19. Artur
ARTUR
The house settles into unusual quiet after dinner.
Most of the staff have disappeared into the back halls, and the estate takes on that slower rhythm that comes once the sun drops below the horizon.
I stretch out on one of the lounge chairs, my body relaxed but my mind still turning over the day’s revelations.
Rurik moves to the bar cart and pours drinks with his usual methodical precision.
Eduard flips through the old music collection near the stereo system, his fingers trailing across vinyl sleeves our fathers collected decades ago.
Emma lingers near the windows, her silhouette outlined by the fading light as she looks out over the gardens.
I watch her standing there, the way her dark hair catches the last rays of sunlight, the curve of her ass in those fitted jeans.
Even when she’s quiet like this, there’s tension in her shoulders.
She’s always thinking, always planning. It’s one of the things that makes her so damn attractive—and so fucking dangerous.
My mind drifts back to the moment earlier when Emma noticed that entry in the ledger.
The reference to an American observer attending a meeting with our fathers just days before they died.
For years, we believed the story that our fathers were killed because of a territorial feud that spiraled out of control.
Now that single line suggests there may have been someone else involved that night. Someone outside our world.
I don’t say anything about it yet. Neither do Rurik nor Eduard. But the thought lingers in the back of my mind like a splinter I can’t quite dig out.
Eduard eventually settles on an old Russian folk recording and lively music fills the lounge. The familiar melody makes me grin immediately. I recognize it from countless family celebrations, weddings, and gatherings where the vodka flowed and everyone danced until their feet hurt.
“I know this one,” I say, sitting up.
Emma turns from the window, her gray-green eyes curious. “What is it?”
“Traditional circle dance.” I stand and move toward her, already feeling the rhythm in my bones. “Used at celebrations and weddings. My father taught me when I was maybe seven years old.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You dance?”
“Sweetheart, I do a lot of things that might surprise you.” I hold out my hand. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
She hesitates, glancing at Rurik and Eduard like she’s looking for permission or maybe an escape route. Rurik just smiles slightly over the rim of his glass. Eduard grins and gestures for her to go ahead.
“Don’t be scared,” I tease. “I promise not to step on your feet.”
“I’m not scared,” Emma says, but she doesn’t take my hand yet.
“Then prove it.”
That does it. Her chin lifts in that stubborn way I’ve come to recognize, and she crosses the room to stand in front of me. I take her hand and pull her toward the open space in the middle of the lounge.
“The steps are simple,” I explain, demonstrating the basic footwork. “Step, step, kick. Then turn and repeat. The rhythm is fast, so you have to keep up.”
I show her the movements, exaggerating them slightly so she can follow. Emma watches with that sharp focus she brings to everything, her eyes tracking my feet.
“Like this?” She tries to copy the steps and immediately stumbles.
I catch her before she can fall, my hands on her waist. “Close. But you’re thinking too much. Just feel the music.”
“I don’t know how to feel music,” she mutters, but she tries again.
This time, she gets the first two steps right before her foot catches on the third. Rurik laughs from his chair, the sound warm and genuine. Eduard stands and moves to join us.
“Here,” Eduard says, taking Emma’s other hand. “We’ll go slow first.”
Between the two of us, we guide her through the steps. Eduard corrects her footing while I keep the rhythm, counting out loud until she starts to pick it up. What begins as awkward and clumsy slowly transforms into something closer to actual dancing.
Emma’s face flushes with concentration and maybe a little embarrassment, but she doesn’t give up.
She keeps trying, her body gradually finding the rhythm.
When she finally completes a full sequence without stumbling, she laughs.
The sound is bright and unguarded, so different from her usual controlled demeanor.
“I did it!” She sounds genuinely surprised.
“You did,” I agree, spinning her under my arm. “Now let’s see if you can keep up when we go faster.”
Eduard increases the tempo, and suddenly we’re all moving together. Emma between Eduard and me, Rurik watching from his chair with an expression I can’t quite read. The music fills the room, lively and infectious, and for a few minutes, nothing else matters except the dance.
Emma’s dark hair comes loose from its braid, falling in waves around her face. Her cheeks are pink from exertion, her eyes bright. When she laughs again, breathless and happy, something tightens in my chest.
This is what I wanted when we bought her. Not just a woman to warm our bed, but someone who could be part of this. Part of us. Someone who could laugh in our home and dance to our music and belong here in a way that goes deeper than ownership.
The song ends, and Emma collapses onto the couch, breathing hard. “That was insane.”
“That was tradition,” I correct, dropping down beside her. “And you were good.”
“I was terrible.”
“You were better than terrible.” Eduard hands her a glass of water. “You picked it up faster than most people do.”
She drinks deeply, her throat working as she swallows. I watch the movement, my gaze dropping to the curve of her breasts rising and falling with each breath. The fitted sweater she’s wearing clings to her body, and I can see the outline of her nipples through the fabric.
Fuck, I want her.
Rurik stands and moves closer, his pale eyes locked on Emma’s flushed face. “Again,” he says quietly.
Emma looks up at him. “What?”
“Dance with me.”
It’s not a request. Rurik doesn’t make requests. But there’s something in his voice that makes it feel less like a command and more like an invitation.
Emma sets down her water and stands. Rurik takes her hand and pulls her close, one arm sliding around her waist. The music has shifted to something slower now, a traditional waltz that requires bodies pressed together.
I watch them move across the floor, Rurik’s hand splayed across the small of Emma’s back, her fingers resting on his shoulder.
They fit together perfectly, her smaller frame tucked against his larger one.
When Rurik spins her, her hair fans out, and I catch a glimpse of her face.
Her eyes are half-closed, her lips parted slightly.
Eduard moves to stand beside me, his gaze also fixed on the pair. “She’s beautiful like this,” he murmurs.
“Yeah,” I agree. “She is.”
The song ends, but Rurik doesn’t release her immediately. They stand there for a moment, bodies still pressed together, and I see the exact second the energy in the room shifts. It’s subtle but unmistakable. The air grows heavier, charged with something that has nothing to do with dancing.
Emma’s breathing quickens. Rurik’s hand tightens on her waist. Then he leans down and kisses her.
It’s not gentle. It’s possessive and demanding, the kind of kiss that claims. Emma melts into it, her hands fisting in his shirt as she kisses him back with equal hunger.
Eduard and I exchange a glance. Then we move.
I reach Emma first, my hand sliding into her hair as I tilt her head back. Rurik releases her mouth, and I claim it immediately. She tastes like woman and heat, her tongue meeting mine with desperate need.
Eduard’s hands find her waist, pulling her sweater up and over her head.
She breaks the kiss long enough for the fabric to clear, then her mouth is back on mine.
Rurik works the button of her jeans while Eduard unhooks her bra, and within seconds she’s standing between us in nothing but her underwear.
We move as one, guiding Emma down the hall to the massive bedroom we share. The door closes behind us, then there’s nothing but hands and mouths and the sound of her gasping our names.
I strip off my shirt while Eduard lays her on the bed. Rurik is already naked, his cock hard and ready. Emma’s eyes widen slightly when she sees him, but there’s no fear there. Just want.
Eduard kisses down her stomach, his hands sliding her underwear down her legs. When his mouth finds her center, Emma arches off the bed with a cry. I move to her side, capturing her mouth again while my hand finds her breast, thumb brushing over her nipple.
“Fuck, she’s so wet,” Eduard groans against her skin.
Rurik positions himself at the head of the bed, his hand tangling in Emma’s hair as he guides her mouth to his cock. She takes him eagerly, her lips stretching around his thickness. The sight makes my own cock throb painfully.
I strip off the rest of my clothes and move between her legs, replacing Eduard’s mouth with my fingers. She’s soaked, her inner muscles clenching around my digits as I work her. Eduard moves to her other breast.
When I finally push inside her, we both groan. She’s tight and perfect, her body gripping me like she was made for this. I start to move, slow and deep, watching her face as she takes Rurik’s cock deeper into her throat.
“That’s it,” Rurik murmurs, his voice strained. “Take all of me.”
Eduard’s hand slides between us, finding her clit. The added stimulation makes Emma moan around Rurik’s cock, the vibration making him curse. I increase my pace, driving into her harder, faster, chasing the pleasure building at the base of my spine.
Emma comes first, her body convulsing around me as she cries out. The sensation pushes me over the edge and I follow with a groan, burying myself deep as I spill inside her.
Rurik pulls out of her mouth and Eduard takes my place between her legs, sliding into her still-quivering body. I move to her side, kissing her deeply while Rurik strokes himself, watching Eduard fuck her with controlled precision.
When Eduard comes, Rurik takes his turn, flipping Emma onto her stomach and entering her from behind. The new angle makes her gasp, her fingers clutching the sheets as he sets a relentless rhythm.
By the time we’re all spent, Emma is boneless and trembling between us. We collapse onto the bed together, our bodies tangled, skin slick with sweat.
For a long moment, no one speaks. Then Emma laughs softly, the sound breathless and satisfied.
“That was better than dancing,” she murmurs.
I grin against her shoulder. “Told you I’d surprise you.”
We eventually make our way back to the lounge, Emma wrapped in one of Rurik’s shirts, her legs still shaky. Eduard pours fresh drinks while I restart the music, something softer this time.
Emma curls up on the couch between Rurik and me, her head resting on my shoulder. Eduard settles into the chair across from us, his gray eyes warm as he watches us.
This is what family feels like. This moment right here.
The door opens without warning. One of Rurik’s senior captains enters, his expression grim. He holds a tablet in one hand.
“Sir,” he says, his accent thick. “We have new information from our tech contact.”
Rurik straightens immediately. “What is it?”
The captain glances at Emma then back to Rurik. “The FBI has officially declared Special Agent Emma Moore presumed dead. They’ve quietly closed the investigation into the underground bride auction.”
The words hang in the air like a death sentence.
Emma goes very still beside me, her entire body tensing. She’s been erased. Declared dead by the very organization she dedicated her life to serving.
Whoever made that decision just made a very dangerous enemy.