26. Emma
Emma
The drive back to the hotel is strangely quiet, but not uncomfortable. The silence feels weighted by everything left unsaid at the wedding reception and everything that happened afterward.
Rus drives with one hand on the wheel, his attention fixed on the dark Colorado road ahead.
Shortly after the speech, he reached out to the driver and asked that he have the car dropped off for our use.
Seeing Ruslan slightly disheveled, brows knit and gaze fixed on the asphalt, makes me think he needed this.
He needed the distraction of driving instead of the luxury of being driven.
The city lights blur past the windows in streaks of gold and white, disappearing behind us as we make our way back toward downtown Denver.
I keep stealing glances at him.
He should be furious. After that speech, after publicly provoking Andrei in front of half the city’s elite, I expected him to be ready to go to war. Instead, he’s completely quiet. There’s a stillness to him that feels…new.
It’s unsettling.
The elevator ride to our suite is no better. My pulse seems determined to rocket right out of my throat while we stand shoulder to shoulder in the mirrored box. The scent of his cologne wraps around me every time the elevator shifts slightly, and I become painfully aware of how close he is.
The doors slide open.
We walk silently down the hallway. The suite door closes behind us with a quiet click.
And suddenly we’re alone.
I set my clutch on the entry table and turn toward him.
“That speech was insane.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Probably.”
“Probably?”
“It got the desired reaction.”
I stare at him. “You’re impossible.”
His gaze lingers on me for a long moment.
Then he crosses the room.
Slowly, deliberately, Rus reaches up and brushes a loose curl behind my ear. The gesture is so unexpectedly gentle that it steals every prepared argument from my head.
“Come here, l’vyonak.”
My heart betrays me immediately. The nickname has become dangerous in just the space of a few hours; Rus’ emblem is the lion. He built his empire on the image of the lion. In fact, before tonight, I would’ve said his restlessness matches that of a pacing lion.
Which makes that word, l’vyonak, feel deeper than an endearment.
I take one step forward.
Then another.
Rus slides a hand around my waist and pulls me against him. His other hand settles against my jaw, tilting my face upward before his mouth finds mine.
The kiss is slow, and somehow that makes it worse. There’s nothing to hide behind. My heart pounds, then slows, as I melt against him, wrapping my arms beneath his jacket and around his hard waist.
His lips move against mine with a patience that feels almost worshipful, and something inside me begins to unravel.
The room seems to disappear around us.
When he finally pulls back, I’m breathing hard. So is he. His forehead rests lightly against mine.
“Rus...”
His hands slide lower.
One settles against my waist while the other skims the side of my dress. The expensive fabric shifts beneath his fingers as he draws me closer, his expression tightening slightly when he looks down at me.
The neckline of the dress dips just enough that he notices. His thumbs brush lightly over the sensitive peaks visible beneath the silk.
A shiver runs through me. His eyes darken.
“God.”
The word comes out rough. His forehead drops briefly against mine before he exhales.
“I need you.”
It sounds more like a confession than a declaration. Because if I’ve absorbed anything in the last month, it’s that Ruslan Smirnov doesn’t need anything. Not power, money, approval—yet somehow, he’s standing in front of me looking almost vulnerable.
And that’s what breaks me.
My eyes sting unexpectedly. I love him. Somewhere between California and Colorado, between arguments and danger, I fell for him. It was in the stolen moments. Watching him be a man, not a monster.
He infuriates me, frightens me, and protects people with the same hands capable of destroying them. He adores his niece. He’s still angry for the little boy who lost too much too young.
The truth settles deep inside me, and when I exhale, it feels like acceptance.
His expression shifts immediately. “What’s the matter, Emma?”
I laugh shakily. “Nothing. I’m fine.”
“That is obviously not true.”
I shake my head. Because if I tell him now, I don’t think there’s any taking it back. Instead, I reach for him.
His eyes soften. Then he kisses me again. The world narrows to warmth and familiar hands and the steady beat of his heart beneath my palm. Together we move deeper into the suite, leaving the lights of Denver glowing beyond the windows.
For once, neither of us talks about Andrei. For once, there is no revenge.
Only the fragile, dangerous thing growing between us.
And later, when the bedroom door closes behind us, the rest of the world disappears entirely.
* * *
The next morning, I wake slowly.
For a few blissful seconds, I don’t move. I just lie there beneath the soft hotel sheets, eyes closed, listening to the muted sounds drifting through the suite.
A cabinet door opens. Closes. The faint clink of ceramic against marble.
Coffee.
My mouth curves before I can stop it.
Rus.
The realization settles warmly through me, and I burrow deeper into the pillow. Sunlight filters through the partially open curtains, painting the room gold. Somewhere beyond the bedroom, I can hear him moving around the suite kitchen, completely unaware that I’m awake.
It’s domestic; dangerously so. The thought should probably send me into a panic. Once, I hunted men like him down, and now I’m breathing in his scent, reliving the night we spent together.
I picture him out there in one of his expensive shirts with the sleeves rolled up, scowling at a coffee machine like it personally offended him. For a man who commands criminals, fashion executives, and politicians with equal ease, he remains strangely intense about breakfast.
A laugh threatens, and I swallow it back behind a smile.
The mattress still holds traces of warmth beside me, and my chest tightens unexpectedly. Last night feels almost dreamlike now. The wedding. The reception. The fountain. The way he’d looked at me.
The way he’d said he needed me.
My smile fades slightly. Because the worst part is that I need him too.
I’ve spent weeks telling myself this is temporary. A bizarre detour, a business arrangement. Clearly a lapse in judgment fueled by mutual attraction and my desire to start over.
Then somewhere along the way, it stopped being temporary and became real.
I stare up at the ceiling.
This is a disaster. A complete disaster.
He’s a criminal. A genuine criminal, not just a guy who lied on his profile or a misunderstood businessman evading taxes. A man who gives orders in Russian that make grown men nervous.
And somehow, I’ve fallen for him anyway.
The universe clearly has a sense of humor.
Outside the bedroom, something crashes.
“Shit.” Rus’s voice follows immediately.
The scent of fresh coffee drifts into the room a moment later. My stomach growls softly. Breakfast sounds amazing.
Actually, food has sounded amazing for days. I frown slightly. That’s odd. I’ve been hungrier than usual lately.
And tired. Very tired, which hasn’t mattered much because when Rus is out attending to “business,” I’ve taken late morning naps.
My smile slowly disappears.
Tired. Hungry.
A strange unease begins creeping into the edges of my thoughts.
No.
No, no, no.
I roll onto my back and stare harder at absolutely nothing. When was my last period? The question appears so suddenly that it almost startles me. I try to count backward.
The flight to Colorado.
The shopping trip.
California.
The contract.
Meeting Rus.
The timeline blurs together frustratingly. A knot forms low in my stomach.
Wait.
When was—
I count again, more carefully this time. It’s been weeks. Several weeks. And I’m always on time, so if my calculations are right, I’m six days late.
The blood drains from my face, a tingling sensation running down my shoulders and arms. Outside the bedroom, I hear Rus humming under his breath while moving around the kitchen. Completely oblivious.
My heart hammers as nausea takes over; it’s so perfectly timed that it feels like the universe is playing a cruel joke. Anxiety, or?
No, no, no. It’s impossible.
Right?