14. Rurik
RURIK
I watch Emma climb out of the massive bed, her movements careful and measured.
She’s always calculating, always watching for exits even when she pretends not to be.
She moves to the window first, her naked body silhouetted against the morning light.
I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands curl slightly at her sides.
But she’s not embarrassed. Not shy about what we’ve done, not if her strolling around naked is any indication.
The morning sun catches the curve of her spine, highlighting every line of muscle beneath smooth skin. She’s strong in a way that has nothing to do with physical power and everything to do with will.
“You should eat something,” Eduard says quietly from his position near the door. He’s already dressed, having slipped into jeans and a fitted black shirt while Emma was distracted by the view outside.
She turns to face us and I see the moment she realizes she’s still completely naked. Heat floods her cheeks, but she doesn’t scramble to cover herself. Instead, she walks calmly to where her clothes are scattered across the floor and begins dressing with deliberate movements.
I admire that about her. The refusal to show weakness even when she’s vulnerable.
My eyes track the way she pulls on each piece of clothing like armor. The jeans that hug her hips. The shirt that covers the marks we left on her skin. She’s rebuilding her defenses, and I let her.
For now.
Artur stretches lazily on the bed, watching her with open appreciation. “Breakfast should be here soon. Unless you’d rather stay in bed a while longer.”
“I’m fine,” Emma says, her voice flat as she pulls on her jeans, but a tinge of hot color stains her cheeks. I smile. She always wants to appear in control, as if nothing affects her, so I enjoy these rare moments when she can’t hide how she feels.
A knock at the door interrupts whatever Artur was about to say next.
I call out permission to enter, and one of the household staff wheels in a cart laden with coffee, fresh fruit, warm bread, and what smells like eggs and bacon.
The woman keeps her eyes down as she arranges everything on the small table near the window then leaves without a word.
The scent of fresh coffee fills the room, mixing with the lingering smell of sex and expensive sheets.
It’s a strange combination, domestic and primal all at once.
The breakfast spread is elaborate for just the four of us.
Silver coffee service, crystal juice glasses, and porcelain plates with delicate gold trim.
Everything in this estate is designed to project power and wealth, even something as simple as breakfast.
Emma eyes the food warily, like she’s expecting it to be poisoned.
“It’s safe,” I say, moving to pour coffee into four cups. “We eat the same food as everyone else in this house.”
She doesn’t respond, but after a moment she sits at the table. Her posture is rigid, her hands folded in her lap. She’s still watching everything, cataloging details she thinks might be useful later.
I hand her a cup of coffee and take the seat across from her. Eduard settles into the chair to my right while Artur finally drags himself out of bed and joins us, stealing a piece of bread from the tray.
For several minutes, no one speaks. The only sounds are the clink of silverware and the quiet hum of the estate waking up around us. I can feel Emma’s tension radiating across the table, but I don’t push. She needs time to process what happened between us, what continues to happen.
I study her face as she sips her coffee. The way her jaw tightens when she thinks no one is looking. The slight tremor in her hands that she hides by wrapping both palms around the warm cup. She’s not as unaffected as she wants us to believe and that knowledge sends satisfaction through my chest.
She felt what we did this morning. The connection that goes beyond physical pleasure. It scared her, and Emma Moore doesn’t scare easily.
“This place is huge,” Emma says finally, her voice carefully neutral. “How long have you lived here?”
Eduard glances at me then answers. “About five years. We designed it specifically for the three of us to live here together.”
Her eyebrows rise slightly. “Together? All three of you?”
“It was meant to be neutral territory,” I explain, setting down my coffee cup. “A place where our families could reconnect after years of distance.”
Emma’s gaze sharpens. “What happened? Why the distance?”
The question hangs in the air. I exchange looks with Artur and Eduard. We’ve kept this story private for so long, shared it with so few people. But if Emma is going to be part of our lives, if she’s going to understand why we bought her at that auction, she needs to know the truth.
The whole fucking truth, no matter how much it still cuts.
“Our fathers were close once,” I begin, choosing my words carefully. “Best friends, actually. They built their organizations together, supported each other through wars and betrayals. But they had a falling out. A disagreement over territory and business practices that turned ugly.”
I can still remember the shouting matches that echoed through our home when I was a boy. My father’s rage when Artur’s and Eduard’s fathers refused to back his play against a rival family. The way alliances crumbled overnight, turning brothers into enemies.
“They forbade us from seeing each other,” Artur adds, his usual humor absent from his voice. “We were teenagers at the time and didn’t understand why our friendship had to end because of their bullshit.”
Eduard leans back in his chair. “We found ways to stay in contact anyway. Secret meetings. Coded messages. It wasn’t easy, but we refused to let their fight destroy what we had.”
Emma listens quietly, her expression unreadable. I can see her mind working, filing away information while looking for weaknesses she can exploit.
“When I was twenty-two, my father was killed,” I continue. “Shot during what was supposed to be a peace negotiation with a rival family. Artur’s and Eduard’s fathers died in the same shootout.”
The memory is still vivid even after all these years. The phone call in the middle of the night. The warehouse where they’d met, now a crime scene painted in blood. Three bodies on the concrete floor, their alliance finally reunited in death.
Emma’s eyes widen slightly. “All three of them? At the same time?”
“Yes.” The word comes out harder than I intend. Even after all these years, the memory of that night still burns. “We stood over their graves and made a promise. We would rebuild what they destroyed. We would unite the three families again, stronger than before.”
I remember the rain that day. The way it mixed with the dirt as we buried them side by side, the way our fathers should have lived. Artur’s face was stone. Eduard’s hands were clenched so tight his knuckles went white. I felt nothing but cold fury at the waste of it all.
“And we would do it the right way,” Artur says, his dark eyes intense. “Through a shared wife who would help us unite our three families.”
Emma’s coffee cup freezes halfway to her lips. “A shared wife?”
“We’ve been looking for years,” Eduard says calmly. “Someone strong enough to survive in our world. Someone who could stand beside us without breaking. Someone who could help us build something that would last.”
“Someone who could be the bridge between three families that have spent too long at war with themselves,” I add. “Someone who could give us heirs that carry all three bloodlines, binding us together in a way that can’t be undone by pride or greed or stupidity.
Someone exactly like the woman sitting across from me, even if she doesn’t see it yet.
“And you think that’s me?” Emma’s voice is sharp with disbelief. “An FBI agent who’s sworn to bring down people like you?”
“We didn’t expect you to be FBI,” I admit. “But the moment you stood on that stage and refused to bow to anyone in that room, all three of us recognized the same thing. Strength. The kind we always said our wife would need.”
The kind that makes my blood heat every time she looks at me with those defiant eyes. The kind that makes me want to break her and worship her in the same breath.
Emma sets down her cup with deliberate care. “I never agreed to any of this.”
“No,” Eduard acknowledges. “You didn’t. And no one expects you to accept the situation overnight. But the truth remains that you’re here now and none of us are pretending the connection between us doesn’t exist after everything that’s already happened.”
The silence that follows is heavy with unspoken tension.
Emma’s hands curl into fists on the table, and I can see the war playing out behind her eyes.
Part of her wants to fight, to reject everything we’re saying.
But another part, the part that responded to us this morning, can’t deny what she felt.
I lean forward slightly, holding her gaze. “You felt it, Emma. Don’t pretend you didn’t.”
Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t look away. That’s my girl. Never backing down, even when she knows she’s cornered.
“This is insane,” she says finally.
“Maybe,” Artur agrees with a slight smile. “But you’re still sitting here.”
Emma’s jaw tightens, but she doesn’t argue. Instead, she stands abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. “Like I have a choice,” she huffs. “I need air.”
I rise as well, gesturing toward the door. “The estate has private gardens. You haven’t seen them yet.”
She looks like she wants to refuse, but after a moment she nods. Artur leads the way downstairs, his stride confident and relaxed. Eduard lingers long enough to make sure Emma actually follows then falls into step beside her.
I bring up the rear, watching the way she moves through the corridors.
The gardens are on the east side of the estate, accessible through a set of French doors that open onto a stone terrace.
Morning sunlight floods the space, warming the air and making the dew on the grass sparkle.
The gardens themselves are extensive, with carefully maintained paths winding between flower beds and ornamental trees.
The estate is quiet this time of morning. Most of the staff are in the kitchens or the outer buildings, giving us privacy. Our footsteps echo on the marble floors as we descend the main staircase. Emma’s hand trails along the banister as we walk.
She’s always thinking. Always planning. It’s going to make keeping her here a hell of a lot more interesting.
Artur pushes open the doors, and fresh air rushes in. It smells like roses and wet earth, clean and alive. The gardens were Eduard’s idea when we designed this place. He said we needed something beautiful to balance out all the ugliness in our lives.
Looking at Emma as she steps outside, I think he might have been right.
Emma steps outside and stops, her eyes scanning the landscape.
For a moment, I think she’s simply taking in the view.
The gardens really are beautiful this time of year, with late spring flowers in full bloom and the trees heavy with new leaves.
The morning light turns everything golden, peaceful in a way that feels almost foreign to men like us.
Then her entire body goes rigid.
I follow her gaze and see what caught her attention.
Parked near the far end of the courtyard is a black vehicle. A Ford Explorer with tinted windows and government plates barely visible from this distance.
It’s the exact same make and model used by the FBI task force she worked with before her disappearance.