Chapter 8
HARPER
It takes a few seconds for the truth to register before an icy mask of decision falls over Aleks’s face.
“Lock this room down. Now.”
It all happens so quickly. Guests are vetted and escorted out, staff is questioned. I sit, flanked on either side by two of the bodyguards who were stationed outside my room this morning.
I suddenly remember. “Aleks, earlier today you said you had a tray of food for me, and I told you we already had one?”
“Right. Who brought the tray in?”
“Aria.”
Aria says one of the staff members gave it to her and points out a pale, thin woman with blonde hair.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” she says, her eyes wide at the look on Aleks’s face. “I was instructed to bring it up. That’s all I know. I came in late for a shift and one of the headwaiters said you asked for it to be sent up.”
The poor girl quakes under his furious look. “Which waiter?”
On and on the questioning goes until Aleks has interrogated everyone on staff. Mikhail oversees the questioning with concern, his brow knitted, but he mostly appears like he’s trying to prevent Aleks from singlehandedly murdering everyone.
“Aria could’ve eaten from that tray,” I say in a whisper. “She had the food in her hand but got distracted.”
The thought of Aria being poisoned…
Now Mikhail joins Aleks with the murderous looks.
“I want every one of the staff dismissed,” Aleks says to Mikhail. “Fired. No one but my wife stays here.”
My heart stalls at those words, two words that are foreign to my ears.
My wife.
Within an hour, his cat’s been sent to an emergency vet and declared poisoned but fine, and now there’s no one but the two of us left in the house. Not a single member of staff. Not one bodyguard.
I have no doubt Mikhail and his men are doing whatever Bratva men do about a potential threat against their loved ones.
Aleks sits brooding, a bottle of beer in front of him. His tie’s long gone, his hair a little tousled. He’s broody as fuck, and no help for it.
I try to think of him as my husband but somehow the vision of him in front of me and the words don’t quite jive together.
I nurse a glass of wine and try to make the dots connect.
“We were all adopted, you know,” he says thoughtfully, running his thumb along the rim of the beer bottle.
“Oh? I didn’t know. I mean, I know hardly anything about you.”
“Each of us, in turn, came from nothing. My uncle told me it was a favorite strategy of his father’s. My grandfather’s.”
I take another sip of wine, welcoming the slightly fruity tang and burn. “What strategy?”
“To start fresh. Start anew. He said whenever he took over a business, the first thing he did was fire everyone so he could handpick who worked for him. It was his method of ensuring loyalty.” He talks in a low, dangerous growl that makes me shiver. “Burn it all to the ground and start fresh.”
“An interesting strategy.”
Does that apply to me?
Oooooh.
“You told me to bring nothing with me,” I say in a little voice as it dawns on me. “You wanted to start fresh with me.”
He nods. “It’s how my father established his family. One by one, he chose us. He ensured our loyalty by providing for our needs, taking care of us, fathering us. By giving us a mother that took care of us.”
“I see.”
He takes another sip from the bottle. I watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down while he swallows.
“Did you fire everyone?”
“Yeah.”
I polish off the glass of wine and reach for the bottle. He watches me as if mesmerized but doesn’t stop me. I try to keep my tone upbeat to quell my rising nerves. “I’m amazed they left so readily, given your cheerful nature and infectious joy for life. You’re like sunshine in human form.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “Are you baiting me?”
My hand shakes a little as I pour another glass. “Nah.”
Of course I’m baiting him. If I can get him focused on sparring with me, it takes his mind off things like murder, bloodshed, and the darker cravings that haunt him. I want to see the man he is beneath the scars and shadowed masks he wears.
And if I’m honest? I want to distract him from the inevitable next step we take alone as a married couple.
“Try again,” he says, turning to face me. He finishes the beer and tosses the bottle to the table. I jump at the clang of glass and expect it to shatter, but it only rolls away.
“Maybe it’s your magnetic appeal and charisma,” I say, taking another generous sip of wine. My thoughts get a little muddled and the view in front of me blurs a little, like the room’s been etched in oil pastels. “Your genteel nature and lighthearted sense of humor?”
“Getting there,” he says, and I swear his eyes on me feel like he’s mentally undressing me. “Khristos, Princess. You’re fucking gorgeous. How much wine have you had?”
I finish my glass and eye the bottle. “Not enough,” I whisper, my words slurred. I reach for the bottle.
“No, Harper.”
A chill skates down my back at the utter command in his tone. I pause, my hand on the bottle, and lift my eyes to his. “What?”
“No more wine.” Warmth spreads through me from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. “I want you to remember tonight in vivid detail.”
Oh, God.
I stand on shaky feet and take a few steps to the vacant, makeshift bar that flanks a wall, abandoned bottles still lined up like soldiers.
I reach across and grab a little shot of whiskey.
I don’t ever drink that much. I don’t even know how to.
But I do know two things: I don’t want to remember this night, and I don’t want him to think he can boss me around.
I twist the top off a shot of something amber and don’t even read the label. I tip my head back and down it in one gulp, sputtering when I come up for air.
I squeal when the full length of his warm body presses me against the white table. How did he get there? I wasn’t even aware of him moving.
“Disobeying me already? We’ve barely taken vows.”
“I’m not. You told me no more wine.” I hold up the empty shot. “This isn’t wine.”
“So that’s how we’re going to play it,” he says in a lazy drawl as he arranges my hands flat across the top of the table.
“Play what?” My voice sounds too high, too loud.
“The way you earn your first spanking.”
My cheeks instantly color and my vision momentarily becomes clearer. “Aleks!”
His palm slams across my ass, but I hardly feel it. I’m surrounded by layers and layers of fabric. I can’t help it — I’m so tipsy and so wound up I snort.
“Are you mocking me, Princess?”
I am so mocking him, but I shake my head.
“Me? Never. Aleks!”
In one swift motion, I’m up in the air and over his shoulder, my legs scissoring and hands flailing in front of me.
“These layers of clothes need to go.”
I’m shaking and want to fight but have no choice.
I don’t care how he was this morning. I don’t care how my body responded. I don’t care that it’s our duty, that I have to bear his children, that we’re married now, and the expectations placed on us are as clear as road signs.
I’m scared.
By the time we get to our bedroom and he stands me in front of him, my cheeks are damp with tears. I taste the salt and will myself to stop, but I can’t. I swipe at them angrily. I feel like such a coward.
I barely register the size of the bed or vases of flowers, the muted neutral colors and simple design of the room, the scent of jasmine and rose and the pile of wrapped gifts and cards on a small table.
It’s our wedding night, and the only thing that matters to me at this point is what we have to do next.
He unhurriedly undoes the pearl buttons at the back of my neck and kisses the bare skin revealed when each one falls open.
“Why are you crying?” he asks as he slips another button loose and kisses me again. “You’re crying, Harper.”
I shake my head. “I’m—I’m not,” I stutter, but it’s no use. I totally am.
When a few more buttons come undone, he slides a sleeve off my shoulder so one full side of me is bared to him.
“You are, and I want to know why. Do you think I’ll hurt you?”
He continues the deliberate disrobing until I’m wearing nothing but my white satin wedding bra and matching thong. He lays me back on the bed and sits on the edge beside me.
“N-no,” I say, my voice tremulous. “But I don’t know for sure. I don’t know who you are, and I don’t know what you’re capable of.”
I tuck myself into the pile of pillows at the head of the bed and watch him. Earlier tonight, when he realized that there was an attempt at poisoning me, the look on his face terrified me. Now, though… now there’s a different sort of look that makes me more curious than anything.
“You’re brave, Harper. Resilient. This is unlike you.”
Goddamn, why is he so perceptive?
I swallow and lick my lips, looking away, but he doesn’t allow it. With his fingers on my chin, he brings my face back to his.
“Tell me,” he says, in the same voice he used tonight to clear the room, a tone that brooks no argument. I know then that there’s no hiding from Aleksandr Romanov. He sees right through me. With his fingers on my chin, he holds my gaze. “Who did this to you?”
A stranger in a crowded room.
Wrinkled sheets and muted screams.
Blood and pain and the knowledge I’d been used and discarded.
“Did — did what?” I whisper, hoping that if I stall, I don’t have to face this. Face him.
I’m lying on the bed, half naked. He’s fully clothed sitting next to me. I’m trying to hide the fact that I’m crying under a mask of bravado, and he’s trying to keep his temper reined in.
I’m tired of masks and lies and illusions.
So, so tired.
“You’re fucking terrified of being alone with me. Look at you. You’re practically curled into a fetal position, and I’ve barely touched you.”
A part of me wants him to touch me. Wants him to make me forget.
His brow furrowed he tries to guess. “Did your mother tell you to fear your wedding night? Are you afraid of what the first time will be like?”
I shake my head. It won’t be my first time.
“No,” I whisper.
What will he do when he finds out I’m not a virgin?
A muscle twitches in his jaw. He’s losing patience. “Someone hurt you.”
I lick my lips. “Yes.”