Chapter 25
25
Fiona
" S omething wrong?" Kirill asks.
I slide another dress along the rod and then turn in his direction. "I don't mean to sound ungrateful, because these dresses are all beautiful, but are there any sexy cocktail dresses?"
His lips twitch. "Do you know much about Morocco?"
I shake my head.
He slides his finger on my chest above the towel while informing me, "It's customary for women to cover their legs and arms."
"Oh. I feel stupid for not knowing that," I admit.
"Not stupid, just unaware, but now you know," he assures, then a mischievous expression appears on his face, and he adds, "You'll look just as sexy in one of these dresses as you would in a cocktail dress. But I'll take you out when we get to Chicago so you can put one of those on." He winks.
I laugh. "Deal." I spin back to the rack, sliding the hangers over the rod and declaring, "These really are pretty dresses. Which one should I wear?"
"You'll look amazing in any of them. Surprise me," he replies, then exits the closet.
I sort through the large selection, then settle on a mint-green, long-sleeved maxi dress with a bohemian print of light-pink flowers scattered across the soft and breathable material. I pair it with strappy, brown sandals, gold and pink teardrop earrings, and several gold bangle bracelets.
I step out of the closet, and Kirill's eyes light up. He boasts, "See, I knew you'd look sexy."
My butterflies flutter hard. I drag my gaze over his khaki pants and white linen shirt, complimenting, "You look great too."
"Thanks. Ready to go?" he asks.
"Yes."
He takes my hand, kisses it, then leads me into the main room.
Zara whistles. "Look at you two!"
"Have fun," Sean offers, glancing up from his laptop.
"Are you going to work all night?" I question, feeling bad for Zara if she can't have fun in Morocco.
He narrows his eyes. "I'll be done soon."
Kirill nods, and I don't push further, offering, "Have a good night."
"You too," Zara replies, then wiggles her eyebrows at me.
I laugh, and Kirill leads me out of the royal quarters, through the door, and down several hallways. After a few turns, he opens a door, revealing an SUV.
The driver bows. "Your Majesties."
"Thank you," we reply.
He opens the back door .
We get inside, he shuts the door, and goes to the driver's side. He slides in and turns on the engine.
Excited to be in Morocco, I ask, "Where are we going?"
Kirill's face lights up. He answers, "There's a private spot I love in Marrakech. They have the best food."
"I love how you look like a little kid on Christmas morning right now," I blurt out.
His grin widens. "I do?"
"Yes. I can't decide if watching you in action today was hotter or right now."
He arches his eyebrows.
I tease, "Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about."
He tilts his head, maintaining the same confused expression.
I lean closer, inhaling his delicious scent and lowering my voice, stating, "Okay, I decided. Watching you give that nasty woman a verbal slap down was the sexiest thing I've ever seen."
He slides his hand over my thigh, and tingles race to my core. He murmurs, "What was sexy was when you owned the room."
"I did?"
He studies me, asking, "Is that a serious question?"
I shrug, confessing, "I felt kind of bitchy, but I had to defend my niece and nephew."
He shakes his head. "Why is it that women who are strong are seen as bitchy?"
"Not sure, but it's a thin line," I admit.
"Well, you weren't bitchy. You were strong. "
My heart skips a few beats. I softly reply, "Thanks."
We pass several miles of brightly colored buildings. Then we pull up to a deep-blue one. The side has a mural of two children's faces and an abstract background. The driver gets out and opens the back door.
Kirill steps out, then reaches in for me.
I take his hand, eager to experience a new country. I stand and look up at him. "Thanks for taking me out."
Something passes in his expression. I've seen it more lately, but I can't decipher if it's amusement, happiness, or something else. He replies, "It's my honor to take you out."
I tilt my head, smiling, trying to understand how a man so powerful can be so sweet.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" he questions.
I blurt out, "I'm glad I married you. You make me happy."
He tenses, pinning me with a penetrating look.
My heart pounds harder. The minutes seem to drag by.
He didn't want to marry me, and now I've put him in a weird spot.
"Sorry. Forget I said?—"
He cuts my words off with his lips, sliding his tongue in my mouth so fast I lose my breath. His hand grasps the back of my neck, which is still tender from my branding, but it creates an ache that blooms between my legs.
I whimper, my insides quivering, clutching his shirt, and losing myself to everything I always wanted in a man but couldn't ever find.
"Don't ever apologize again for telling me you're happy," he mumbles against my lips and steals more of my breath .
My knees buckle.
He steadies me with his forearm against my back, tugging me closer. He kisses me again, then retreats an inch from my mouth, declaring, "I've never been happy before. Since I've married you, I now know what that feels like. So thank you."
I blink hard, trying to stop tearing up, and smile.
He kisses the top of my head and lowers his lips to my ear, suggesting, "We probably should let the driver get back in his vehicle."
"Oh," I say, then nervously laugh, realizing he's standing beside us. "Sorry."
"No worries, Your Majesty," he says, his lips twitching.
Kirill steers us toward the entrance.
I lean into his tall frame and ask, "What is that made of?" I point to the building, which is some type of stone with lines running across it.
He replies, "It's called rammed earth, a technique from ancient times. The Moroccans would compact soil, sand, silt, and water, creating a wall with the dimensions you see. It's very durable against weather conditions."
"Wow. It's really pretty," I say with admiration.
"I like it too," he admits, and we step inside.
A woman with dark hair and eyes looks up at our entrance. Her face lights up, and she says with a French accent, "Ah. Mr. Petrov. You're back!"
He grins and stands taller. "Good to see you, Charlotte. This is my wife, Fiona."
She focuses on me, beaming, and exclaims, "Wife! When did you get married? "
"A few weeks ago," he answers.
She steps forward and wraps her arms around me. I embrace her, and she kisses my cheek. "Congratulations. It's so nice to meet you. Your husband's been coming here alone for years. It's about time someone scooped him up!"
Kirill chuckles and tugs me back into him.
I decide I like her, and reply, "It's nice to meet you."
"Let me take you to your table. Will you need menus?" she asks.
Kirill answers, "That depends on whether Fiona is okay with letting Chef Rakan send out what he thinks is best." He looks at me in question.
"Yes. That sounds fun," I respond.
"Good. You won't regret it. Follow me," Charlotte says, opening a door.
"Wow!" I mutter, taking in the red and gold velvet ceiling, matching pillows, and padded private booths. Long red curtains hang in front of each table, pulled back with gold ropes or shut for privacy. Elaborate diamond light fixtures hang from the ceiling, and soft light shines against gold-foiled symbols. There's one vertical line and a curve pointing up and one pointing down. I motion to one and ask, "What does that depict?"
"That is the Berber. It's on Morocco's flag," Charlotte explains.
I glance around again, uttering, "This restaurant is gorgeous."
"Thank you. Enjoy your dinner, Mr. and Mrs. Petrov," she states.
I step into the most private of the rooms we've passed. It's slightly bigger than the others, and the curtains have multiple layers of velvet.
"After you," Kirill states .
I slide into the half-circle booth, and he follows.
A server appears. "Mr. Petrov. I didn't realize you were dining with us tonight."
"Hello, Salambek. This is my wife, Fiona," Kirill announces, and I note the pride in his voice and on his expression.
My butterflies flutter harder.
Salambek nods. "Mrs. Petrov. Thank you for joining us. May I suggest our Moroccotini to start?"
Excited, I inquire, "What's in it?"
"Orange-flavored vodka, mint, lime juice, and sugar syrup. I can't get your husband to try it, but I'm sure you'll love it," he asserts.
"No Moroccotini for you?" I tease Kirill.
"I'll stick with vodka, but you go ahead and try it."
"Okay, but you have to at least try a sip of mine," I state.
Kirill grins at Salambek. "One vodka and one Moroccotini."
"Excellent. And it's true you'd like Chef Rakan to decide your courses?"
"Yes, please," Kirill answers.
"Perfect. I'll be back soon," Salambek says and then disappears.
I gush, "This restaurant is so pretty."
"Agreed."
I lean closer, asking, "How did we get the best table when they didn't know you were coming?"
Kirill admits, "I own the table."
I gape at him .
"What?"
"You own the table?"
He chuckles. "Yes. I bought it long ago, and pay them enough money every year to keep them happy."
"Wow. The perks of being you."
His cheeks turn a bit red.
I lower my voice. "Wait. I meant the perks of being Mrs. Petrov." My smile explodes on my lips.
He chuckles and blurts out, "You have the best smile."
My heart takes a double beat. "Thanks."
"I mean it." He pins his intense gaze on me.
Salambek appears with drinks. He sets them down. "One vodka and one Moroccotini. Please, take a sip and let me know what you think."
I pick up the cold martini glass and drink a large mouthful. "Mmm."
Approval fills Salambek's expression. "You like it?"
"No. I love it," I reply.
"Great. The chef said fresh khobz will be ready soon."
I ask, "What's khobz?"
Kirill replies, "Moroccan bread."
"Enjoy," Salambek offers and shuts the curtains.
The room becomes darker and more seductive. The candlelight flickers, highlighting Kirill's scar across his sharp features. He slides his hand onto my thigh.
The throb in my lower body reignites. I drag my gaze to his lips. "You never brought anyone here before? "
"No," he says in a gruff tone.
Looking into his eyes, I don't think, just blurt out, "Weren't you lonely before you married me?"
His face hardens, and he hesitates.
"Sorry. I shouldn't pry." I take a sip of my Moroccotini.
"Yes. Life has been lonely," he finally answers.
My heart hurts for him. I put my drink down and refocus on him, offering, "I'm sorry you didn't have anyone loving you."
He takes a large sip of vodka.
Salambek pulls the curtain back, announcing, "Warm honey khobz, goat cheese, fig chutney, and olive tapenade." He sets a large platter on the table.
My stomach growls.
Kirill nods. "Thank you."
"Enjoy." Salambek steps back and secures the curtains.
Kirill tears a piece of bread, slathers it with goat cheese and chutney, and holds it to my mouth. "Try this."
I sink my teeth into the bread, and the creamy sweetness explodes on my tongue. I groan, chewing it slowly.
He looks pleased at my reaction.
I swallow, take a sip of my Moroccotini, and hold it in front of him. "Your turn."
He takes a sip, cringes, and swallows. "It's sweet."
"You don't like it?"
"Too sweet for me. I'll stick with plain vodka. "
I tease, "You can take the boy out of Russia, but you can't take the Russian out of the boy."
He grins. "I guess not. Cheers." He holds out his glass.
I lightly clink it with mine, and we both drink.
He adds more goat cheese to the bread and tops it with the olive tapenade. "Try this."
An explosion of creamy, salty, and savory hit my tongue. I chew, swallow, and admit, "That might be better than the fig chutney."
"It probably tastes better since your drink is sweet." He takes a bite, then adds, "I think the chutney is better with my vodka."
I take a few more bites.
He drinks half his vodka and then sets it down, announcing, "I should take you to Russia soon."
The hairs on my arms rise. "Really?"
"Yes."
"Is it safe?"
"With me? Yes," he declares.
My anxiety disappears. "Okay. When do you want to go?"
He chuckles. "When we get home, let's figure it out."
A wave of enthusiasm rolls through me. I ask, "Do you go often?"
His face falls. "Not anymore. I used to when I was a child."
I put my hand over his. "Are your memories bad? Of your family?"
His eyes darken. "Not the ones of my mother."
"What was she like? "
He thinks momentarily and then a tiny curve forms on his lips. He notes, "She was beautiful. Kind. Funny too."
"That must be who you get your sense of humor from," I point out.
He leans closer. "You think I'm funny?"
"Yeah. I laugh a lot when I'm around you."
He strokes my thigh, lowering his voice. "I like it when you laugh."
"So you'd go to Russia with your family as a boy?"
His face falls again, filling with disdain. "Yes. My father was proud to be a Petrov, and loved returning home to show his family how much money and power he accumulated."
"Oh." My gut flips.
A heavy silence settles between us for a few moments.
"Did you ever think about changing your name?" I ask, breaking the quiet.
He arches his eyebrows. "From Petrov?"
"Yes."
He hesitates, then nods. "I told your father it was a curse, and I wanted a new last name, but he stopped me from changing it."
My chest tightens. "Why?"
"He told me it was a cowardly move. He said the way to eliminate the Petrov curse was to become the man no Petrov ever was, and ensure future generations knew how to behave and treat others."
I remain quiet, processing my father's words.
Kirill adds, "He was right. Running away might make some things easier, but it doesn't change them. "
I blurt out, "Then our kids will be able to stand proud with the Petrov name."
"Our kids?" he says, pinning his eyebrows together.
My heart races faster. "Yes."
He grinds his molars and looks at his vodka glass, tapping it with his index finger.
Goose bumps race along my skin. I try to keep it light, but it comes out flat when I ask, "You don't want to have some babies?"
Time seems to stand still. He finally faces me, stating, "How would that work, Fiona?"
Confused, I question, "What do you mean?"
He swallows hard, takes a deep breath, then slowly releases it. In a cool tone, he asks, "How would that be fair to them?"
I jerk my head back. "I'm not following."
He closes his eyes for a moment, then sighs. When he opens them again, he looks into my eyes and sadly says, "They'd always be afraid of me."
"What are you talking about?"
More silence ensues.
Then it hits me. Anger floods every cell I have. I accuse, "Stop using your scar as an excuse to not live."
"I'm not using it as an excuse."
"Yes, you are," I insist, my voice growing louder.
"Fiona—"
"No! That's the most ridiculous statement I've ever heard, Kirill!" I glare at him .
He grinds his molars, and I shake my head at him.
"Don't look at me like that," he orders.
I scoff. "Then stop being an idiot!"
He leans closer. "Calm down. You're getting loud."
I lower my voice. "Don't tell me to calm down. I want kids. I would be a good mom."
"I know you would."
"And you would be a good father."
He clenches his jaw, shaking his head. "No. I wouldn't. They'd fear me."
"No. They'd love you," I insist.
"They wouldn't," he says, then finishes his vodka and stares at the curtain.
"So I can't ever love you either, right? Because you have a scar?" I seethe.
His breath hitches. He slowly turns and pins a sad and fearful but knowing gaze on me.
Angry, I scoot out of the booth and rise.
"Where are you going?" he demands.
"To the ladies' room. I need a moment." I huff.
"Fiona—"
"No! You have a scar. It's shitty how it happened. I get that what your family did to you haunts you, but it's not fair to let it ruin the potential of creating a family of our own." I toss my napkin on the seat, push through the curtains, and follow the sign to the bathroom .
It's not far, just down a hallway past the kitchen. I open the door, lock it, and put my hands on the sink, staring at my reflection in the mirror.
My insides crumple with something I've never felt before. It slices through me, and I realize this is what it feels like to lose a dream.
I love my career, but I always saw myself as a mother. Now I'm married to a man who refuses to have kids because he has a scar on his face?
As hard as I try to keep it from happening, a tear escapes. I swipe at it.
There's a pounding on the door.
Kirill shouts, "Fiona!"
I release an emotional breath, unlock the door, and order, "Leave me alone for a minute."
He ignores my request, pushes past the doorway, and locks the door behind him.
I step back against the wall, arguing, "Did you not hear?—"
He puts his hand over my mouth, tipping my chin with the heel of his palm. His blues rage with fire. He lowers his face over mine and warns, "Don't say you want a baby unless you really want one." He removes his hand from my mouth but keeps it on my chin.
My insides quiver harder. My voice trembles just as hard when I tell him, "I don't just want one baby, Kirill. I want a big family with lots of kids driving us nuts."
His chest fills with air. He studies me, then murmurs, "Are you sure that's what you want?"
I don't flinch, answering, "Yes."
He bunches my skirt in his fist.
My butterflies go crazy. "What are you doing? "
He spins me toward the mirror, splays his hand on the back of my neck, and pushes me over the sink. He drops his pants, tugs my dress up, and pushes my panties to the side. In one thrust, he slides inside me.
"Oh!" I gasp, staring at him in the mirror and gripping the counter.
He grunts, thrusting a few times, then grits out, "I'm older than you. If you want a lot of kids, then it's time I gave you our first baby, little bird."