10. Roman
ROMAN
Iwake to the sound of Vera’s breathing, slow and even against my chest. Her hair is spread across the pillow. One of her hands rests on my stomach, her fingers curled loosely against my skin.
I lie there and watch her sleep.
After a few minutes, my throat starts to itch. The penthouse air is dry, and I’ve already finished the water I grabbed earlier. I carefully slide out from under Vera’s arm and pull on a pair of sweatpants.
She murmurs something in her sleep but doesn’t wake.
I pad barefoot down the hallway toward the kitchen. The penthouse is dark and quiet, the city lights casting long shadows across the hardwood floors. I’m reaching for a glass in the cabinet when a voice speaks from the doorway.
“Sir.”
I turn to see Oksana standing at the entrance to the kitchen, her hands folded in front of her. Good. It means the staff are settled in.
“Oksana.” I set the glass on the counter. “What are you doing here? It’s late.”
“I brought additional items from the manor.” Her eyes move to my bare chest, then back to my face. “I was about to leave.”
I open my mouth to respond, but there’s nothing to say. She knows where I’ve been. She knows who’s in my bed.
Oksana has worked for my family for thirty years. She was there when Dmitri and I were boys. She was also there when my father exiled me, because she packed my bags with her own hands.
She says nothing now. Just watches me with those knowing eyes.
“Will you be needing breakfast in the morning?”
“I’ll handle it.”
She nods once, then turns and lets herself out. The door clicks shut behind her.
I fill my glass with water and stand in the dark kitchen, drinking it slowly. The city sprawls below, thousands of lights from thousands of windows. Somewhere out there, my father is celebrating his victory.
Somewhere, Anton is planning his next move.
I refill the glass and head back to the bedroom. Vera is still asleep, curled on her side now with one arm stretched across the mattress where I was lying. The tension that usually lines her face is gone.
I set the water on the nightstand and climb back into bed. She shifts toward me without waking, her body seeking warmth. I pull her close and feel her sigh against my chest.
Sleep comes slowly. My mind won’t stop turning over the events of the evening, or the feel of Vera’s body against mine.
I finally drift off around three, my arm around Vera and my mind still racing.
Morning comes too soon.
I wake to gray light filtering through the curtains and Vera shifting beside me. She rolls onto her back and presses a hand to her forehead.
“What time is it?” she asks.
“Early. Go back to sleep.”
“I can’t.” She sits up slowly, her movements sluggish. “I feel like I didn’t sleep at all.”
I watch her carefully. There are dark circles under her eyes and a paleness to her skin that wasn’t there yesterday.
“Are you sick?”
“Just tired.” She swings her legs over the side of the bed and stands. “It’s been... well, you know.”
She makes it two steps toward the bathroom before she has to stop and brace herself against the wall.
“Vera—”
“I’m fine.” She waves me off. “Just stood up too fast.”
I’m not convinced, but I let it go. We have bigger things to discuss.
She disappears into the bathroom and I hear the water running. While she’s gone, I pull on a shirt and go to the kitchen to make coffee. The machine gurgles and hisses, filling the penthouse with the smell of fresh grounds.
Vera emerges from the bedroom twenty minutes later, wrapped in a robe with her hair still damp. She looks slightly better, but there’s still a drawn quality to her face.
“Here.” I hand her a mug. “Sit down. We need to talk.”
She takes the coffee and settles on one of the leather barstools at the island. I can see her bracing herself, her shoulders tensing.
“About last night,” she says.
“About last night, and about what comes next.”
“I thought you said you wouldn’t let Anton?—”
“I won’t.” I lean against the counter across from her. I would kill before I let Anton take her, but I hope it won’t come to that. “The situation is more complicated than I realized.”
Vera wraps her hands around her mug. The color is starting to return to her cheeks, but she still looks fragile.
“My father has made his decision,” I continue. “He wants Anton to take Dmitri’s place, and he wants you to be part of that transition. It consolidates power, and ensures that I don’t gain any more influence than I already have.”
“So what do we do?”
I take a breath. This is the part I’ve been dreading.
“The Zabota tradition gives me ninety days of protection over you. During that time, no one can touch you, or force you into any arrangement without my consent.” I set my coffee down.
“But once those ninety days are up, I have no legal or traditional claim on you. My father can do whatever he wants.”
“Unless...”
“Unless I have a claim that supersedes his.” I meet her eyes. “Marriage.”
Vera goes very still.
“If we’re married,” I say, “you become my wife. My family. My father and Anton have no power over you. You’d be under my protection permanently.”
“You’re asking me to marry you.”
I don’t let my face change. I’ve had years of practice hiding what I feel.
This is what I’ve wanted since the moment I saw her standing at Dmitri’s funeral. Since long before then, really. I should thank Anton; by trying to take her, he’s given me the one thing I couldn’t give myself.
A reason she might actually say yes.
“I am.”
She stands abruptly, her coffee sloshing in the mug.
“I’m not asking you to love me. I’m not asking you for anything except your name on a marriage license.” I round the island and stand in front of her. “It’s a practical solution to a practical problem.”
“Practical.” She laughs. “You’re asking me to trade one prison for another.”
“It’s not a prison.”
I take a breath. My jaw is so tight it aches. “Anton won’t give you a choice,” I say. “He’ll take what he wants and you’ll have no say in it. Is that what you want?”
“Of course not.”
“Then what’s the alternative?”
I have her, and we both know it. There’s no alternative, at least not one where she stays safe and happy.
Vera stares at me. Her eyes are bright with unshed tears, but her jaw is set. “I need time,” she says.
“Yes or no. Marry me and let me keep you safe, or walk away in ninety days and take your chances. Those are your options.”
She stares at me, and she’s at a loss for words.
“I need an answer,” I say again.
She doesn’t give me one.