3. Vera
VERA
He must be insane.
Roman’s words echo in my head as I stand there in the cold mausoleum. For a moment, I can’t even speak. The words won’t come.
“You’re out of your mind,” I blurt finally.
Roman’s mouth curves into something that might be a smile. “Maybe, but that doesn’t make me wrong.”
The rain has stopped completely now. Through the small window, I can see pale sunlight breaking through the clouds.
People will be heading to the house for the wake, expecting me to be there. Expecting me to play the grieving widow while they drink Dmitri’s expensive liquor and tell lies about what a great man he was.
My stomach turns at the thought.
Roman is still watching me. That makes my stomach turn even more, though there’s an intensity to his gaze that sends a thrill right through me.
“How do I know you won’t just kill me too?” I ask. “Once I’ve helped you find this ledger?”
“You don’t.”
At least he’s honest.
“Think about it,” he continues. “If I wanted you dead, you’d already be dead. I could’ve done it in here. You’d be just another tragic accident, and I’d cover it up before anybody got suspicious.”
“That’s not reassuring,” I snap, but my tone wavers.
“It’s not supposed to be. It’s supposed to be the truth.” He moves toward the door. “I’m not asking you to trust me, Vera. I’m asking you to make a smart decision. Stay here and let Anton marry you, or take my deal and walk away free in ninety days.”
He pushes the door open. Air rushes in, and with it the smell of wet earth and grass.
“Think about it on the drive back,” he says. “My car’s by the gate.”
Then he’s gone, stepping out into the gray afternoon.
I stand there for a moment longer. My hands are shaking, so I clasp them together. The mausoleum feels smaller now, the walls pressing in.
Ninety days. That’s all he’s asking for. Ninety days of helping him find Dmitri’s secrets, and then freedom. Real freedom. I could leave this whole life behind, if I wanted to.
Or I can go back to the house and wait for Anton to show up with a ring and a proposal I can’t refuse.
My feet are moving before I’ve made a conscious decision. They carry me out of the mausoleum, across the wet grass. Roman is ahead of me, his long strides eating up the distance to the parking lot.
I should go find my father... but Dad is probably already drunk by now, and what would I even say?
I’m moving in with the man who killed Dmitri, who’s also his brother. Don’t worry, it’s just for ninety days.
He’d try to stop me. Or worse, he wouldn’t care.
Roman reaches a black Mercedes parked near the gates. He pulls out his keys and the locks click open.
He must be completely mad. I must be mad, too, because when he opens the passenger door, I slide into the leather seat without hesitation.
The interior is pristine. It smells like crisp, new car and something else. His cologne, maybe. Leather and sandalwood.
Roman doesn’t get in right away. He stands there with the door open, looking down at me.
“You’re sure about this?” he asks.
“No.” The word comes out before I can stop it. “But I’m doing it anyway.”
He nods slowly, then closes my door and walks around to the driver’s side.
Roman slides behind the wheel and closes his door. The sound seals us into the confined space together. He doesn’t start the engine. Instead, he turns to face me. His eyes have the same intensity as Dmitri’s, but there’s something different in them. Something sharper.
“What are you—” My words falter when his thumb grazes my cheekbone. To my mortification, my eyes flutter shut.
I should pull away. I don’t.
When he inhales, a smile crosses his lips. “Cherry perfume. It was always my favorite.”
How does he know what my perfume smells like? The thought makes my stomach leap, but at the same time something heavy and needy has settled low in my core.
I couldn’t ignore it even if I wanted to.
“You deserved better than my brother,” he says quietly, running a hand through my hair.
The words hit me like a physical blow. He’s looking at me with such dark eyes that it sends a thrill through me.
“I know,” I whisper.
His thumb traces the line of my lower lip. My breath catches. “You know what you’re getting into,” he says. “What this is.”
My stomach lurches, though not in fear. “A business deal?”
“Yes.” His hand slides to the back of my neck. “Just business.”
Then his mouth is on mine.
The first thought is that I should push him away. Except my body betrays me even as my mind screams to open the car door and leave.
I kiss him back with a hunger that surprises even me. My hands fist in his suit jacket, pulling him closer. His other hand slides into my hair, and he angles my head to deepen the kiss.
Heat floods through me. It’s been so long since I’ve felt anything but numbness or fear. So long since I’ve wanted to be touched.
Roman’s hand leaves my hair and trails down my neck, over my collarbone. His fingers find the top button of my black dress.
“Tell me to stop,” he says against my mouth.
I don’t. I can’t.
He takes my silence as permission. The button comes undone. Then the next one. His fingers are deft and sure, and I wonder how many women he’s undressed. How many times he’s done this in the front seat of a car.
My dress falls open. The air is cool against my skin, and I can feel goosebumps rising. Roman pulls back just enough to look at me. His eyes are darker now, pupils blown wide.
“You’re shaking,” he says.
“I know.”
“Scared?”
“No.” It’s true enough, because I’m not scared. There’s heat pooling in my core and a flush in my cheeks that I couldn’t blame on fear even if I wanted to.
His hand slides lower, over the lace of my bra. My breath stutters out in a rush.
“We shouldn’t do this,” I say, even as my body arches into his touch.
“Probably not.”
“This is... it’s wrong. It’s?—”
“Do you want me to stop?”
I open my mouth to say yes. To be sensible and smart and all the things I’m supposed to be. “No,” I whisper instead.
Roman’s smile is dangerous. He leans in and kisses me again, harder this time. His hand finds the clasp of my bra and undoes it with practiced ease.
The rational part of my brain is screaming at me to stop this. Except the rational part of my brain has kept me trapped for three years, and I’m done listening to it.
Roman’s mouth leaves mine and trails down my throat. I tip my head back, giving him access. His teeth graze the sensitive skin just above my collarbone, and a sound escapes me that I barely recognize.
His hand slides lower. Under the hem of my dress, over the silk of my stockings. “Tell me what you want,” he says against my throat.
I can’t form words. My brain has short-circuited somewhere between his mouth and his hands.
“Vera.” His voice is rough. “Tell me.”
“This,” I manage. “I want this.”
That’s all the permission he needs.
The next few minutes are a blur of movement. Roman’s suit jacket hits the back seat. My dress is pushed up around my hips. His hands are everywhere, learning the shape of me with an intensity that makes my head spin.
Roman pulls me over the center console and into his lap. It’s awkward and cramped and my knee hits the gearshift, but I don’t care. His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise, and I’m grateful for it.
“Look at me,” he says.
I open my eyes. I hadn’t realized I’d closed them.
His face is inches from mine. Up close, the scar through his left eyebrow looks more pronounced. His jaw is rough with stubble.
This time, I kiss him. It’s hard and demanding, my tongue pushing into the wetness of his mouth as a moan slips from my lips.
He understands.
Roman’s hands slide under my dress, and then he’s touching me properly.
His fingers are skilled and sure, sliding over my clit before finding my wet entrance.
He slips two inside and I muffle a gasp by biting down on his shoulder, whole body jerking.
My hips move of their own accord, seeking more pressure, more friction, more everything.
“That’s it,” Roman murmurs against my mouth. “Take what you need.”
I do.
The windows are starting to fog. Somewhere in the distance, a car door slams, but it feels like it’s happening in another world.
Roman’s fingers work me with maddening precision. My walls clench around them, thighs trembling with the effort of sitting on top of him like this.
He watches my face the entire time. When he quickens the pace and I whine, his grin turns cocky. It’s intense and overwhelming and nothing like it was with Dmitri.
“Roman—” His name comes out broken.
“I know.” His free hand tangles in my hair, pulling my head back so he can kiss my throat. “Let go. Good girl.”
The coil of heat in my belly winds tighter and tighter. My fingers dig into his shoulders, probably hard enough to leave marks through his shirt.
I don’t care. He doesn’t seem to either.
His mouth finds mine again just as I shatter. The orgasm hits me like a wave, drowning out everything else. I’m dimly aware that I’m making sounds, that my whole body is trembling, but I can’t stop it.
Roman holds me through it. His hands are gentle now, soothing rather than demanding. He kisses me softly, letting me come back down at my own pace.
When I finally open my eyes, he’s watching me with an expression I can’t read.
Reality starts to seep back in. My dress is bunched around my waist and my hair is probably a disaster. I look awful, the least concerning part about this.
Heat still swirls low in my stomach, colliding with the nausea crawling its way up my throat. I kissed him, pretty much fucked him, and now the truth sits heavy in my chest: I don’t regret it.
“We should...” I trail off. Should what, exactly?
“We should go,” Roman finishes. His hands are still on my hips, holding me steady. “People will be wondering where you are.”
Right. Dad will be wondering where I am, and the wake will be well underway by now. I’d almost forgotten about it all.
With a huff, I climb off Roman’s lap and back into the passenger seat. My hands shake as I try to fasten my bra and button my dress. Roman reaches over and helps, his fingers brushing against mine.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
“For what?”
I don’t know how to answer that. For killing Dmitri? For offering me a way out? For making me feel something other than numb?
“Just... thank you. Don’t make it into a bigger deal than it needs to be.”
He nods and faces forward, his hands gripping the steering wheel. After a moment, he starts the engine. It purrs to life, a low rumble that I can feel through the seat.
“The house?” I ask.
“The house,” he confirms.
As we pull out of the parking lot, I catch a glimpse of the cemetery in the side mirror. I see the freshly turned earth where they buried Dmitri. The remaining mourners are just dark shapes in the distance now.
I turn away and face forward.
Roman drives in silence. His jaw is tight and his hands are tense on the steering wheel. I wonder if he regrets what just happened.
I don’t regret it.