Chapter 13 #2
“The guesthouse is a few minutes away on foot, and in your condition, I don’t think it’s a good idea to walk,” my new husband explains wryly, circling the cart. “I’m not going to have you breaking an ankle my first day on the job.”
He’s being unusually nice. I squint at him as he slides into the driver’s seat, wondering if he’s drunk too. The reception was so packed with people that I lost sight of him for most of the night.
“Now that you mention it, I don’t know if I’m up for walking in these heels.” I grab a fistful of white silk and pull up my dress to show off one of the Manolo Blahnik pumps I’ve been wearing since before I walked down the aisle. “The driveway is a little uneven.”
Or maybe it’s all the wine I drank that’s making me loopy.
He punches a code into the keypad on the dash and glances over at me. “You’re not going to fall out, are you?”
“Of course not. Why would I—”
He hits the pedal, and the smooth whir of an electric motor propels us into motion. I have zero grace, lurching forward and having to brace myself on the dash.
“Oof,” I say, scooting my butt back onto the seat.
Scorpion shoots me a look. “That’s why.”
We’re flying through the night, the din of the DJ growing fainter behind us.
Part of me is relieved that this never-ending day is finally over, but the other part of me is nervous about what happens after.
It’s our wedding night, and I’m well aware of the standard expectations.
But this is different. We’re two strangers who were forced into marriage.
And I may be annoyingly, uncontrollably attracted to him, but that doesn’t mean I want to act on that. Because I very much don’t.
I’m amazed by the lack of security out here in the country, where we’re surrounded by tall oaks and maples, only a driveway light stretched every twenty feet or so to illuminate the grounds. The darkness swirls around me, the stars even brighter now than before.
“Still awake?” he asks me.
I swivel my head toward him, glaring. “Yes. I was just thinking about how anyone could jump out of the bushes at any second.”
“You don’t need to worry about that. Security and cameras are everywhere.”
I squint into the darkness as the guesthouse comes into view. “If you say so.”
Guesthouse is a misnomer, because it made me think of a tiny, one-bedroom bungalow nestled in the woods. But the building we’re approaching is huge, made of stone, and would be better classified as a mansion than anything else.
“I know so.” He hits a button, and the garage door opens. “You’re safe here.”
I’m not safe anywhere. Not with Misha as Pakhan.
Scorpion drives the golf cart into the garage.
It’s spartan and clean, the floor done up in some kind of effect that makes it look like marble.
Heck, for all I know, maybe it is marble.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the Andrianis have deep pockets.
The wedding they just threw in record time easily cost close to a million bucks.
We park, and the garage door glides closed behind us.
“I forgot my overnight bag,” I blurt, realizing only now that I abandoned it a long time ago in the room where I was getting prepped for the ceremony.
“It’s already been delivered.” He gets out of the cart.
I stay sitting where I am, not really wanting to move as long as the garage is spinning the way it is. Damn. I’m not accustomed to drinking much alcohol—it’s a rare treat. And I’ve obviously overdone it, the effect starting to kick in and making itself known to me.
“How efficient,” I mutter, annoyed that everything is perfect.
The wedding day was gorgeous. The reception went off without a hitch. This garage is so clean, you could eat your damn dinner off it.
A shadow falls over me, and I realize that while I was stewing, Scorpion rounded the front of the golf cart and is now standing next to me, holding out his hand, palm up.
“I don’t need help getting out of a golf cart,” I snap at him, annoyed that he still looks and smells so good at three a.m.
Then I prove my point by emerging. But the garage tilts, and I start to fall.
Strong arms catch me against a broad chest.
“Right,” he says.
I resist the urge to stomp on one of his big feet with my Manolos. Mostly because I’m likely to fall over again if I try, and he’s still holding me up.
“I’ve got this,” I announce and push away from him. I only wobble on my heels twice before I’m standing straight and without his help. “There.” I spin around in a circle. “You see?”
But as I complete my victorious spin, I trip on something and go pitching forward.
Scorpion catches me and scoops me into his arms, holding me like I’m a baby.
“I see,” he drawls.
Well. This is embarrassing. Good thing I’ve consumed enough wine to take the sting out of my humiliation. I’ll save that for tomorrow.
He’s even super sexy from this angle, the bastard. Before I can think about what I’m doing, I reach for his jaw, running my fingertips over the stubble. All the heat in my body seems to go directly to my clit, making it throb.
“You can put me down.”
But even as I say the words, I’m still touching him. I like the rasp of his five-o’clock shadow. I like touching him. I even like the way he’s holding me. My new husband is strong.
He’s also the man who kidnapped you, Katya, I remind myself.
He’s already moving toward the garage door. “May as well stick with the tradition.”
He carries me past a sleek gray Porsche Cayenne Turbo GT, a big-screen TV mounted on the wall, and a line of black tool cabinets.
He’s not even winded as he shoulders his way through the door and kicks it closed behind him.
We’re in a gorgeous kitchen, with custom cabinetry and gleaming marble countertops.
It tracks that the inside would be every bit as stunning as the outside.
The lights are already on for us, a bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket, and there’s an assortment of snacks, along with white petals to match the roses in my bouquet.
I stare at the careful spread and feel suddenly emotional, wishing I’d had a real wedding, that the man holding me in his arms was someone I loved, that everything was different.
But it’s not different, and today’s wedding wasn’t real.
I stop touching his stupid stubble and wriggle in his arms, needing to get away. “Put me down, please.”
He grins. “You sure you have your sea legs, cara mia?”
Damn him and those dimples. Why does he have to smell so good?
I shove at his chest. “Very funny. Put me down, Andriani.”
But he doesn’t, of course. He just stands there with me in the kitchen, holding me like I’m a kid who needs to be carried to bed after wearing herself out.
“Now that we’re married, you can call me Lorenzo.”
For some reason, that makes me think of Chiara, and she’s the last thing I want to think about now.
I glare at him some more. “I’d rather call you zasranets. Where’s the wine you spoke of?”
“Zasranets,” he repeats slowly, making the word sound slightly off. “Is that a Russian term of endearment?”
My lips twitch.
“Yup.” I exaggerate the p, mimicking him. “The only one you’ll ever get from me. Now, put. Me. Down.”
He ignores me.
Of course he does.
He toes off his expensive Italian loafers and strides through the kitchen, past all the tempting snacks.
“What are you doing?” I demand, outraged and mourning the luscious-looking charcuterie and fruit tray we sailed past.
I’m usually incredibly careful with what I eat, but I’m drunk enough not to give a damn, and that cheese needs to be in my mouth, stat.
He still doesn’t answer me, so I get bold and start banging on his chest. The muscles flex under my hands.
The man works out. A lot. A mental image of Scorpion, jacked and tatted, lifting weights in the gym, makes heat flood to my core all over again.
So far, I’ve only seen his hands and forearms. Where else does he have tattoos?
“Stop squirming,” he orders me.
“I am fully capable of walking.” I bang on his perfectly honed chest some more.
His only response is to abruptly shift me so that I’m suddenly tossed over his shoulder instead of being held in his arms. It’s reminiscent of the day he brought me back to Misha, and the same feeling of outraged foreboding courses through me.
I start pummeling his back, but it’s every bit as solid as his infuriating chest is.
Unmoved, he walks to a staircase and starts up the steps. Where is he taking me?
“Put me down!”
He swats my butt. “Behave.”
He spanked me. The nerve.