Chapter 18
18
Kirill
S ympathy, compassion, and worry mix in Fiona's glistening expression. I curse myself for revealing the last part and quickly state, "It was a long time ago. I'm only telling you so you understand how much I respected your father. He was a good man."
She blinks a few times and nods. She quietly says, "Thanks for sharing that with me."
I slide down onto the mattress, suggesting, "Why don't we try to get some rest?"
She follows suit, curling her body beside mine and resting her cheek on my chest.
I push a button on the wall, and the shades lower over the windows.
"Wow. Fancy," she teases.
I smile, relieved to change the subject. I stroke her back and kiss her on the forehead. "Get some sleep."
She yawns and slides her leg over mine. "Okay." She shuts her eyes.
I study her for several minutes, then realize she's passed out. Her lips part, and her peaceful demeanor calms me so much I fall asleep too.
Several hours later, I wake up, spooning her.
That's ironic.
I didn't know what that meant, but now I'm fully engaging in it while I'm asleep.
Hmm.
I move my arm, but she grabs it, pushing my hand under the pillow and digging her ass against my cock.
Surprised and amused, I grunt.
She keeps her eyes shut and whispers in a sleepy tone, "You're awake?" Then she yawns.
Against my will, I follow suit, then answer, "Barely."
She runs her thumb over my hand, asking, "What time is it?"
"Not sure."
"Is the sun up?"
"Probably. Should I lift the shades?"
She yawns again, then releases me, turning on her back. "Okay."
I reach for the button, and sunlight gradually streams into the room as the shades lift.
She blinks a few times, yawns again, then curls into me. "Should I assume there's a bathing suit for me to wear somewhere in this room?"
I chuckle. "You assume correctly. In fact, I believe there's a drawer full of them."
She arches her eyebrows. "Did you pick them out?"
"No."
She wrinkles her nose and huffs. "Don't tell me Valentina did. "
I reply, "No, Zara did."
"Good." She sits up.
I rise against the headboard, asking, "Why are you so negative toward Valentina?"
Her expression hardens and she tilts her head.
"Well? Fill me in," I demand.
She doesn't speak.
"Fiona, if I'm going to be honest with you, then I expect you to be honest in return."
She sighs. "Fine. She barged into my home unannounced and uninvited. That was after our little encounter in the restaurant."
I nod, a little irritated but also in unfamiliar territory. I'm not used to any woman being jealous of my friendship with Valentina. Part of me likes it, but it would be immature not to nip this in the bud, so I reply, "Ah. I see."
Her eyes turn to slits. "What does that mean?"
I hide my amusement, sternly stating, "It means, you didn't listen to what I told you about my relationship with her. And I'm sorry she was in your house, but she was obeying orders. It's not fair to hold that against her."
Fiona scoots off the bed and motions to a door. "Is that the closet?"
I cross my arms. "Don't ignore me when we're talking about something important."
She glares, seething, "Important, meaning Valentina?"
My amusement dwindles. I sternly retort, "Important, meaning my only friend, Zara's cousin, and a future Omni."
Her forehead wrinkles. "Zara's cousin? "
I nod. "Yes."
"She never told me that."
"Correct. You couldn't know before, but now you can. However, it's not ever to be public knowledge."
Fiona leans against the desk. "But Zara knows?"
"She does," I reply.
Her eyes darken, and she looks at the floor.
"She would have told you now that you're queen."
Fiona meets my eye. "Would she have?"
"Why do you think Zara wouldn't?" I question.
She shrugs. "It feels like the people I'm closest to have been hiding some of the most important aspects of their lives."
"That'll end now," I tell her.
She glances out the window, not looking convinced.
I slide to the end of the bed. "Valentina isn't a bad person. I'm sure over time you'll learn to love her."
She narrows her greens, snarling, "Like you do?"
My chest tightens. I declare, "I've never been in love with her and never will be. But we are friends, and don't make me choose between you and her."
Fiona glares at me and snaps, "Because you'll choose her?"
I scowl. "No. You're my wife. I'll always choose you."
"You just warned me not to make you choose," she points out.
I scoff. "Exactly. So don't put me in that position. It'll only create problems between us. "
"But you'd be done with her if I wanted you to be?" she pushes.
Uneasiness heats my stomach, yet I answer, "Yes. I would cut off our friendship and only interact with her if it regards The Underworld. Is that what you want?"
Fiona doesn't flinch, and tension fills the air.
I wait her out.
She finally lowers her voice and shakes her head. "No. I wouldn't want to ruin your relationship if you're only friends."
"No?" I challenge, feeling a mix of relief and caution.
"You're only friends?" Her voice holds a hint of vulnerability.
I sigh. "Fiona, how many times do I need to tell you so you believe me?"
She pushes off the desk. "No more. I'm sorry. Is this the closet?" She points at the door again.
"Yes."
Her eyes light with mischief. "Great. Assuming I can snoop around and see what's in there?"
"Of course. Plus, it's not snooping when you own it," I point out.
She freezes.
"What's wrong?" I question.
"It feels funny."
"What does?"
She shifts on her feet, glancing around the room, admitting, "That I own anything on this boat."
"Well, you own the yacht too," I add .
She opens her mouth, then shuts it. She glances around again and shakes her head, muttering, "Crazy."
I chuckle. "Maybe a bit."
She bites her lip, goes to the window, and stares out at the sea. Then she notes, "I love the blue of the Mediterranean. Don't get me wrong, the Caribbean is awesome too, but there's something about this water."
I smile. "Agreed."
She steps in front of the door and opens it. "Holy crap! This is huge!"
I grin at her shock.
She spins to face me. "This is the biggest closet I've ever seen on a yacht. Even Dante's isn't this big!"
Pride fills me. I confess, "I had it redone when the Omni ordered me to marry you."
She gapes at me.
I continue, "It was a quarter of the size. So I had the construction crew knock out the wall to the other bedroom to make more space."
Her gaze darts between the closet and me.
I tease, "You should see your face right now."
"You created a bigger closet for me?"
"Yes. Want me to show you all the bells and whistles?" I ask.
She beams. "Umm, does a girl love shoes?"
I grin, puff out my chest, and step next to her. I lean down and tease, "Do I get extra points for filling the shoe rack?"
Fiona's eyes light up. "You didn't! "
My stomach flips, and I say a prayer she likes what I ordered. My personal shopper sent an email with over a hundred choices, and I agonized for hours about which ones I thought she'd love. I grab her hand, lead her to the end of the closet, and push a button.
The door rises. Dozens of designer athletic shoes, flip-flops, fancy sandals, and stilettos appear.
Fiona's mouth hangs open. She glances between me and the racks. In a raspy voice, she gushes, "No, you didn't!"
I chuckle, loving her lit-up face, giving myself an internal high five.
She grabs a pair of hot-pink stilettos and shrieks, "These aren't even available yet! And there's an estimated six-month wait once the release happens! How did you get them?"
Trying to play it cool, I shrug. "I know people."
She practically vibrates with excitement as she asks, "You know Marco De Finnery?"
I lower my voice. "I'll tell you a secret about him if you wish."
Her eyes widen. She orders, "Don't hold out on me!"
Trying not to grin, I curl my finger at her.
She steps in front of me. "Tell me, tell me, tell me!"
I lean into her ear and whisper, "He's trying to get a seat at the table."
She stills, realizing what I'm referring to, and blurts out, "He's in The Underworld?"
"Yes."
She gapes at me.
I chuckle.
She tilts her head. "Is this a cruel joke? "
"Nope. Want to meet him?" I ask.
She playfully slaps the back of her hand against my bicep. "Don't ask stupid questions, dear hubby of mine."
"Or what?"
She reaches for my cock and cups my balls, taunting, "I'll turn these blue."
My heart races faster. Without thinking, I pin her against the wall, wrap my fingers around her throat, and lift my wrist.
Her face tilts back. She gasps, and her eyes blaze with green flames.
"Is that so?" I challenge.
Her bare tits press into my chest, rising and falling faster. She moves her hand to my cock, strokes my growing erection, and glances at my mouth. She murmurs, "Maybe."
My lips twitch. Hot blood rushes to my head so fast I see stars. I push past it and flick my tongue against her lobe, warning, "Don't start something you're not planning on finishing, my little bird." I kiss her neck and jaw and then meet her stare.
She bats her eyelashes, circles her thumb on the tip of my cock, and seductively breathes, "I'll keep that in mind." She lowers her gaze to my lips.
"Didn't you come in here to get a swimsuit?" I question, forcing myself to retreat.
A flicker of disappointment flashes on her expression but quickly converts back to excitement. She glances around and asks, "Which door are the bikinis hiding behind?"
My cock throbs. I realize I need to put some clothes on. Being naked with Fiona is going to result in us never leaving the bedroom, and she'll miss the perks of the yacht. So I push another button, and several drawers, shelves, and hanging rods appear .
She reaches for a gold mesh cover-up and removes it from the hanger. She holds it in front of her and exclaims, "This is vintage Simone LeRue!"
"Is that good?" I question.
She arches her eyebrows. "You're serious?"
"Yes. I told you I have no fashion sense."
She scoffs. "Don't say that. If you picked this stuff out, you have good taste."
I sincerely question, "I do?"
She nods. "Yes. You do."
I glance at her lush tits pushing through the mesh, and suggest, "It looks good on you. Maybe you should go topless?"
She glances down and smirks. "Or maybe I shouldn't wear anything under it."
My dick twitches. "You're the queen."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning, you can do whatever you want," I assert.
She tilts her head and stares at me.
"What's the look for?"
"Do you roam around this big yacht naked all the time?"
I smile. "No."
"Never?"
"No."
She bites on her smile.
I ask, "Is that what you want to do? Stroll all over the place while strutting your sexy ass in front of the staff?"
She puts her finger on my chest and drags it between my pecs, replying, "I bet we'd be the talk of The Underworld, huh? Tons of rumors would go flying around about us."
I blurt out, "Only if the people speaking the rumors want to get beheaded."
She looks at me, as if trying to decide if I'm serious.
I add, "I'm not joking, Fiona. You're the queen. I'm the king. If anyone speaks of you inappropriately, I'll behead them in front of the entire membership."
The color drains from her cheeks.
I open a drawer of bathing suits. "Wear one of these or nothing at all. Anything that happens on this ship is between you and me. No one else will breathe a word about it."
She takes deep breaths, studying me.
I continue, "Your call. Are we putting on suits or not?"
She hesitates, then pulls a gold bikini out of the drawer. "I guess I'll put this on...for now." She gives me another suggestive look.
I try to ignore my hard-on and open another drawer. I pull out a pair of red swim trunks.
She snatches another one and holds it in front of me. "Wear this one."
I shrug. "Okay. But is something wrong with the other one?"
She shakes her head. "No. It's totally in. But this one matches mine."
I try to stop my grin. "You want us to match?"
"Yeah. It's kind of sexy, isn't it?" A flush creeps into her cheeks .
I lean down, give her a chaste kiss, and grab the gold suit. "Whatever you say, my wife."
She keeps her eyes pinned on mine, and her smile grows.
Why does she seem okay with being married to me?
She steps back, puts a leg through the bottoms, and wiggles into them.
I toss the red trunks into the drawer, slide on the gold ones, and press another button.
A vanity slides out.
She gasps and says, "Damn. You're really after a girl's heart, aren't you?"
You have no idea.
I wink and open the mirror.
"And daddy knows sunglasses," Fiona praises.
Surprised, I question, "I thought you didn't want to call me daddy?"
She cringes. "It was a joke."
I dramatically wipe my head. "Whew. That's good. The last thing I want is for my super-hot wife to be reminded that I'm getting close to old man status."
"Super-hot?"
"Extremely hot."
She laughs. "Glad you think so."
"Oh, I do," I insist, then circle my finger. "Spin, and I'll tie your top."
She obeys and holds the cups over her boobs.
I reach around her, carefully tie the straps, then assert, "I need to put fresh cream on your brand. "
She turns her head and cringes. "My mom is going to kill me. I honestly don't know how she's going to accept this. She freaked when Sean and Zara came home married and branded."
My gut sinks, and I release a deep breath. I admit, "It's going to be hard for her."
"How am I going to tell her I married you?"
"We'll figure it out."
She agonizes, "She's going to flip once she finds out you're a Petrov."
I sternly offer, "It'll be okay after the initial shock."
Fiona pins her eyebrows together, asking, "How?"
I tug her into me, kiss her forehead, and confess, "I'm not sure yet, but we'll figure it out. For now, let's enjoy the sun, okay?"
She takes a deep breath, looks up, and nods. "Okay."
Relieved she won't let our problem ruin her day, I kiss her hand and grab a pair of aviator sunglasses. I instruct, "Pick a pair. It's bright out there."
She refocuses on the glasses, her face lighting up again. She finally settles on a gold-rimmed, oversized pair and tries them on. "What do you think?"
I admit, "I think you can wear any pair, and I'll have a hard-on all day."
She giggles, then elbows me, scolding, "Focus!"
I chuckle, then grab the ointment off the vanity. I unwind the plastic wrap from her neck, then add the cream. I rewrap her neck with plastic, asking, "Ready for sunshine?"
"Yes. And thank you," she says, smiling.
My heart beats faster. "Anytime." I grab her hand and lead her through the ship. We get to the deck and lie on a double lounger by the pool, overlooking the water.
"Pinch me," she says.
I reach over and pinch her.
She yelps and then laughs.
"Your Majesties," one of the deckhands interjects, bowing.
"Hello, Matteo," I reply.
He rises and focuses on Fiona, declaring, "It's an honor to meet you, ma'am."
"Thank you. It's nice to meet you," she replies.
He asks, "May I get either of you a drink or something to eat?"
Fiona glances at me. "I'm suddenly super hungry."
I grin. "Don't worry. We have lots of meat here for you."
Her cheeks turn red, and she laughs then glances around. She asks, "Is it breakfast or lunchtime?"
Matteo grins. "Whatever you wish, Your Majesty."
"Please. Call me Fiona." She turns toward me. "People can call me by my name, right?"
I nod. "If you wish."
She grins and addresses Matteo. "Then please, call me Fiona."
"Yes, ma'am. Er...Miss Fiona," he replies, shifting on his feet.
She asks, "Can you tell me what time it is?"
"It's a little past noon."
"So lunch..." She scrunches her face.
"Or brunch," I suggest .
She grins. "Yes! Brunch is always better!"
"Is there anything special you want?" Matteo questions.
She peers at him. "What are my choices?"
He relays, "The chef will make anything you want, but we have fresh branzino that's delicious."
She chirps, "Sea bass, right?"
"Correct."
"Sounds delicious. Can I get a mimosa with it?"
Matteo gives her an approving nod. "Absolutely. I'll tell the chef. Should I have him select some sides for it? Or do you want to specify?"
"Please have him pick," she directs.
"Very good. And for you, sir?" He turns toward me.
"Same. Except I'll have vodka in my mimosa. And bring two Russian Breakfasts, please," I order.
Amusement fills Fiona's expression. "Don't you mean you want a screwdriver?"
I grunt. "No. Screwdrivers are for pussies who can't handle vodka. A Russian brunch has it in the mimosa, along with the champagne and orange juice."
She wrinkles her forehead, murmuring, "Vodka in a mimosa?"
"Yep."
She shrugs, beams at Matteo, and declares, "I'll try mine that way."
"Okay. I'll be back soon," he asserts, then disappears.
My wife leans closer, asking, "What's a Russian Breakfast?"
"Shots. "
She arches her eyebrows, slides her hand over my thigh, and questions, "Are you trying to get me drunk and take advantage of me?"
The claw in my stomach scrapes my insides. The night of my eighteenth birthday, when my father made the new women they kidnapped drink to "loosen them up," flashes before me. I bark, "No. I would never do that to you. Real men don't take advantage of women."
Fiona flinches, her smile fading. "I was just kidding."
"Oh," I say, feeling foolish, and cursing myself for letting the ghosts of my past interfere in my current life.