A Very Ruins Christmas (Sovereigns Novellas #1)

Chapter 1

Minutes and Mayhem

She’s humming.

Soft. Light.

Unaware of the sound slipping free.

The smell of cinnamon hits me before her perfume does; jasmine, vanilla… her.

I round the corner to the kitchen, and there she is.

My Dea.

My Vasilisa.

My light.

“Dea, what are you making?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe.

Sugar hangs thick in the air. Flour dusts the pink apron she insisted I buy—matching ones, for when we bake together.

Dio, help me, I’d never wear a pink apron, but for her? Anything.

She glances up, those bright blue eyes wide when they meet mine.

“Cinnamon rolls,” she says, as if it should be obvious.

She turns in a little circle, brow furrowed. Looking for something.

I swipe a paper towel, catch her chin gently between my fingers, and wipe her nose. Then I steal a kiss from the corner of her mouth, tasting cinnamon and sugar.

“Are you making them,” I murmur, “or eating the dough?”

She rolls those gorgeous eyes. “I have to sample, Santo!”

Exasperated, she twirls again.

“What are you looking for?”

“My phone! I want to send Luna a picture, and I can’t find it.”

I reach into her apron pocket and pull it free. “This one?”

Her face lights up. “Yes!” She reaches for it, but I hold it just out of reach.

“Santo Amato,” she warns, arms crossing over her chest. “Give me my phone.”

“No,” I say, dark and low. “I walk in here…no joy, no greeting, no kiss.”

She sighs, lips curving. “Sorry, Santo.” She crooks her finger, coaxing me in.

I lean down. She cups my face with flour-dusted fingers and presses a kiss to my lips. I wrap an arm around her waist, pulling her close, deepening the kiss until I can taste the cinnamon on her tongue.

She gasps, a soft sound, half sigh, half moan. When I pull back, her eyes are hazy and full of that sacred awe I live for.

“There,” I murmur. “That’s my girl.”

Color rises across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. She giggles, that intoxicating little laugh and I hand her the phone.

While she snaps photos of her unbaked masterpiece, I survey the kitchen.

A disaster.

My beautiful wife turns every kitchen into a war zone. Flour and sugar coat the counters, sticky dough fingerprints mark the cabinet handles, and a step stool leans against the wall where she couldn’t reach the top shelf. Her ring glints by the sink, safe from the chaos of her baking storm.

My Vasilisa leaves the existence of herself everywhere.

Proof.

I smile to myself, watching her. Over a year of marriage, and she surprises me every day. How a man like me ended up lucky enough to have her is beyond comprehension, but I’ve long stopped questioning the miracle.

“What?” she asks, catching my stare.

“Nothing.” I move behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist, my chin resting on her shoulder. “Just admiring the view.”

She leans back against my chest, her body fitting perfectly against mine. “The cinnamon rolls will be ready in about twenty minutes once I put them in the oven.”

“Mmm,” I murmur against her neck, breathing in the scent of her skin beneath the sugar and spice. “And what should we do while we wait?”

Vasilisa turns in my arms, a mischievous gleam in her eye. She reaches up, leaving a streak of flour across my cheek. “You could help me clean up.”

I raise an eyebrow. “That’s not what I had in mind, Dea.”

“I know exactly what you had in mind, Santo Amato.” She pokes my chest playfully. “But if we start that, these rolls will burn.”

I sigh dramatically, pulling away. “Fine… how many are you making?” I ask reaching for a dish towel and eyeing her engagement ring by the sink. Last time, it ended up baked into a loaf of bread. That was an interesting dinner.

“Two batches,” she says, not looking up and slipping the rolls into the oven. “One for us and one for Adriana.”

At the mention of my brother’s wife I sigh. “Angelo doesn’t deserve your sweet treats Dea…”

She wipes her hands on the apron and shakes her head. “I thought the two of you were good and I like Adriana!”

“We are… fine,” I appease, “but no one deserves your treats but me.”

Vasilisa laughs, wrapping her arms around my waist. “You’re being ridiculous. Sharing is part of Christmas.”

“Hmm.” I pull her closer, leaving a kiss on her forehead. “Not when it comes to you, your baking, or anything else I consider mine.”

Her smile softens, and she reaches up on her tip toes to wipe the flour from my cheek. “Possessive as always.”

“Protective,” I correct, catching her hand and kissing her palm. “There’s a difference.”

“If you say so.” She glances at the timer. “Nineteen minutes left.”

I chuckle, “You’re going to count each one?”

“Yes,” She says seriously, pressing closer with that look I know all too well in her eye.

“Nineteen minutes is a long time to just stand here,” she whispers.

“Is it?” I ask, my voice dropping lower as I back her against the counter. “I can think of a few ways to pass the time.”

“Can you now?” Her breath hitches as my hands find her hips.

“Mmm.” I lower my head, my lips brushing against her ear. “But you’re the one who said we should clean up first.”

She groans, in playful frustration, as I pull away with a smirk.

“You’re terrible,” she accuses, but there’s no heat in it.

“I’m patient,” I counter, watching her try not to smile.

She leans into me once more, soft and warm, pressing a kiss to my cheek. “You’ll thank me when the rolls are perfect.”

“I already have everything I need,” I murmur into her hair.

She laughs, nudging me toward the sink with her soft, flour-dusted hands, then busies herself with wiping down the counters. I wait until her back is turned, then glance toward the sink.

There it is.

Her ring, flour-smudged and glinting faintly beneath the light. A casualty of her baking chaos.

She deserves more than an arrangement. More than duty.

She deserves to be chosen, every day, in every way.

And she is.

But this year, I’m going to make damn sure she knows it.

Last year just before the holidays she was almost lost.

The memory flashes sharp, unwelcome. I could’ve found that ring in a pool of her blood.

Could have lost my everything in a heartbeat.

She turns around, smiling, and I kiss her one last time, quick, before she can see too much on my face.

“Be right back,” I mutter.

“Where are you going?”

“Just something I need to take care of.”

She hums in response, already distracted by her messy countertop.

I take one last look at her, radiant, humming again under her breath.

My wife.

My light.

My reason.

But I’m still a man at war.

And there’s business to handle before Christmas.