18. Yaromir #2
A rough breath leaves me.
Her eyes widen, and a satisfied little smile touches her mouth.
Dangerous girl.
I catch her jaw in one hand. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”
“Maybe I want to see what happens.”
“You already know what happens.”
“Not everything.”
The honesty in that almost destroys me.
I kiss her until her smile disappears. Until she’s panting into my mouth. Until her fingers are in my hair and her body is rocking against mine in small, helpless movements that make my control feel like a thin wire pulled too tight.
My hand slips inside her coat and finds the edge of her dress. I pull the fabric lower, just enough to expose the top of one breast.
She grabs my wrist.
I stop.
Her breath comes fast. Her eyes search mine, nervous and wanting at once.
“Tell me no,” I say.
She does not. Instead, she releases my wrist.
That’s enough.
I lower my mouth to her breast and kiss the bare skin there. Her whole body tightens. I tug the dress lower with my teeth and close my mouth over her nipple.
Anya bites down on a sound. Her hands dig into my shoulders.
“Yaromir.”
I do it again, slower this time, tongue dragging over her until she arches into me.
The car hits a smoother road, the motion making her press harder against my lap. My hand grips her ass under the coat, holding her where I want her, and she shudders when my cock pushes up against her through the layers between us.
Her perfume mixes with the heat of her skin. Her breast fills my hand. Her nipple is wet from my mouth, hard against my tongue, and the small broken sounds she tries to swallow make me want to tell Viktor to drive around the city until morning.
Then the car slows.
Anya freezes. I lift my head. For one second, we stare at each other, both breathing hard.
The car stops.
Viktor’s voice comes through the partition, perfectly neutral. “We have arrived.”
Anya’s eyes go wide with horror.
I almost laugh.
She scrambles off my lap, nearly catching her heel in the dress. I catch her waist before she falls. “Easy.”
“Don’t easy me,” she hisses. “You just had your mouth on my breast in the car.”
“You kissed me first.”
“That’s not a defense.”
“It’s a fact.”
She glares at me while fixing her dress with trembling hands. Her nipple still shows faintly through the silk. I reach out and adjust the fabric myself. She goes still.
I fasten the hidden clasp at the neckline, smooth the dress over her chest, then draw her coat back into place. My fingers brush her skin once more than necessary.
Her breath catches. “Stop,” she whispers.
“I’m helping.”
“You are making it worse.”
“Yes.”
She looks at me like she wants to kill me.
Then she sees my tie, and her expression changes. “You look terrible,” she says.
“Impossible.”
“Your tie is crooked.” She reaches for it without thinking.
I hold still while she fixes it. Her fingers are quick, precise, still a little shaky. There is something strangely intimate about it, more than the kiss somehow. Her smoothing my tie after I had my mouth on her. Her trying to make us both look untouched before we step into a room built to judge.
When she finishes, she looks up at me.
For a moment, the car is silent.
Then I take her glove and slide it back onto her hand.
“Ready?” I ask.
“No.”
“Good.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“It was not meant to be.”
Viktor opens the door.
Cold air cuts into the car. Noise follows. Voices. Cameras. The dull rise of a crowd outside the old Imperial Exchange building.
I step out first.
The venue stands at the end of a wide stone plaza, lit from below so every column looks taller than it is.
The building is old money pretending to serve charity.
White stone, arched windows, banners hanging from the entrance, black cars lined along the curb.
Men in tuxedos and women in gowns move slowly up the steps beneath chandeliers visible through the glass. Security is everywhere.
I turn and offer Anya my hand. She takes it.
When she steps out, the plaza changes. Every person outside or lingering in the foyer turns to look at us.
Good. Let them look.
Anya feels it. Her fingers tighten around mine. Then her chin lifts, and she moves beside me as if the whole building has been waiting for her. Pride moves through me before I can stop it.
I place my hand at her lower back as we climb the steps. At first, it’s proper. Expected. A husband guiding his wife.
Then we reach the top, and my hand drops lower. Not by accident. My palm settles over the curve of her ass, firm through the silk.
She turns her head slightly, eyes flashing. “Yaromir.”
“Yes?”
“People are watching.”
“I know.”
Her face burns, but she doesn’t move away. That satisfies me more than it should.
Inside, the hall is all marble and gold light.
The old exchange floor has been transformed for the auction.
Round tables surround a central platform where the items will be displayed.
Tall arrangements of white flowers stand between columns.
A string quartet plays near the staircase, soft enough that no one has to listen.
Waiters move with champagne trays. On the walls, framed paintings and jewelry cases sit under careful lighting, guarded by men who move through the floor observing everything.
Everywhere I look, people notice us.
Some pretend not to.
Some are not smart enough to.
Anya walks at my side, her expression calm enough to be mistaken for indifference. But I can feel the tension in her body. I keep my hand at her waist now, thumb resting against her hip.
We’re halfway across the room when I hear my name.
“Yaromir.”
The voice is familiar.
The crowd in front of us parts slightly, and my father steps into view.
Kirill Volkov looks older than the last time I saw him, but age has not made him softer. His hair is white at the temples now, his face lined, his suit immaculate. He still carries himself like every room belongs to him until someone stronger proves otherwise.
Dmitri’s mother stands several feet behind him, speaking to another woman, but her eyes are on us.
Dmitri is nowhere in sight. For now.
My father’s gaze moves to Anya first. Slowly. Insultingly.
Then to my hand at her waist.
Then to me.
“So it’s true,” he says.
I don’t move. “You sound disappointed.”
“I’m rarely disappointed by you anymore. I have learned to expect theatrics.”
Anya goes still beside me. I feel it through my hand.
My father notices her reaction and smiles faintly. “Anya Sokolova,” he says. “Or should I say Volkova now?”
I answer before she can. “You should say nothing to my wife unless she invites it.”
His eyes return to me. “You always did enjoy claiming things that were not offered to you.”
My hand tightens at Anya’s waist.
Not enough to hurt her. Enough that she feels it.
She glances at me, but I keep my eyes on him.
“She was not offered to me,” I say. “She chose.”
My father laughs softly. “Did she?”
Anya shifts. Before I can stop her, she speaks. “I did.”
The room around us seems to still.
My father looks at her, really looks at her now.
Anya’s face is calm, but I can feel the fight in her. The same fight from the study. The same fight from the stable. She’s afraid, yes, but she does not bow her head. Something like approval moves through me. I keep it off my face.
My father’s smile fades by a fraction. “Then I hope you understand what you chose.”
Anya’s voice stays steady. “Better than I understood Dmitri.”
Good. Very good.
My father’s eyes narrow.
Galina, a few feet away in her own conversation, hears enough to stop speaking.
People nearby pretend not to listen and fail badly.
I lean closer to my father. “Careful, old man. Your house has already lost one bride. Do not embarrass yourself by trying to insult mine.”
His expression hardens. For a second, I see the man who ruled by fear for decades.
Then I see the other thing too. The man realizing fear is no longer enough.
“You think a wedding makes you powerful?” he asks quietly.
“No. Power made the wedding possible.”
His jaw tightens.
Anya’s fingers press against my sleeve. Not stopping me. Just there.
My father notices that too. “You’ve been busy,” he says. “My port men. My transport routes. My collectors. Even men who ate at my table now answer your calls.”
“They answer mine because I pay them on time.”
“They answer yours because you threaten their families.”
“I threaten fewer families than you did.”
His eyes go cold.
There. A hit.
“You are moving recklessly,” he says.
“You are moving too slowly.”
“This city was mine before you knew how to hold a gun.”
“And now it is learning new habits.”
A few men nearby shift uneasily. They know better than to come close. They know better than to appear too interested. But they hear enough.
Good. Let them.
My father lowers his voice. “Do not mistake borrowed loyalty for empire.”
“I don’t borrow.”
“No,” he says, glancing at Anya again. “You take.”
I smile faintly. “You taught me.”
For the first time, his control slips.
Only slightly.
Only in the eyes.
But I see it.
His gaze moves over my face, lingering on the scar like it always does when he wants to remember me as the boy he could keep outside locked doors.
“You are still angry about old things.”
I step closer. “Enjoy your evening, and quit worrying about me, Father.”
“You’ll regret it soon enough,” he warns me. Then he leaves us, moving back into the crowd with the controlled pace of a man who refuses to appear dismissed.
Anya is still beside me, her body tight with held breath.
I look down at her. “You handled that well.”
She turns her face toward mine. There’s color high on her cheeks. Anger in her eyes. Nerves beneath both. “I thought I was going to faint.”
“You didn’t.”
“No.”
“Good.”
Her mouth tightens. “Stop saying that.”
I almost smile. Then I see her gaze move over my shoulder.
The color drains from her face.
I turn slightly. Across the room, near the auction platform, Dmitri has arrived.
And beside him stands Katya.