Bride by Coronation
Fiona O’Malley
B itter cold slams into me the moment I step outside the Pilates studio. Wind whistles louder, and a blanket of thick, wet snow covers buildings, streets, and cars. Oversized flakes fall, making it nearly impossible to see what's ahead of me.
I reach my bare hand into my pocket, feel my credit card sleeve, and nothing else.
Great. I forgot my phone.
"Idiot," I mutter, shivering, digging my hands into my pockets deeper, and cursing myself for not anticipating the weather. My alarm didn't ring, and I ran out of my apartment in my sneakers, leggings, and a thinner winter jacket just in time to catch the last advanced class of the day.
The moment I stepped outside, I knew I needed more clothes. But it wasn't snowing, so I ran the entire eight blocks, happy to burn off the wine I drank at the dinner party I went to last night.
Now, I'm regretting putting my workout over my attire. My hot cheeks and sweaty skin only accelerate the chill creeping into my bones. I push myself against the harsh gusts, trying to walk faster, but every step is a fight. And the rising sun only serves to mock me, adding no warmth anywhere.
It takes me three times as long as it normally does to travel a few blocks. Nostalgia fills me from when I was a little girl and taxi cabs lined the streets. Now, you only get a ride if you order one, and since I don't have my phone, I'm out of luck.
Michigan Avenue appears, and I almost cross it, but at the last second turn. My brother, Sean, and his wife, Zara, who's also my best friend, live on the next corner. I decide I’ll visit them and my new twin niece and nephew. I’ll call my driver when I'm ready to go home.
Four doors and I'm there, I tell myself, picking up the pace, then the strongest blast so far barrels into me. I duck slightly, but it knocks me back two feet.
"Forget this," I mutter, yanking open the coffee shop door. I lunge inside, relieved to escape the torturous wind, and take a spot at the back of the line.
The rich, warm aroma of roasted coffee, nuts, caramel, and pastries fills the air. Hints of chocolate, cinnamon, and vanilla dance around it, comforting me. Indie music, grinding, hissing, whistling espresso machines, and whirring blenders fight for attention.
I study the menu, decide what I want, and step forward when the line moves, staring at the back of a well-built, broad-shouldered, tall man wearing a black wool pea coat and matching cashmere scarf. His dark, thick-wavy, medium-length hair is four, maybe six inches long in some parts. It's clean and styled but reeks of messy and the opposite of the country club men I usually date .
Wonder if he likes women tugging on it?
The bell over the door rings, and a violent burst of cold air hits my back. I lose my balance and step forward, knocking into the man.
"Crap! I'm so sor—" My mouth turns dry and air catches in my lungs. I gape at him, unable to believe it, feeling the same ache I haven't been able to escape whenever I allow myself to think about the stranger.
Surprise fills his sharp features, and a large dimple pops out under his scar. It's a quarter-inch faded white line with just a hint of red. It starts at his right skull, moves diagonally over his eyelid, through his nose and cheek, and down to his left jaw. His short-trimmed beard fits his face perfectly.
I wonder how long he's had the scar. I assume he's in his mid-forties, between ten to fifteen years older than me. It looks aged. In the last year, I've devised a dozen scenarios about how he got it.
My butterflies explode inside me, and the cold chill gets beaten by the heat flooding my veins. I've only seen this stranger once. It was over a year ago. I ran into him at a club when I was out with Zara. He sent a bottle of the most expensive champagne to my table, then disappeared.
His lips twitch. His dark eyes light up, and his deep, Russian accent hums in my ears, "I think you have an obsession with barreling into me."
I beam, "Or maybe you have an obsession with being in my way, so I'm forced to bang you?"
He arches his eyebrows in amusement.
My cheeks heat. I quickly add, "I mean, bang into you."
"Next," a whiny barista calls out.
He turns, steps in front of the counter but off to the side, then pins his heated stare on me. "What do you want, Fiona? "
"You know my name?" I blurt out, my pulse skyrocketing so fast I get dizzy.
He opens his mouth, then shuts it.
I bite on my lip.
"Can I help you?" the barista interjects in an annoyed tone.
The man claims, "Your friend said your name outside the bathroom."
"Oh, I forgot," I admit, recalling Zara interrupting my hot moment with Mr. Bad Boy.
"Sorry, but there's a line forming," the barista snaps.
The man narrows his gaze, scolding, "You're being rude."
The probably high-school boy, wearing a name tag that says Theo, shrinks. He cringes. In a nicer manner, he offers, "Sorry. How can I assist you?"
"Fiona?" The man asks, motioning for me to step next to him.
I obey and order, "Long macchiato, one pump caramel, one pump mocha, add whip." I turn to the man. "What's your name?"
Amusement flares over him. He states, “Kirill."
"And what would you like, sir?" Theo pushes.
Kirill doesn't take his stare off me. He answers, "Large coffee. Fiona, have you tried the Oatmeal Raisin cookies here?"
I shake my head. "No."
He turns toward Theo, "Add on two cookies."
"Name?"
"Bob."
I stifle a laugh. "Bob? "
"No one can spell or pronounce my name."
I add, "You definitely don't look like a Bob."
"Eighteen forty-five," Theo announces.
Kirill taps his card, displaying a tattoo of a hand necklace. Tiny pink hearts on top of crossed bones hang off a black chain. It runs over the sides of his thumb and pointer finger.
My knees weaken, and I grab the counter to steady myself. "You have a hand necklace?"
He freezes, then studies me, and the ache in my core turns into an inferno.
Theo interrupts, "Sorry. I'll agree your tattoo is rather fascinating, and I don't mean to be rude, but would you please step down to the end so other customers can order?"
Kirill shoots him more lethal daggers, then steps back. He motions toward the pick-up counter, his hand necklace on full display. "After you."
With wobbly legs, a racing heart, and zings flying through me, I force myself to get to the end of the counter.
A young girl with bright green hair, four nose rings, and three eyebrow hoops slaps two cookies, wrapped in paper sleeves, on the quartz. "Your drinks will be up in a moment."
"Thank you," I reply.
Kirill steps closer, unbuttons his peacoat, and the same delicious scent he wore the night we met in the club slinks around us.
I hold in my groan. The number of times I tried to find that smell at cologne counters is uncountable. I inhale deeply, basking in the leather, rosewater, saffron, jasmine, and other notes I can't identify .
"You aren't dressed very appropriately," Kirill states in disapproval, his eyes drifting over my body.
I squeeze my thighs together, babbling, "I was late for Pilates. When I got outside, it wasn't snowing, so I ran, thinking I'd sweat last night's wine out of me. I was at a dinner party. I didn't get drunk or anything. I just had a few more glasses than normal. Anyway, when I left class, the weather turned, and I forgot my phone." I stare at him, my heart thudding so hard that I'm sure he can hear it.
Tiny wrinkles crinkle around his dark eyes. He teases, "It's a good thing you didn't turn into an icicle. I'd have to defrost you in front of everyone."
My breath catches in my lungs. The throbbing in my core accelerates. I add, "I detoured to my brother and sister-in-law's place since the snow was beating me up too badly."
Something passes in Kirill's expression, but I don't understand what it means.
"Bob," the girl calls out.
I bite on my smile.
Kirill winks, picks up our drinks, and holds mine out.
I reach for it and freeze, gaping, while goosebumps cover my skin.
What is he doing with that on his hand?
The same skull adorned with roses that my deceased father designed and then branded on his hand is on Kirill. It sits on the same spot, near his thumb and index finger. It's also the same mark my brother branded on his hand, and Zara got on the back of her neck. I've asked them to explain what it means, but they only say they did it when they married as a tribute to my father. I don't buy it, nor does my mother or stepfather, Dante.
Kirill puts my drink in his other hand, then picks up his .
My voice shakes, "Why do you have my father's skull on you?"
Guilt flicks on him, then turns to a hardened expression. "It's nothing."
"Like hell it is!" I object.
"Take your drink, Fiona," he orders in a low tone.
I grab it, my hand trembling.
He snatches the bags of cookies and slides his arm around me so I'm forced to walk with him.
After several steps, I push away. "Tell me how you got my father's mark!"
"It's just a design I found. I don't know how it could be your father's," he claims.
I seethe, "Liar! My brother and sister-in-law have one, too!"
His eyes turn darker. He clenches his jaw, then sets his drink and the cookies on the table. He pulls out a chair. "Sit down."
"Tell me. Now," I insist through gritted teeth.
He steps closer, slides his arm around my waist, and tugs me into him.
A surge of electricity surges throughout every cell of my body. I gasp, my body molding against his looming frame.
His lips graze my lobe as he murmurs in my ear, "I said sit, Fiona."
I glance at his darkening features, illuminated by the faded scar, unsure what to do.
"Sit," he quietly repeats.
I cave, sitting and holding the macchiato with both hands too tight.
The lid pops off, and my hot drink slides over my hands.
"Ouch," I cry out .
"Shit!" Kirill sits, grabs napkins off the table, and secures my hands in his. He dabs the liquid until it disappears onto the paper and assesses my hand. With relief in his voice, he states, "I don't think you're going to blister or scar."
"How'd you get your scar?" I blurt out, then my chest tightens.
His head jerks backward, and pain crosses his expression. It's a small move, but enough to notice. He recovers, puts on his poker face, but grinds his molars.
I almost apologize, but I don't. He's wearing my father's skull. I want answers, and he hasn't given them to me yet. So it's time he starts talking.
He picks up his coffee, takes a large mouthful, and then sets it down, refocusing on me.
I fight the ache in my core with the fear over who he is and what he might be involved in. Since he doesn't answer me, I question, "Did you know my father?"
He continues not to speak and takes another sip of coffee, studying me.
Tension builds between us, creating an intense anger inside me, pushing me to the point I might explode.
I'm tired of asking for the truth about my father and getting nowhere. No one lets me in on anything. Not my mother, Dante, Sean, or even Zara. It's not her father, and she's more privy to information about my dad than I am.
I fume, "I want answers."
"It's not the right time," he declares.
Shock fills me. I accuse, "Not the right time? You have my father's mark on you, and you have the audacity to tell me it's not the right time! "
"Keep your voice down," he reprimands.
"No. Don't you dare tell me what to do!" I cry out.
Disapproval appears, and he pins it on me, breathing through his nose.
"Tell me," I demand.
He doesn't move for a moment, then unwinds his scarf from his neck. He leans forward, loops it behind my head, and secures the soft cashmere around me. He grabs the material in his hand and tugs me closer.
The ache resurfaces, numbing out the anger.
Kirill's hot breath teases my lips. He warns, "When I say it's not the right time, I mean it. It was nice having you run into me again. Don't forget to try the cookie. Have a good day, Fiona." He releases me and rises.
I stare at him.
He picks up the cookie, slides it in my jacket pocket, and then shoves the other in his coat. He turns and walks away, exiting the building.
I jump up, race toward the door, and face the bitter cold head first. The outline of his body is hard to see, but I jog as best as I can on the slippery pavement and catch up to him. I grab his arm, screaming, "You don't get to do that!"
He spins, wraps his arm around me, and moves me around the corner. He pins me against the wall, caging his body around mine. His fingers close around my throat, and he uses his wrist to lift my head.
Millions of sensations burst into flames, singing me so I can't even feel the cold air.
"Listen to me closely, little bird. It's not the time," he warns .
I take bated breaths, staring at his lips, craving for him to kiss me and squeeze tighter while anger and frustration swirl among my needs.
Surprise fills his expression. His erection pushes into my stomach. Seduction replaces the rage in his leer. He mutters, "Ah. I was wrong about you." His fingers tighten, loosen, then tighten repeatedly as he watches me.
My knees buckle, and I whimper, not flinching.
He presses closer, mesmerized by my reaction, and his face hardens. He releases me.
I take deep, shallow breaths, keeping my glare pinned on him.
He asserts, "A queen obeys her king. Don't forget it, Fiona."
I furrow my brow.
He steps back, ordering, "Make sure you dress appropriately from now on. I wouldn't want you to get frostbite and ruin your beautiful skin."
I gape at him.
"Until next time," he adds, then backs away, disappearing within seconds in the snow.
It takes several moments for me to recover. I don't understand how he could be so seductive when I want answers he won't give me.
I finally push off the wall, hurry past the coffee shop, and step into Sean and Zara's building. I nod at security and get into the elevator. I punch in my code and quickly get to the penthouse.
The doors open, displaying the magnificent cherry blossom tree in their foyer. I brush past it and open the door, stepping directly into the living area. The stunning view of Lake Michigan is barely visible, with ice frosting the penthouse windows in every direction you look. Flames flicker in the oversized fireplace, creating a soft glow. Soft music plays on the surround sound .
Zara and Sean are on the floor with River and Willow. One of the babies giggles from Sean's tickles.
"Don't worry! Daddy's coming for you next!" Zara coos.
"Sean, I just ran into a man with dad's skull on his hand in the same spot you put yours!" I announce.
They turn their heads. Zara's eyes widen. Alarm fills my brother's face. He demands, "Who?"
I rush over to them, sit on the couch, and cross my arms. I'd normally pick up a baby, but I'm too upset. "Tell me what the skull's about, and don't give me your song and dance."
"Fiona, who did you run into?" Sean demands, picking up Willow and holding her close.
Zara rises, leans down, grabs River, and states, "Nap time. Give daddy a kiss." She holds the baby in front of my brother.
Sean kisses him, then Willow, and hands her to Zara.
Zara shoots me an apologetic look.
I fume, "You're not innocent in this conversation either!"
She takes a deep breath, then replies, "I'll be back after I get the babies down." She exits the room.
Sean gets off the floor and sits next to me. "I need to know who you talked to and what they said."
I grab his hand with our father's mark. "A man who had this. He told me he couldn't tell me what it's about because it wasn't the time," I spout, making quotation marks with my fingers.
Sean's jaw twitches. "Who was it?"
"A man," I repeat .
His greens glow hotter. "Who, Fiona? Stop playing games and tell me who."
"Don't you dare accuse me of playing games! You and Zara need to stop hiding and spill whatever you know about Dad's skeleton," I insist.
Sean scrubs his hands over his face, then releases a stressful breath. "What did he look like?"
"Why? Are you going to tell me who he is if I tell you?" I ask.
He opens his mouth and then shuts it. He taps his fingers on his thigh, staring out the windows.
"Seriously?" I spout.
Zara steps back into the room and interjects, "Sean."
They lock eyes.
"What is going on?" I fume.
"Keep your voice down. The babies need to take their nap," my brother reprimands.
"Then you better start talking because—" My pulse pounds between my ears.
"What is it?" Zara asks.
I point at her. "You knew who he was, didn't you."
"Who?" she pins her eyebrows together.
"The man in the club with the scar," I reveal.
The color in her face drains, and she turns a fearful gaze on Sean.
Shocked, my brother asks, "You met Kirill?"
"Yes. Who is he, and why does he have Dad's skeleton?" I push .
Sean stares at the ceiling momentarily, grinding his molars, then answers, "I know you don't want to hear this, but he's right. This isn't the time, and any further information will only harm you."
"Meaning what?" I ask.
"You have to trust me," Sean insists.
I rise. "I'm supposed to trust you?"
He nods. "Yes."
I turn toward Zara. "I need to know."
She winces. "I'm sorry. Sean's right. We need to keep you safe."
I explode, "Keep me safe?"
"Yes," they say in unison.
Full of frustration and rage, I shake my head at them and spit out, "Thanks for nothing." I move toward the door.
"Fiona!" Zara calls, grabbing my arm.
"Don't!" I warn, shaking out of her hold.
Guilt is all over her expression. She holds her hands in the air. "Okay. But we love you. Please trust us."
I scoff, "You two deserve each other." I step into the foyer, slam the door, and vow that whatever they're hiding from me, I'll stop at nothing to find out, even if it's dangerous.