24. Emil
EMIL
Iarrive at Kiera's room the next morning carrying several boxes and bags filled with clothes with designer labels and expensive fabrics, everything a Pakhan’s wife should wear.
Even though I'd had Kiera's stuff brought here, she needs an upgrade so that she can be appropriately dressed for certain occasions.
I open the door quietly and step inside to find her still asleep.
The morning light filters through the curtains, casting a soft glow across the bed.
Kiera lies on her side, one hand tucked under her cheek, the other resting on the pillow beside her.
Her short red hair looks like spilled wine, the strands catching the light and gleaming copper and gold.
The sheet has slipped down to her waist, revealing the curve of her shoulder and the elegant line of her collarbone.
She's wearing a thin tank top, and I can see the swell of her breasts rising and falling with each breath.
Her skin looks impossibly soft in this light, smooth and pale with just a hint of freckles across her shoulders.
She looks younger when she sleeps. Vulnerable. The anger and defiance that usually tighten her features are gone, replaced by something peaceful. Almost innocent.
My chest tightens watching her.
I set the boxes and bags down on the chair near the window, then move to the side of the bed. For a moment, I just stand there, looking at her, memorizing the way she looks right now before I wake her and the walls go back up.
"Kiera," I say quietly.
She doesn't stir.
I reach out and brush a strand of hair away from her face. Her skin is warm beneath my fingertips.
"Kiera," I say again, a little louder.
Her eyes flutter open. For a second, she looks confused, disoriented. Then she sees me standing over her and jerks back against the headboard.
"What are you doing in here?" Her voice is rough with sleep, and I find myself liking the sound of it.
"We're going out," I say. "Get dressed. Wear something sharp and nice."
She blinks at me, still half asleep. "What?"
"I brought you clothes." I gesture to the boxes and bags.
Understanding dawns on her face, followed quickly by irritation. "I have clothes."
"Not the kind you'll need as my wife."
She sits up fully now, the sheet pooling around her waist. The tank top is thin enough that I can see the outline of her nipples through the fabric. My cock stirs, remembering how those breasts felt in my hands, how her nipples hardened under my tongue.
"I need to go to work," she says, crossing her arms over her chest. Defensive.
"No."
"Emil, I can't just not show up. I have responsibilities."
"It's too dangerous." I keep my voice level and reasonable. "I've already called your office. You're taking a couple of weeks off."
Her eyes flash with anger. "You did what?"
"I spoke to your supervisor. Explained that you're dealing with a family emergency and need time off. She was very understanding."
"You had no right to do that."
"I had every right. Someone tried to kill you, Kiera. Until I know who and why, you're not going anywhere without protection."
She throws the covers off and stands, facing me with her hands on her hips. The tank top barely reaches the top of her thighs, and I can see the smooth expanse of her legs, the curve of her hips.
"So, what, you're just going to keep me locked in this room for the rest of my life?"
"No. That's why we're going out today." I move toward the door. "Get dressed. We leave in thirty minutes."
"And if I refuse?"
I turn back to look at her. "Then I'll dress you myself. Your choice."
Her jaw clenches, but she doesn't argue further. Smart woman.
I leave her alone to get ready, closing the door behind me.
Thirty minutes later, she emerges wearing a cream colored dress that hugs her curves and falls just above her knees. The dress is elegant but not too formal, expensive but not ostentatious. Perfect for where we're going.
Her hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and she's wearing minimal makeup. She looks beautiful. Classy. Like she belongs on my arm.
"Where are we going?" she asks as we walk to the car.
"You'll see."
The drive takes forty minutes. Kiera sits in silence, staring out the window. I can feel the tension radiating off her, the barely contained frustration. She's still angry about last night and being forced into this marriage. I don't blame her.
But she'll come around. Eventually.
When we pull up to the racetrack, her head turns sharply toward me.
"Horse races?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because gambling is one of my businesses," I say as we get out of the car. "I own this track and three others in the state. Plus several casinos and card houses."
She stares at the sprawling facility, the crowds of well-dressed people streaming toward the entrance. "You own this?"
"I own a lot of things, Kiera. You'll learn."
I place my hand on the small of her back and guide her toward the VIP entrance. The security guards recognize me immediately and wave us through without question.
Inside, the atmosphere is electric. The smell of expensive cologne and perfume mingles with the scents of leather and money. People mill around in designer clothes, clutching racing forms and champagne glasses.
I lead Kiera to my private box overlooking the track. It's spacious with comfortable seating, a full bar, and floor-to-ceiling windows that provide an unobstructed view of the course.
"This is yours?" she asks, looking around.
"Yes."
She moves to the window and looks down at the track. The horses are being led to the starting gate for the first race. Even from here, I can see their muscles rippling and their coats gleaming in the sunlight.
"Have you ever bet on horses before?" I ask.
She shakes her head. "No."
"Would you like to?"
She glances at me, suspicious. "With what money?"
I pull out my wallet and hand her a stack of bills.
She stares at the money like it might bite her. "I can't take this."
"You can, and you will. Pick a horse. Any horse."
For a moment, I think she's going to refuse. Then something shifts in her expression. Curiosity, maybe. Or defiance. She takes the money and studies the racing form on the table.
"This one," she says finally, pointing to a horse named Midnight Runner. "Number seven."
I place the bet for her, and we settle in to watch the race.
The moment the gates open, Kiera leans forward, her eyes locked on the track. Midnight Runner starts strong, taking an early lead. Kiera's hands grip the armrests of her chair, her body tense with anticipation.
"Come on," she whispers. "Come on."
The horses thunder around the first turn, and Midnight Runner falls back to third place. Kiera makes a small sound of disappointment.
But then, in the final stretch, the horse surges forward. The jockey leans low over its neck, urging it on. Midnight Runner pulls ahead, neck and neck with the leader.
"Yes!" Kiera jumps to her feet. "Yes, come on!"
Midnight Runner crosses the finish line half a length ahead of the competition.
Kiera spins toward me, her face lit up with pure joy. "I won! Did you see that? I actually won!"
The transformation is stunning. Gone is the angry, defensive woman from this morning. In her place is someone vibrant and alive, her blue eyes sparkling with excitement, her smile wide and genuine.
This is the woman I saw dancing at the club. The one who caught my attention and wouldn't let go.
"You did," I say, unable to keep the satisfaction out of my voice.
She bets on two more races, losing one and winning another. Each time, she gets more animated, more engaged. She studies the racing forms, asks questions about the horses and jockeys, and debates her choices out loud.
Watching her is better than any race.
After the fourth race, I stand. "Come with me."
"Where?"
"I need to check on something."
I lead her through a private corridor to the back offices. The security here is tighter, with armed guards at every door. Kiera notices, her earlier excitement dimming slightly.
Inside the counting room, several of my men are sorting through stacks of cash. They look up when we enter, immediately straightening.
"Pakhan," one of them says.
"Report," I say.
He rattles off the day's numbers. How much was bet, how much was won, how much the house took. Then he moves on to the debts. Three people owe significant amounts. Two have payment plans in place. One is late.
"How late?" I ask.
"Two weeks."
"Send someone to remind him of the terms."
"Yes, Pakhan."
I review the rest of the numbers, sign off on a few documents, then lead Kiera back out. She's quiet now, the reality of my world settling over her again.
"This is what you do," she says as we walk back to the car. It's not a question.
"Part of it."
"And the man who's late on his payment. What happens to him?"
"He gets a reminder. If he still doesn't pay, the consequences escalate."
"Like what you did to that man last night."
"Yes."
She doesn't say anything else, but I can see her processing it, trying to reconcile the man who just let her bet on horses and celebrated her wins with the man who breaks bones without hesitation.
By the time we arrive at the restaurant for dinner, the sun is setting. The place is one of mine, an upscale Italian establishment with white tablecloths and candlelight. The kind of place where reservations are booked months in advance.
We're stopped three times on the way to our table by business associates who want to shake my hand and make small talk. I keep the conversations brief, my hand never leaving Kiera's back.
Finally, we reach the VIP section, a private table in the corner, secluded from the main dining room but with a view of the city lights through the windows.
"Let me guess," Kiera says as we sit. "You own this too."
"This and four others in the city."
She picks up the menu, scanning it without really reading. "Is there anything you don't own?"
"Not much."
The waiter appears with wine, pours it without being asked, then disappears. The service here is impeccable. They know better than to hover when I'm dining.
We order, and the food arrives quickly, perfectly prepared, beautifully presented. Kiera eats slowly, methodically, like she's thinking about something.
The day has been a success, I think. She's seen more of my world, and that it's not all violence and threats. There's luxury here too. Power. Influence. Things she can enjoy as my wife.
She's accepting her fate. Accepting this life.
Dessert arrives. Tiramisu for her, espresso for me.
Kiera takes a bite, then sets down her fork and looks at me directly.
"If I'm going to be forced into this marriage," she says, her voice steady and clear, "there are going to be some ground rules."