Chapter 20

Twenty

R uby

I wake the next morning in Kirill's bed, for the first time, not alone.

Slowly, I roll to face my husband. The night before had been unexpected, and seeing him now, propped against the headboard, chest bare, his laptop open, I can't help but hear the echo of his promise to me. I can't help but feel that same glimmer of hope.

Gosh, I'm a fool.

I clear my throat. "What are you doing here?"

"Good morning to you too, wife." He taps a few keys, closes the laptop, and sets those dark eyes on me.

My heart does a quick and silly jitter. "Good morning," I say quietly. "Sorry. I'm just not used to you being here when I wake." I sit, pulling the blanket with me even though I'm wearing one of his shirts. "Aren't you supposed to be at work?"

"Perk of being the boss, I take time when I want it."

"And why do you want it?" I can't help the wary tone of my voice as he watches me with that hard, dark gaze.

"We're going away for the week."

My brows snap high. "Away? You're taking me away? To where?"

"It's a surprise."

"I don't think I like surprises," I huff, still eyeballing him with wariness.

He chuckles. Something about the hitch of his full lips nicks at the ice encasing my heart where this man is concerned. "We leave within the hour. Get ready, yeah?"

I watch as he rises from the bed, moving swiftly into the bathroom. I take my chance with my moment of privacy, bolting up from the bed and into the closet. I hurry to dress in leggings and a cream-colored sweaterdress that is slouchy and warm. I'm tugging on thick socks that bunch cutely around my ankles when Kirill appears in the doorway of the closet, his eyes drifting hungrily over my body.

Thank God I'm clothed. Sometimes, the way he looks at me really does make me fear he might ravish me.

Dipping my gaze, I attempt to brush past him when a big hand lands in my belly. His voice is rough. "Pack for comfort."

"Okay." Even I can hear the nerves rattling in the single, strained word.

Kirill has one hand on the wheel and the other on my thigh as he drives. In the back seat, Simba lays sprawled, snoozing. There is a car in front of us and another behind us as we travel, making me feel like I'm driving with the President in some movie scene.

Is my husband so important that he requires these guards the same way the President requires the Secret Service? No—not important. Dangerous.

Like all powerful men.

I shiver.

It's wild how surreal my life has become.

His deep voice breaks the silence. "Will you share?"

My eyes slide to Kirill, brows dipping in a frown. "Share what?"

"Your thoughts."

The way he asks, so softly, has something inside me softening in return. "It's beautiful here. The land."

"It is."

"Have you been to America?"

"I have. Many times."

I'm surprised. "Really? For what?"

"Work."

"Work," I parrot, surprised.

"I'm in the process of expanding Volk Vault Banks into America and Canada." He glances at me, wetting his lips. I sense indecision, and want to press, but he says, "I'm to travel to America in a couple months."

My. Heart. Stills. And then it races violently, full throttle, toward hope. Hope that he'll take me to my country. Hope that—maybe—I might escape.

"Will you leave me here?" I can't look at him as I ask the question. If I do, I fear he might see the hope.

When he doesn't answer for a long moment, I gather the courage to lift my gaze. He's watching me, even as he drives. His voice soft when he replies, "I am undecided."

"What would make you decide to take me?"

His eyes move between mine, before he looks back at the road. "I would be more likely to take you if you let me in."

I gasp, unable to look at him as I say, "Inside my body, you mean?" My words tremble. I tremble.

"No." His hand tightens on my thigh. His fingers dip in the crevice between my legs, the thin material of my leggings doing nothing to make his touch feel less intense. Less intimate. "I won't say I don't want inside your body. I do. Very much. But I want your heart more."

When I look at him, I think he's being sincere. I just don't understand. "Why?"

He frowns. "Why?"

"Why do you want my heart? After everything…"

"You are my wife."

"But this—we're not real."

His grip tightens on my thigh. The pulse of his fingers sending a thrill to spear through my heart. "We are very real, Ruby."

Chewing my lip, I train my attention on the scenery beyond the window. We've been driving for hours, and we appear to be heading toward the mountains. The land is becoming more rough, more uncut, and jagged. Like the man sitting next to me.

After a long moment, I admit, "I don't understand what your agenda is with me."

"My agenda?" There's amusement in his voice. "I don't have one."

"I don't believe that is true. You could have let me go free, but you made me marry you."

"I made you marry me because you would not have been safe otherwise. As I explained, there are many who would tear you to shreds in the name of revenge."

"Why do you care?"

His eyes sweep my face, and a muscle in his jaw tics. I wait. Finally, he responds, "I don't know."

"You don't know?" I shake my head. "How can you not know?"

"The idea of someone hurting you sparks in me a craving for blood like I've never known it. While you were in the cellar, I was incapable of going even a day without visiting you. The urge to see you, to speak with you, was all-consuming. When your father was dealt with, and I was faced with the option of letting you go, or keeping you—" His jaw grinds, and he glares through the windshield. "The urge to be near you became the urge to keep you. Now, I'll never let you go."

"What about what I want?"

"Soon, what you want now won't matter."

I scoff. "Why is that?"

His eyes fix on mine, and my breath gets caught. "Because you'll be in love with me."