Chapter 12

Twelve

R uby

I woke in the night with his body pressed to the back of mine, his arousal hard as granite where it rested dangerously against the crease of my butt. I had hardly breathed, staying stone still as I lay beneath him.

Throughout the night, he'd pushed into me until I was nearly on my belly, my knee hooked up with his notched into the back of it. Clearly, the man was a stomach sleeper, and a cuddler—and he was projecting his sleep practices on me.

It had taken me an age to first fall asleep in his arms. My body felt wound up tight and curiously agitated from his kiss and touch. My panties had been humiliatingly wet.

It had taken me just as long to fall back into sleep, but when I did, I slept heavy. He'd been gone when I finally woke. And I'd been surprised to find that he'd left the door open for me, something I discovered after I'd dressed in a pair of lose-around-the-leg jeans and a blousy top.

I'd taken the stairs to the main level, finding another bear of a man sitting, ankle hooked up over his meaty thigh, scrolling on his phone. I stood there, quietly assessing him, and whether I was supposed to be roaming as I was, or if my new husband had forgotten to lock me in the room. I held my breath.

The man, seeming to sense me, blinked up from his screen.

Goodness, his eyes are blue.

"H—hi," I rush. "The door was unlocked."

He flashes me a smile. It's warm and feels—well, good. Comfortable. Maybe even safe, which is crazy considering where I am.

"I've been waiting for you." He tucks his phone into his pocket as he stands, towering over me as all the men in Kirill's employ seem to tower over me. It's not a hard feat, at five-foot-two, most everyone towers over me. He glances at his watch. "Almost eleven. You must be hungry."

I tip my head, because he has an accent, no doubt. But his English is stellar. He must have been here in America for a long time. Possibly even raised here, by Russian parents.

I ask, "How long have you been here?"

He raises a brow. "Here?"

"In America?" I ask pleasantly.

His other brow joins the first, so both are high on his forehead. He looks uncomfortable for a moment, before he clears his throat. His discomfort turns almost bashful as he clasps a hand over the back of his neck. "I think Tatiana's got a plate of breakfast for you. Eggs, ham, potatoes." His laugh is curiously nervous. "The whole works."

I frown as I study him. He shifts under my scrutiny. He's younger than Kirill—by at least ten years—and not quite as sure of himself or his words. As young as I am, Mama always said I have an old, quietly assessing soul.

I think she may have been right.

Instead of pressing him, I clasp my hands in front of me. "I am very hungry."

He releases a tense breath, quirking a boyishly charming smile I can't help but respond to in kind. "Good." He gestures down a long hall. "This way."

As I follow him, I take in my surroundings. I haven't seen a whole lot of the house, and although I'd been taken to the kitchen last night, I'd been, admittedly, distracted. Now, I take it all in.

Kirill's house is not only massive and ornate, but also deeply masculine. Outside my bedroom, the colors are all deep and rich. Mahogany wainscoting is paired with a shockingly deep, navy blue on the uppermost half of the tall walls. The mahogany wood floors are cut by a buttery, nut colored runner that adds just a hint of something feminine to the unbreakable, timeless masculine decor. The furniture in the sitting room we pass is dark, accented by shades of blue no lighter than cobalt.

The eat-in kitchen is warm, and attached to a grand, and, as far as appearances go, mostly unused dining room that is currently closed off by dark wood French doors. With its painted butter-yellow cabinets and honeyed walnut countertops, I think the kitchen is my favorite room in the house. I can see it's also well used.

I take a seat at the matching walnut table that the unfamiliar man gestures me to, and fold my hands in my lap. I watch as he moves into the kitchen where the older woman works, her dark eyes drifting to me, kind with curiosity.

The man speaks in Russian, bends low, and presses a kiss to her hair that is twisted into a low bun. She returns something I have no hope of understanding, before she moves to one of the wall ovens. She pulls a plate from inside and hands it to him, tossing me a warm smile over his shoulder.

With the plate in front of me, he asks, "Coffee?"

It's the first time I've been offered the brew since being here. In the cellar, my meals had been bland and meant to nourish. Nothing more.

Apparently, being Kirill's wife carries some weight when it comes to the little extras.

Still, I shake my head. "Would tea be too much trouble?"

"Not at all." The man's blue eyes dance. "What kind?"

"Chamomile, please."

He nods, says something to Tatiana, and I watch as she begins to fix the tea. Sliding my attention back to the man, I ask, "Who are you?"

"My name is Maxim. And as of this morning, when Kirill is working or not with you, I am to be your guard."

I blink. "My guard?"

"Yes." He looks so proud.

I straighten my spine, pulling back my shoulders. "What do I need a guard for?"

His blue eyes dance over my face. "I think you should ask Kirill that question."

"Ah." I nod, rolling my lips. "And where is Kirill?"

"Working."

I fork fluffy eggs onto my fork. "What is it that he does?"

"Kirill? He's the owner and CEO of Volk Vault Bank."

A bank? The man who kidnapped me is the owner of a bank? The man who kidnapped me—who claims to know terrible things about my father, and my newly realized terrible brother—holds a reputable profession?

Had he not told me his family was Russian Mafia? Had he not told me my father had been his competition?

A bank? It must be a front.

"Is it a small bank? Something, I don't know, mom-and pop, like?"

"I'm not sure I know what you mean by mom-and-pop."

"Like, a little family operation. Something that caters to a small, mostly local, group of people." Is there even such a thing as a mom-and-pop bank?

Maxim laughs. It's a nice, warm sound. I think he might be a genuinely nice, warm person. Which begs the question: What is he doing working for a man like Kirill?

"No. Volk Vault Bank is a conglomerate with multiple locations across Europe, and Asia. Soon expanding into the America's, including Canada."

So—my new husband is, what? A bank gangster boss?

I'm so confused.

I fork another scoop of fluffy eggs and smile in thanks at Tatiana, as she slides my tea onto the table, a coffee for Maxim. I ask Maxim, "Does she not speak any English?"

"No."

"It is Russian you speak, is it not?"

He cocks a brow? "Do you know Russian?"

I shake my head. "No, but I've heard it spoken before." I don't tell him Daddy was Russian. I don't mention my father at all. I don't want to have to explain that he had refused to teach me the language, saying Russia was not a country he ever wanted me to visit, and therefore, I had no use for the language. I don't want to explain that I always strove to please Daddy, and that when it came to learning Russian, to respect his wishes, I didn't. "I've always really liked listening to it."

He grins wide. "Most people think it sounds harsh."

"I disagree." I've always thought it was so comforting. Even though Daddy had refused to teach me the language, he never denied me when I asked him to talk me to sleep in his native tongue.

Maxim's wide smile turns mildly sheepish as he watches me slice into a piece of ham. "You're not what I expected."

"Oh?" I sip my tea, calmly asking, "And what did you expect of the kidnapped girl your respectable bank boss kept locked in a cellar for over a month?"

He doubles over, choking on his coffee. It's a good choke, because coffee dribbles from his nostrils, and he wipes at it painfully with his sleeve as his eyes water. Tatiana clucks something in Russian as she hurries to his rescue with a tea towel.

We don't speak again until I finish my breakfast, standing with my plate and bringing it to the sink. I look to Maxim who still looks a little blotchy and red from his near-death-by-coffee experience. "Will you teach me how to say ‘thank you'?"

His kind eyes soften, and he says gently, " Spasibo ."

I turn to Tatiana, my hand touching hers until she gives me her eyes. I repeat, " Spasibo ."

She assesses me for a long moment, before the skin around her eyes crinkles. I get the feeling I passed some kind of test as she gives me an approving dip of her chin. Then she replies, " Pozhaluysta ."

My gaze slides to Maxim and he translates, "You're welcome."