Dominik
Sitting in Arsen Aronov’s brother’s opulent living room with a steaming cup of black tea on the gold and marble table in front of me was not my version of fun. The reason why I was here, as well as the fact I was missing Professor Ghanem’s course on Interdisciplinary Perspectives in Art did nothing to pacify my thoughts.
I looked painfully out of place. All the furniture had either gold, fur or marble on them. There were three couches and at least six armchairs in different areas of the huge room, even though I knew for a fact that only five people lived there.
When my gaze caught the paintings on the walls, though, I caught myself staring. The room decor sure wasn’t to my taste, but these people knew their art. The pieces were beautiful. I didn’t recognize the artist but I was certain they were worth a hefty sum. I made a mental note to ask who it was so I could acquire some for my own collection.
As much as I didn’t want to be here, I was glad to be able to do this alone. Lord knew my brothers would have never let me live it down if they saw how nervous I was. The fact that neither of my parents was here either was reassuring, too. Their presence would only have added more weight onto my shoulders.
Meeting my future wife for the first time already was stressful on its own; I didn’t need my mother breathing down my neck or my father trying to tell me how to present myself. I was a grown man.
A grown man whose parents decided whom he would marry.
I glanced at my watch quickly, only to see I had been waiting here for the past ten minutes. The maid that had let me in and told me to wait here had said the woman I was here to see would be down in a minute.
Things were already going south. Maybe I could use her tardiness to get out of this situation. Surely my parents wouldn’t expect me to marry someone who was constantly late?
“Hi?”
Like she’d been conjured, a young woman appeared at the door opposite from me. Her physical appearance matched the description Father had given me: short, long black hair, almond eyes and fair skin.
Zahar.
My future wife.
She was petite and cute and, fuck, she looked like she couldn’t even legally drink which had me incredibly uncomfortable. I had been told she was twenty-four to my twenty-six but she didn’t look older than nineteen. Way too fucking young for me.
What the fuck were my parents thinking?!
She made her way inside, looking at me with a curious smile on her lips. “You must be ?”
I swallowed thickly, telling myself there was nothing wrong with this because she was twenty-four and her younger looks would be appreciated when she was forty and looked twenty-five. Putting on my best fake smile, I nodded.
“It’s nice to meet you.”
When she sat next to me, I fought back the urge to scoot away from her and ultimately stayed where I was. Trying to calm myself down, my gaze went back to the painting on the wall behind her. It was a dark landscape, beautiful but dead. The technique was perfect, and the colors chosen were immaculate. I couldn’t help but feel drawn to it.
“Do you like it?”
“What?” My attention was brought back to Zahar, who nodded at the painting behind her. “Oh, uh—yes. It’s a beautiful piece.”
“I think so too, it’s my favorite. The decor is Mother’s taste but she lets my sister choose the paintings we hang on the walls. She has an eye for art.”
“And do you?” I asked.
Zahar shrugged, smiling shyly at me. “I like to think I do. I am much more well-versed in botanics and herbology.”
The way she held herself and spoke made it easier to forget how young she looked. Maybe it wasn’t that bad, after all. Maybe if she wore makeup, she could appear her age instead of making me look like I was robbing the cradle.
I nodded, and smiled, genuinely this time. “Well, in that case, I have to say, I am pleasantly surprised, Zahar.”
Her brows furrowed a little in confusion. “Oh, I’m not?—”
“She’s not Zahar, you pervert. She’s eighteen,” said an angry voice behind me.
The click of heels on the marble floor echoed around us before another woman appeared. She looked a lot like the one sitting next to me, but more womanly. Hotter, too, in my opinion.
She was short, but her legs in heels seemed endless. She was wearing a black dress that clung to her curves and her long black hair was styled to perfection, falling down her back. Red lipstick stained her full lips, but her eyes had very minimal makeup on them. She was beautiful.
I remember thinking she looked like a siren. Gorgeous, but fucking dangerous.
And I was right, because she glared at me like she wanted to fucking kill me.
“I’m Zahar and, believe me, if any man were ever to say he was pleasantly surprised after meeting me, then I must be dying.”