41. Radimir

41

RADIMIR

Gennadiy greeted me at the door of his mansion, whisked away my bags and put a glass in my hand. “To marriage,” he said, and clinked glasses with me. I knocked back the vodka and while we drank another, he updated me. The news was good: all of the Armenians had been run out of Chicago and the police investigation into Borislav’s murder had hit a dead end. I should have been happy, but something was bothering me, leaving me sullen and brooding.

Bronwyn. She’d seemed...sad. Weren’t women meant to enjoy weddings?

After the third vodka, I went outside into the snow and called Valentin. “How is she?” I asked immediately.

“Um...I think she’s crying.”

“ Crying?!” I felt my chest go tight and fought to keep my voice level. “How can you tell, from down there?”

“I’m in the penthouse,” he said guiltily. “She invited me upstairs.”

Of course she did. “And she’s crying?”

“Not noisy crying,” he said. “Quiet crying.”

I ended the call and stood there scowling, the fury boiling up in my chest until it felt like the snowflakes were sizzling as they hit my skin. I wanted to annihilate whoever had hurt her...but just like the night she’d seen me kill Borislav, the person who’d hurt her was me. And I had no idea what to do about it. “ Chyort! ” I cursed. Why did I ever get involved with a woman?

Because she’s amazing. That’s why.

I stomped back inside. Gennadiy had gone to bed, so I poured myself another vodka and knocked it back, but it didn’t help. What the fuck am I going to do?

Then I heard the pad of feet behind me, too soft to be human. I turned to see one of Mikhail’s Malamutes standing watching me. And suddenly, I knew exactly what I had to do. I walked over and stroked his furry head and he circled me, fluffy tail wagging.

I grabbed the bottle of vodka and another glass. “Go on,” I told the dog. “Take me to him.”

The dog trotted off along a hallway and led me to a book-lined study. Mikhail was sprawled in a leather armchair, a book open on his lap, softly snoring. The other three dogs were curled up in front of a roaring fire, pressed so close it was difficult to tell where one dog ended and another began. The dog who’d found me pushed his way into the pack, turned around three times and snuggled down.

I gently shook Mikhail’s shoulder. “I need your help.” I poured two glasses of vodka and put one in his hand. Mikhail rubbed his eyes, sipped, and nodded.

I fell into an armchair, then took a deep breath. “Bronwyn.” Just saying her name made me lift inside. “She’s sad. Crying. The night before our wedding.”

Mikhail leaned closer. “She didn’t ask for this marriage,” he said gently.

I nodded and tousled a sleeping dog’s head for comfort. “But...while we’ve been living together, I thought…” I could feel my face going red. “I thought she’d started to...feel something for me.”

Mikhail frowned thoughtfully. “And do you love her? ”

I looked away. “What does that matter?”

Mikhail sat back in his chair. “Answer the question!”

I bristled and glared, my face heating even more. “Yes,” I muttered. “I love her.” It felt like I’d carved the words out of shining silver, two feet high, and laid them on the rug for anyone to walk in and see. I’d never felt so horribly vulnerable. If this was the being open with your feelings that American women were so obsessed with, I didn’t like it at all. And yet, at the same time, there was a tiny part of me that jumped when I said the words, like my heart had somersaulted right over a beat. “But I haven’t told her,” I said.

Mikhail stared at me for a moment. “You really are an idiot.”

I sat up, scowling, and Mikhail waved me back. “It’s not your fault,” he sighed. “You didn’t have your mother to teach you about women. And by the time I got there, it was too late. Vladivostok had left you... cold. Just as it left Gennadiy hard and Valentin…”—he sighed—“I’m not sure Valentin will ever be okay.” He shook his head and put his hand on my shoulder. “A wedding is the fairy tale women get to star in. They spend their entire lives building up to that one moment. Bronwyn is sad because she thinks she’s going to marry a man who doesn’t love her. You must tell her.”

I frowned. “What if she doesn’t love me? What if that’s why she’s sad?”

“Then telling her you love her can’t make it any worse.”

My stomach turned over. “But…”

“But you could be hurt,” Mikhail said gently. “Yes. That’s part of love. If you love her, you have to tell her anyway.”

He knocked back the last of his vodka, patted my shoulder and got up. His dogs came sleepily awake and followed him out of the room, their fur warm from the fire as they brushed past my legs. I sat there staring into the fire, furious, trying to find some solution where I didn’t have to put myself at risk...but there wasn’t one.

Chyort! For years, I’d forced myself to feel nothing, to never get close to anyone. The idea of being vulnerable was more terrifying than a room full of thugs with knives, or a lifetime in prison.

I hurled my half-finished glass into the fire. The vodka flared and roared. If she rejects me, it will destroy me, I thought bitterly.

The flames died away. The room went still. But if I don’t do this, she’ll be in pain.

And that, I realized, was unacceptable.

I tugged my waistcoat straight. I knew what I had to do.