangs against the opposite wall.
When I stare in Nikolai’s direction, he’s fixated on me. I take a deep breath to calm myself because I’ve been caught. Again. Quickly, I get my head together. I belong here, and we’re in love. Nikolai wants to marry me.
So why is my heart hammering against my ribs like a thief running away from an empty safe?
Unconsciously, my hand moves toward my pocket, where my phone is.
“There you are.” My cheerfulness sounds artificial as I carefully descend the short ladder. “I haven’t seen you all day.”
Nikolai strides over, his scowl deepening when he grasps my waist and helps me to the ground. “You should be careful. Especially out here.”
My lips press into a strained grimace, and I try my best to ignore the dull pain in my side. It’s been weeks, but sometimes, it’s tender, and Nikolai holds me a little too tight, but I don’t dare complain. His expression stops me short.
“And miss the view?” I giggle nervously.
I step forward, moving toward the edge of the low wall. It reminds me of the same spot I climbed months ago. I smile like a fool as if none of it ever happened, and Nikolai catches my arm, pulling me back from the edge.
“Eden, there are no nets here.”
My phony smile vanishes, and it’s just as well. I don’t feel like smiling right now. Besides, my fake positivity doesn’t touch Nikolai. His scowl deepens as he stares me down.
I know I’ve mistakenly crossed over a boundary.
I follow his gaze and notice a row of French doors concealed under a patina copper overhang that leads into a room. There are no benches and gargoyles here. I try to see into the room concealed behind opaque, dark drapes, but he tugs me away.
“Please,” his voice is low. “Don’t come up here again.”
I stumble behind Nikolai as he drags me toward the door. His grip stays on me as I climb the steps, and I’m thankful I’m in flats because I can’t keep up. He squeezes tight as he tugs me inside, and then I stumble. I start going down, but his other hand grabs me and pulls me back to my feet. I catch my breath and want to shout at him, but I stop when I see the fear on his face.
That’s what terrifies me—hisfear.
Nikolai inspects me, checking if I’m hurt as if I’m made of porcelain—a delicate figurine that he can shatter into pieces without effort.
