24. Ruslan
Ruslan
The church gardens glow softly beneath strings of hanging lights and the fading remnants of sunset. Guests drift across the stone pathways, holding champagne flutes and crystal wine glasses while a string quartet plays somewhere near the ancient red stone gazebo.
Emma’s hand remains tucked into my elbow.
Every few seconds her thumb brushes lightly against the fabric of my sleeve as we move through the crowd, and each absentminded touch drags my attention back toward her all over again.
It’s early afternoon, a cocktail hour before the ceremony, and all I can think about is how the mauve dress clinging to her bosom brings out the green in her eyes.
This is becoming a serious problem.
I take another slow sip of wine while nodding absently at a businessman attempting to flatter me about the California fashion industry.
My focus barely catches half the conversation.
Emma stands close beside me while autumn roses bloom around us in deep crimson clusters, and I want nothing more than to kiss her.
Not fuck her. Not ruin her in a confession box.
Kiss her.
The distinction feels like both sin and salvation.
Instrumental music drifts softly through the gardens, and the entire atmosphere suddenly feels far too intimate for a revenge plot. Emma glances up at me occasionally with cautious curiosity still lingering behind her eyes, and every time she does it knocks something loose beneath my ribs.
I drain the rest of my wine.
“Are you all right?” she asks quietly.
“No.”
That earns the faintest smile from her.
The wedding coordinator begins directing guests slowly toward the cathedral entrance, herding Colorado’s elite toward polished wooden doors beneath massive floral arrangements. Around us, conversations shift and heels click softly across stone pathways as people begin filtering toward the ceremony.
I stare at the church entrance.
Then I look down at Emma.
An abrupt decision settles into place.
“Do you want to skip it?”
Her eyebrows lift immediately. “The wedding?”
“Yes.”
“You came all the way to Colorado to terrorize your brother.”
“I already accomplished that part.”
Emma studies me for a second, visibly surprised. “You seriously don’t want to watch? You don’t have some kind of plot to object?”
There’s an edge of desperation to her question, subtle, a look in her eyes that’s been there for a few days now.
What aren’t you telling me, Emma?
But I’m too afraid to ask. Instead, I glance toward the cathedral again where Andrei’s allies and wealthy donors are already gathering beneath the gorgeous stained glass. The thought of sitting quietly while he marries this woman suddenly fills me with exhaustion more than rage.
“No,” I admit.
A small pause follows. Then Emma says softly, “Okay.”
Relief moves through me so quickly it almost feels unfamiliar.
I guide her away from the crowd before anyone notices our absence, steering her down one of the quieter garden paths winding behind the church grounds. The noise of the cocktail party fades gradually behind us until only distant music and murmured conversation remain beneath the rustling trees.
Colorado autumn lingers everywhere now. The gardens are overflowing with late roses, petals dancing on the breeze, and ivy beginning to darken at the edges, gold leaves scattered across stone walkways. Water spills softly into the basin of an ancient fountain, the sound somehow delicate.
Emma slows beside the fountain.
“It’s beautiful back here.”
I look at her instead of the gardens.
The realization lands suddenly and with irritating force that I have spent years surrounding myself with beautiful things: luxury fabrics, architecture, art, women carefully selected for elegance.
None of it has ever unsettled me the way Emma does, standing quietly beneath a deepening afternoon sky.
Because Emma’s beauty is alive.
Messy. Emotional. Unpredictable.
Real, even if she’s been hiding things from me.
She turns toward me slowly, curls stirring lightly in the cool breeze. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring again.”
“I’m allowed. It’s in the contract.”
It’s not; we both know that. Her cheeks flush faintly.
God.
I step closer before thinking better of it, drawn toward her warmth like something starving. My hand slides carefully along her jaw, thumb brushing softly beneath her cheekbone while the fountain water murmurs quietly beside us.
Emma’s breath catches. For one suspended moment, revenge disappears entirely.
No Andrei. No politics. No empire waiting back in California.
Only her.
Without thinking, her chin tipped up on the edge of my fingers, her mouth tantalizingly close. The color on her lips matches the dress, and I imagine how it might taste, how it might slide across my mouth if I devour her.
“Tempting,” I murmur, managing to take a step back. My head is still foggy with her nearness; the curves of her body warmer than the air around us, the mix of innocence and intrigue in her. “Too tempting, l’vyonak.”
Emma’s eyes narrow. Her hand hasn’t left its place at my hip, and I don’t move any further away. I relish this feeling, this intimacy between us, hidden in a church garden.
“You keep calling me that. What does it mean?”
I stop breathing for a moment, caught out. She’s right; it’s a nickname I’ve let slip now and then, something I wanted to live only in my mind. But with those eyes on me, her dark lashes lowered, I find that I can’t lie.
“Little lion,” I murmur, watching her features shift into confusion, surprise, and amusement.
“Really. That sounds a lot like an endearment, Mr. Smirnov.”
I shake my head resolutely; maybe I’m willing to give in to this temptation, to take her somewhere private and kiss her until we both forget that Andrei exists. But I’m not ready yet to admit.
“Not an endearment. A reminder.”
“A reminder?” One corner of her luscious mouth tips up in a smile.
“Mmm. That you’re dangerous. More so than you look.”
Her eyes dart away quickly, darkening, and my heart tugs painfully. Because I know that as much as we’re standing here flirting, there is something beneath the surface. Some secret she hasn’t told me yet, that goes beyond just her previous life in the FBI.
Something holding her back from giving in, as I find myself so suddenly willing to do.
My hand captures hers at my hip, holding it lightly. Lacing our fingers together.
“We don’t have to talk,” I tell her. Behind us, in the massive stone building, the muted sounds of the wedding march starts to play. “Just stay with me.”
Emma nods. Her fingers slip into mine.