Chapter 14
Nadia
After Roman finished breakfast, we left the hotel.
More accurately, he dragged me out.
"I need to go back to the room and change." I tried to pull my wrist free from his grip.
"No need." He didn't even look back, his strides so long I had to jog to keep up. "The way you look right now is enough to make me want to fuck you senseless."
"You foul-mouthed bastard!" I stopped, panting, yanking my hand back hard. "Roman Sokolov! Where the hell are you taking me?"
He finally stopped. His tall frame turned, blocking out most of the blinding sunlight.
The ocean breeze pressed his dark linen shirt against his body, outlining the broad, sculpted planes of his chest. He wore black aviator sunglasses that hid those predatory eyes, but somehow that made him look even more lethal.
"To see the ocean." His answer was simple. "You like it, don't you?"
I froze.
How did he know I liked the ocean?
As if reading my mind, his mouth curved slightly. "When you were choosing your seat in the restaurant, your eyes were glued to the water outside."
My heart slammed against my ribs.
He'd noticed that?
"Let's go, Kitten." He didn't give me time to process. His hand slid down, fingers threading forcefully through mine, locking us together. "Before it gets too hot, we can hit a few good spots."
We followed the coastline north.
The island was more pristine and beautiful than I'd imagined. Past the resort's glittering hub, everything became purer—the ocean a liquid sapphire, glittering gold under the sun. White sand stretched to the horizon, dotted with smooth rocks worn round by the waves.
The salt-thick breeze swept away my morning's chaos and confusion.
"Like it?" Roman asked.
"Yeah." I nodded, watching seabirds glide across the water. "It's beautiful."
"Better than Lake Michigan." He said. "That water's always gray. And winter's a bitch."
I glanced at him.
Roman looked calm now. None of that aggressive swagger from breakfast, none of that cold menace from the conference room. He just walked beside me, his long shadow stretched by the sun, ocean wind ruffling the dark hair at his forehead.
Like this, he almost looked... normal.
"Do you come here often?" I heard myself ask.
"Not really." He said. "Last time was five years ago. Arms deal."
I clicked my tongue.
Right. I shouldn't have expected a normal answer.
"Then why did you choose this place?" I asked again. "I mean, for the honeymoon."
Roman stopped and turned to face me.
"Because it's safe." He said. "Far from all the Chicago bullshit. And..."
He lifted his hand, long fingers brushing away a strand of hair the wind had blown across my face, his touch grazing my cheek.
"The ocean here is blue." His voice dropped, softened. "Like your eyes."
My breath caught.
My heart hammered in my chest, heat flooding my face.
Damn it. How could he say something like that?
"Don't—don't try that on me!" I turned away, trying to hide my reaction. "Those cheap bar tricks won't work on me!"
Roman laughed low in his chest.
"No?" Instead of backing off, he pulled me closer, his solid thigh deliberately brushing against mine through our clothes. "Then why are your ears so red?"
I shoved at his chest and stormed ahead.
I walked in a huff for a while, and when he still hadn't caught up, I couldn't help glancing back.
He was following a few paces behind, hands in his pockets, and when our eyes met, he raised an eyebrow.
I whipped my head back around, exhaling sharply.
How many women had he been with to get this good at it?
We continued along the coastline, one ahead of the other.
After about ten minutes, a natural cove appeared ahead. Rock walls jutted out on either side, forming a sheltered pocket where the water turned impossibly calm, like a massive jade stone.
And on the beach, I saw people.
A wedding photography crew, to be precise.
The bride wore a strapless white gown, the skirt billowing in the breeze like a blooming lily. The groom in a fitted white suit held her waist as they posed intimately under the photographer's direction.
"Wow." I stopped without thinking, drawn to the scene.
Sunlight poured over the couple, waves lapping at their feet, shutter clicks filling the air. It looked like an oil painting—romantic, blissful.
I stared, transfixed.
Honestly, I'd never imagined what my own wedding would look like. Before my parents forced me to marry Roman, I'd never seriously considered "marriage" at all.
But watching that couple now, seeing the genuine happiness on the bride's face, I felt something tighten in my chest.
That was something I'd never have.
Because my wedding wasn't about love. It was a transaction, plain and simple.
"What are you thinking?" Roman's voice came at my ear.
I snapped back to find him pressed against my back. He lowered his head, warm breath ghosting over my ear, those dark eyes gleaming with something I couldn't read.
He didn't mock my distraction. He just wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me tight against his chest.
"Click—"
A crisp shutter snap broke through the sound of the waves, just a few feet away.
"Jesus! You two are drop-dead gorgeous!" The photographer who'd been shooting the couple suddenly swung his long lens toward us, waving excitedly.
"Sorry, I couldn't help myself! The way you're standing together—the tension is insane!
You look like a runaway bride and her dangerous mobster straight out of a Hollywood crime film! "
I jumped, my whole body tensing. I tried to pull out of Roman's arms.
But he didn't let go. Instead, he turned his head and pressed a possessive kiss to the top of my head.
"Thank you." Roman looked at the photographer, a perfect, wicked smile curving his mouth. "My wife really is too beautiful to look away from."
"Oh my God, you're newlyweds too, right?" The bride we'd been watching lifted her layers of tulle and ran over with her groom, eyes shining. "I'm Chloe, this is my husband Ben. You two have such an incredible presence—Ben was just saying you must be celebrities on a secret vacation!"
I stood frozen in Roman's grip. Faced with this kind of enthusiastic stranger interaction, I was more uncomfortable than I'd be facing federal agents.
But Roman leaned close, his voice low enough for only me to hear. "Smile, Kitten. Don't forget we're on our 'honeymoon.'"
I took a deep breath. He was right—we were "performing." And I wasn't some pushover. I wouldn't show weakness in front of this bastard, and I sure as hell wouldn't let him look down on me.
"Hi, I'm Nadia, and this is my husband Roman.
" I lifted my head, forcing out a smile so sweet it bordered on fake, and wrapped my arm around Roman's lean waist without hesitation.
"We did just get married. And as you can see, my husband is a hopeless 'control freak' who can't keep his hands off me, even in public. "
I emphasized the words, and under cover of our bodies, I pinched his side hard.
Roman's body tensed slightly.
I expected him to go cold, to give me that murderous look.
He didn't.
A deep, rich laugh rolled from Roman's chest, vibrating against me until I felt weak.
I froze.
Had he lost his mind?
"Sorry for the display." Roman was still laughing, his shoulders shaking. He ruffled my hair, his gaze locked on me. "But my wife has this power over me. I physically can't keep my eyes or my hands off her."
My fingers curled involuntarily.
Bastard. That look is cheating.
"You two are so in love! It's making me jealous!" Chloe covered her mouth, laughing. "Since we're all here on our honeymoons, this is fate! Why don't we take some photos together?"
"I don't think—" I instinctively started to refuse. Roman's identity was too sensitive. A man who operated in the shadows couldn't possibly want strangers taking his photo.
"Sure, why not?" Roman agreed immediately.
He even walked me over to the white sand and rocks himself.
"Closer! More intimate! Yes, Roman, look at your wife! Pin her against that rock! Look at her like you want to devour her right now!"
Roman suddenly turned and pressed me back against the rough stone. His long legs pushed between mine, one hand cradling the back of my head, the other locked around my waist.
The space between us vanished. I could feel his ragged, burning breath on my lips.
"What... what are you doing?" I hissed, glaring at him, though my voice trembled.
"I'm cooperating with the photographer, Mrs. Sokolova." He brushed his nose against mine, dark eyes blazing with heat that made me dizzy. His voice was gravel. "And I just realized... watching you get all feisty like a little fighting cock makes me want to fuck you right here."
My face went scarlet. I glared at him. Goddamn sex maniac.
I pretended my legs weren't going weak from his words.
The shutter went wild, capturing us in the sunlight by the rocks—that electric pull, that combustible tension stretched to its limit.
After the shoot, the photographer looked at his camera, ecstatic. "Holy shit, these are incredible! You two are natural models! Can I post these to my Instagram and portfolio? I swear you'll go viral!"
I snapped back to reality, about to stop him—this would expose a mob boss's location to the world!
But Roman pressed down on my hand first.
"Be my guest." Roman's smile deepened, his eyes hidden behind the sunglasses.
I resisted the urge to look at him, a chill running down my spine.
I suddenly understood.
He wasn't being charitable or enjoying some normal tourist moment. He was using these photos. He was using social media, using strangers' posts, to prove we were in love.
This had been a calculated PR move from the start.
So my confusion had been a joke all along.
Even those things he'd just said—maybe they were all to provoke me, to get a better reaction.
I tried to control myself, but my expression probably still looked sour.
I took a deep breath, trying to pull my hand free, but he tightened his grip like he could read my mind, pulling me deeper into his scorching chest.
He lowered his head, lips barely grazing my ear.
"Put that hurt look away, Kitten." His voice was rough, wrapping around me like an inescapable net. "When you look pathetic like that, it just makes me want to fuck you more."
God.
What made me despair was how fast my anger drained away.
And what made me feel utterly ashamed—in the face of that crude, vulgar threat—was the secret, burning wetness stirring deep inside me.