18. Yaromir
YAROMIR
I wait for her in the main hall.
That’s mistake number one.
I should wait in the car. I should let Viktor bring her down. I should already be on a call, already busy, already reminding myself that tonight is about strategy. Instead, I stand at the foot of the staircase like a husband waiting for his wife.
Alexei would enjoy that too much if he saw it.
The hall is quiet except for the low murmur of men outside the front doors and the distant movement of staff.
Two cars wait in the drive. Viktor has already checked the route twice.
My men know where Kirill’s men will be positioned if he attends.
They know which exits to watch at the Imperial Exchange.
Larisa sits in the drawing room nearby, the door open just enough for me to know she’s watching.
Of course she’s watching.
She has said nothing since Anya went upstairs to dress, but her silence tells me everything about how she feels about this.
I hear movement above. My attention goes to the staircase before I can stop it.
At first, I see only the lower edge of the dress.
Dark red. Not bright. Not girlish. Deep, almost wine-colored, the kind of red that looks black where the shadows touch it. Then she steps into view, one hand on the railing, and every thought I have stops.
Anya descends slowly. Not because she’s uncertain, but because she knows I’m looking.
The dress fits her like it was made by someone who understood what a weapon could look like when sewn from silk.
It clings to her waist and hips before falling cleanly to the floor, with a slit high enough to show one leg when she moves.
The neckline is elegant, but not innocent.
Her shoulders are bare. Her throat is bare.
Her hair is swept up, with a few soft pieces left around her face.
Diamonds sit at her ears. My ring sits on her finger.
I forget, for a second, that there are other people in the hall.
At lunch, she looked tired and cornered. In the stable, restless. In my room last night, wrecked and furious. Now she looks like a Volkov wife.
Not Dmitri’s abandoned bride.
Mine.
The satisfaction is immediate and so strong I have to lock my jaw to keep it from falling off my face.
My aunt comes out from the sitting area, staring up at Anya. The dress. The posture. The quiet confidence Anya is still learning how to wear. The way the hall itself seems to make room for her as she comes down.
Larisa does not like it.
Anya reaches the last step and stops in front of me. For a moment, neither of us speaks.
Her eyes move over my suit, then back to my face. “Well?”
I should say something ordinary. You look nice, you look pretty. All of these things are true, but there’s more to it. I think about how every man in that room will look at her, and I will have to decide how many of them I am willing to kill before dessert.
I almost tell her that I want to take her back upstairs and keep this version of her for myself. Instead, I look at the clasp near her throat, at the line of her shoulders, at anywhere that is not her mouth.
“You’ll do,” I say.
Her eyes narrow. For one second, I think she might hit me. Then she sees the corner of my mouth move.
“You are terrible at compliments,” she says.
Larisa’s mouth tightens. “That dress is dramatic.”
Anya gives her a polite smile. “I was told appearances are armor.”
For the first time all evening, I almost laugh.
Larisa’s eyes flick to me. She knows exactly where Anya got that line.
“You remember selectively,” Larisa says.
“I remember useful things.”
The hall goes quiet. A few staff members near the side corridor suddenly find reasons to lower their eyes. Viktor would enjoy this if he were inside. Alexei would have applauded.
Larisa steps closer, scowling now without bothering to disguise it. “Red is a dangerous choice.”
Anya’s smile doesn’t move. “I know.”
Larisa studies her for another moment, and something unpleasant settles behind her eyes. She expected to see a frightened underling’s daughter dressed up beyond her station. She expected something decorative. Something she could dismiss.
“You understand what tonight is?” Larisa asks.
Anya’s smile fades. “Yes.”
“Do you?”
“She does,” I say.
Anya glances at me. I take Anya’s new coat from the waiting maid before anyone else can touch it. Black, lined with fur, fitted to her frame. I step behind her and settle it over her shoulders.
She stills when my hands brush her skin.
Only for a second, but I feel it.
I lean close enough that my voice stays only between us. “You look beautiful.”
Her breath catches. It’s a small thing. Barely sound.
She turns her head slightly, not enough to face me. “That sounded painful for you.”
“It was.”
She almost smiles.
I fasten the coat slowly, my fingers careful at her throat. The urge to touch more is immediate and unwelcome. Her skin is warm. Her perfume is subtle, something clean and expensive under the scent that is only her.
I step away before I forget we are in the hall.
Larisa is still watching. Her scowl has deepened.
Anya turns back to me. “Are you ready?”
I look at her. At the red dress. At the lifted chin. At the woman Dmitri thought he could humiliate and still keep.
“Yes,” I say. “Now I am.”
Her eyes hold mine for a moment. Then she offers me her hand. Her fingers are cool in mine, but her grip is steady. Together, we walk toward the front doors while Larisa stands behind us, silent and displeased.
For once, the old woman has nothing to say.
And that feels like the first victory of the night.
Anya is nervous.
She hides it well, but not well enough for me.
She sits beside me in the back of the car, one gloved hand resting over the other in her lap, her posture perfect, her chin lifted, her eyes fixed on the dark window. The city moves past us in streaks of gold and black. Wet streets. Headlights. Men under awnings smoking into the cold.
She hasn’t spoken since we left the house. That’s how I know she’s fighting herself.
Anya talks when she’s angry. She argues when she’s afraid.
I look at her hands. Her fingers are too still.
“You’re thinking too much,” I say.
She doesn’t turn. “I’m about to walk into a room full of people who either pity me, hate me, or want to see if my life is ruined. Thinking seems reasonable.”
“You don’t look ruined.”
That makes her glance at me.
Her mouth tightens. “No?”
“No.”
“What do I look like?”
Mine.
The word comes fast enough that I have to stop it before it reaches my mouth.
Instead, I say, “Fucking beautiful.”
She stares at me. Then, despite herself, she laughs once. “You really are terrible at this.”
“At what?”
“Comfort.”
“I wasn’t comforting you.”
“No, clearly.”
“You asked what you look like. I answered.”
She turns toward the window again, but her mouth has softened.
I shift closer, not much. Enough that her body notices before she decides whether to.
“You also look angry,” I say.
“I am angry.”
“Good.”
Her gaze comes back to me. “You keep saying that.”
“Because anger is useful.”
“Is that what you tell yourself?”
“Yes.”
“And does it work?”
“Usually.”
She studies me in the dim light of the car. The diamonds at her ears catch every passing streetlamp. Her red dress is mostly hidden beneath her coat, but I know what’s under it. I saw enough in the hall to have that image burned into my head.
Bare shoulders. That high slit. The way the silk moved over her hips.
She notices me looking, and her breath changes. Not fear.
The car feels smaller at once.
I should stop. We’re minutes away from the auction. Viktor is in the front passenger seat. A driver sits behind the wheel. There’s a privacy partition, yes, but not enough distance to pretend we are alone.
Anya looks away first.
I reach for her hand. She stiffens, then lets me take it.
Her glove is soft under my thumb. Black satin. A useless, beautiful thing. I pull it from her fingers slowly, one finger at a time.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Distracting you.”
“This is your attempt?”
“Yes.”
“You’re making it worse.”
“I know.”
Her eyes lift to mine.
There’s the spark I wanted.
The nervous bride is still there beneath the silk and diamonds, but so is the woman who touched me last night because she was angry I had assumed wrong. The woman who kissed me like she wanted to punish both of us with her mouth.
I bring her bare hand to my lips and kiss her knuckles. Her breath catches.
I turn her hand over and kiss the inside of her wrist. Her pulse kicks beneath my mouth.
“Yaromir,” she says.
I look at her over her wrist. “Yes?”
“We are in a car.”
“I know.”
“We’re going to be there soon.”
“I know that too.”
My mouth moves higher, to the sensitive skin just above her glove line. She swallows. Her body shifts toward me by a fraction, then stops, as if she realizes what she has done and resents it.
That almost makes me smile.
“Are you still nervous?” I ask.
Her eyes darken. “No.”
“Liar.”
She pulls her hand free and grips my tie.
That surprises me.
Then she drags me to her and kisses me.
I don’t hesitate. The second her mouth is on mine, the careful restraint I had wrapped around myself begins to tear.
I cup the back of her neck and take the kiss deeper.
She makes a soft sound against me, already opening, already clutching at my jacket like she needs to be closer and hates that she needs it.
I pull her across the seat and into my lap.
She gasps, but she comes willingly, knees on either side of me, red dress riding up her thighs beneath the coat. The car turns, and she grabs my shoulders to steady herself.
“Careful,” I murmur against her mouth.
“You started this.”
“And you climbed onto me.”
Her eyes flash. “You pulled me.”
“You let me.”
That shuts her up.
For three seconds.
Then she kisses me again, harder.
I slide my hand under her coat, over the curve of her waist, down to her hip. The silk is warm from her body. My fingers tighten there, and I feel her tremble.
My cock hardens immediately beneath her.
She feels it, and her hips still. Then, slowly, almost testing herself, she moves against me.