by Sophia Henry
As much as I appreciate the good wishes, I need some air and to splash water on my wrists. Hopefully, that will calm the anxiety churning in my stomach.
I excuse myself and make my way through the restaurant. It’s after two a.m. and the restaurant has been closed for hours. They’ve kept it open just for our group.
After using the bathroom and running cold water over my wrists—something that seems to help when I’m not feeling well, I stagger up the stairs back to the main floor staring at the huge diamond on my left hand, still shocked by Dima’s proposal.
Once I’m at the top, the front door creaks, breaking my concentration. A man with dark shoulder-length hair wearing a black suit strides into the restaurant fiddling with the cufflink clipped to his crisp white dress shirt.
No.
I stop abruptly, squeezing my eyes shut for an extra second.
When I open them again, my heartbeat slows as if time itself is coming to an end.
My hands fly up to cover my mouth.
9
Kirill
“How?” The voice is only a whisper, yet I hear it clear as day.
My head snaps up.
Stasya stands before me, looking sexier than I’ve ever seen her in a form-fitting black dress that hugs every curve and barely covers her ass. Her long, light hair cascades over her shoulders. Her beautiful blue eyes are wide and glassy from tears that haven’t fallen yet. Her delicate fingers cover her mouth. It’s almost the exact same expression as she had the last time I saw her.
Haunted.
Shocked.
Terrified.
She reaches out as if trying to put her hand through an apparition, but I’m as solid as they come.
“You’re dead. I—I saw you—” She moves forward gingerly, eyes widening with each shaky step. Suddenly she starts trembling and looking around the room panicked.
“Get her out of here!” I command.
Drago emerges from his post at the corner of the bar. He grabs her arm and drags her back down the stairs. She must be in shock because she doesn’t fight. I’ve never seen her so docile.
She glances over her shoulder, eyes burning holes into me as he leads her away. Her lips move, but I can’t make out what she’s saying.
I knew she was here with Morozov and his friends celebrating the All-Star game, but I thought they had left. I never meant for her to see me.
“I thought Miss. Kravtsova was gone!” I snap at the bartender.
“I thought they were on their way out, but Morozov, he ordered more champagne and had me put a ring in a flute and—”
“What?”
“He—he had me drop a diamond ring in a glass.” His voice shakes as he speaks. He won’t look me in the eye.
This was not the way I expected to start my fucking life in New York.
I rush down the stairs to my basement office. Drago is on his knees in front of Stasya holding her hands and talking to her calmly. Though I trust Drago, seeing them in such an intimate position makes my blood boil.
“Get up,” I command. Drago drops Stasya’s hands and rises immediately. “Bring me water and a towel.”
He rushes off. I drop to my knees and grab her face in my hands.
She seems almost catatonic. She opens her eyes, then shuts them and opens them again. She reaches out and touches my face. “You’re dead.” Then she glances at her chest. “Am I dead?”
“We are both alive, Anastasiya,” I tell her.
For the first time in three years, it’s a true statement for me. Despite having a beating heart, I haven’t felt alive since the day I got her out of Moscow.
Her fingers slide through my hair, tugging lightly on the ends. “How, Kirya. How? I saw it all. You pushed me out of the way and took the bullets. I saw the blood. You—” She shakes her head and squeezes her eyes closed. Tears flow like rivers over her cheeks.
Drago arrives with the water and towel. He hands it to me, then leaves, closing the door behind him. I know he’s standing right outside keeping guard.
“Shhhh.” I dip the towel in the water and press it to her forehead.
“I’ve missed you so much!” she cries, throwing her arms around me and holding on as if I’ll disappear if she lets me go.
She’s not wrong.
After this moment—this embrace—she can’t see me again.
“I’m—” She pulls away and her eyes drop to the obnoxious diamond on her finger. “Oh my God. I’m engaged. How—? How can I marry Dima when you’re alive?”
“Stasya, listen to me,” I say taking her arms and holding her still. “You must forget you ever saw me.”
She laughs as if she thinks I’m joking. But as she studies my face, the smile slips away and the brightness in her eyes morphs into anguish. “You can’t be serious?”
“You were never supposed to see me. Never supposed to know.”
“Kirya,” she whispers. Her body begins to shake again. “Kirya, you can’t ask that of me.”
“It’s not a request,” I say, trying to keep my voice hard when the woman I love is breaking down in my arms.
My eyes shift to her left hand where a huge diamond sparkles on her ring finger.
What the fuck?
Rage rumbles inside. Is she engaged to fucking Morozov?
Even though he can give her a safer life than I ever could, it pisses me off. Out of all the fucking men in New York City—she had to choose Dmitri fucking Morozov.
Granted, it was my decision to send her to live with him. It wasn’t safe for her to go to Vanya’s and Charlotte with Slava was out of the question if she wanted to have a successful store. New York was the perfect place.
After their rocky past, I honestly didn’t think she’d fall for him. I assumed she’d live with him for a few months until things were safe for her, and then move into the apartment above her store. When it was time for me to join her in New York, we’d live there together. That’s the reason I bought it.
But I’m the first one to admit—even the best-laid plans backfire.
When she notices where my gaze is, she covers her hand. But the damage is done. She moved on.
Before I was shot, her moving on without me wasn’t part of the plan. I was supposed to be here with her—on my way to a straight and narrow life as owner of the RDR and the Sports Management Agency.
Then my uncle and mother were assassinated a few months ago, fucking with the trajectory of my life once again.
“You’ve flourished more than I ever could have dreamed for you, Stasya. Three years without me looks good on you.”
“Please don’t say things like that, Kirya. You made me into the woman I am,” she whispers.
“Do you know how you can thank me?” I ask quietly, narrowing my eyes and steeling my heart.
Her bottom lip quivers. She begins to shake her head as if she knows what I’m about to say.
“Go back to your fiancé. Forget you saw me. Forget I am alive.”
“Don’t do this, Kirya—” My name comes out as a sob.
“Drago, escort Miss. Kravtsova back to the party. I’m sure her fiancé is worried about her whereabouts.”
When Drago grabs her arm, she tries to jerk it away, but his grip is strong. Before he drags her into the hallway, she looks back at me with hatred in her eyes—something I haven’t seen since the day I saved her from being kidnapped by Sobakin’s men.
They’d been following her for a week, watching her every move. It threw them off when she went to the Central Scarlet Army training base. But I knew where she was at every moment. Slava was her invisible bodyguard well before she knew about him—following her and fending off the KGB. She’s lucky they didn’t pick her up before we did. Not one KGB agent would have believed she didn’t know about her brother’s defection before it happened. Their bond was too strong.
She should hate me. She should hate me with as much passion as she loved me.
I hate myself for everything I’ve put her through over the
last five years.
I didn’t plan on ever letting her know I was alive, but now that she does, she can finally have closure.
It will take every ounce of self-control I have to stay away from her—especially since we’re both in the same city. She visits my restaurant multiple times a week and works a few blocks away. It was all part of my genius plan for us to be together.
I need to do everything in my power to keep her away—to free her from me once and for all.
10
Stasya
Kirill is alive.
Since finding out, he’s consumed my every thought—while both awake and asleep.
How could a man who claimed to love me let me believe he was dead for three years?
How could he be so cold and uncaring?
Was he just trying to get rid of me?
My mind has been so preoccupied, I haven’t slept for a week. Tossing and turning, going over every moment I can remember from our entire relationship—childhood to death.
I’m at work, walking around with bags under my eyes and a foggy head. It’s not good for a store that claims “beautiful” in its name.
Each time the bell alerting us of a new customer rings, every single one of my employees lifts their heads, ready to greet whoever enters. The response is so ingrained, Prekrasny could be used as a Pavlov case study.
“Welcome to Pre—” I begin before looking up.
Rays of sunshine pass through the windows, creating a halo around his frame. The last time I saw his body lit up like a saint was the day he kidnapped me five years ago. Seeing him alive and in the flesh makes my heart race with excitement.
Standing at the front of my store is the man I haven’t stopped thinking about for three years and one week. The man who, just days ago, told me to forget that he’s alive. The man who makes my knees weak and my panties wet. Every fucking time.
Though I went through the stages of grief while I was mourning his death, the cycle started all over again a week ago when I found out he was alive and he said he never wanted to see me again. It brought feelings I’d buried back up to the surface. They keep popping up like zombies climbing out of the ground after sunset.
Or mafia criminals who rise from the dead.
“What are you doing here?” I feel defeated. There’s no way to hide the exhaustion in my tone.
Why is he teasing me? Testing me? Messing with my head?
“I’m an investor,” he says, walking toward one of the racks in the front of the store, looking around at the space as he does. He stops to feel the sleeve of a dress made with fabric from Paris. “I came to see where my money went.”
“An uninvited guest is worse than a Tatar,” I say pointedly knowing he’ll understand exactly what it means even if my staff doesn’t.
“Shaving me in your store is worse than an invader with deadly, bloodlust.” He twists his lips and nods. “I’ll remember that for next time.”
“There will be no next time, Mr. Investor,” I say with confidence. “You’ll be happy to learn that your investment is going extremely well. Profits have increased every year and I’ve crushed predictions from day one.”
“Crushed predictions?” He looks up. “Whose predictions?”
The inquisitive gaze makes me nervous. Thoughts jumble in my brain, making me feel like I don’t know what I’m talking about when I know the numbers of the store well.
After two and a half years, I’ve made enough money to pay back his initial investment—with the exception of the full ten years of rent. Though I have made enough to cover rent for each month I’ve been here.
Kirill has always been the one person who doesn’t make me nervous, yet here I am bouncing between excitement and anxiety.
Then again, I’ve never been around someone who came back from the dead before, so maybe everything I think I know goes out the window.
“Would you like to see the books?” I ask, gesturing to the door to my office at the back of the store.
That gets me a wide smile of approval and I let out a breath. He strides toward me, stopping when he’s inches away. “The store is beautiful. You’ve come a long way from the oppression of the Soviet Union.”
“I’m happy to have your approval,” I tell him dryly. Though my delivery holds a hint of sarcasm, I mean it. It means he finally sees me as something other than a victim or a damsel in distress.
Having his approval means I did something exceptional on my own. Sure, I had his money, but the fact that I could get this business off the ground and making a profit in a huge, competitive city finally makes me feel like I’m worthy of being with someone as good and powerful as him.
He glances at Jordan, one of my part-time employees. “Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”
I nod and spin around, beckoning him to follow me.
“I’ll be in the office if you need anything,” I call to Jordan. “I won’t be long.”
Her eyes hold a hint of concern, but she pastes on a smile. “I’ve got it covered, Stasya,” she says giving me a thumbs up.
I don’t blame her for being concerned since we rarely have ruggedly hot men dressed in impeccable suits walk into the store. At least not without their wives. If we were in Moscow, I’d know right away it was mafia strolling in like he owned the place and demanding money for protection.
That’s a huge reason I’m grateful Kirill secured me a place in Manhattan instead of Brighton Beach. A Russian-owned clothing store with items made exclusively in Moscow probably would have been well received there, but I would have had Russian, Chechnyan, and Ukrainian mafia at my door. It’s not like Kirill left me names of people I could communicate with in my Rolodex.
Kirill follows close, his large body looming behind me, making his presence known without saying a word. If anyone else were right on my heels, I’d be extremely uncomfortable, but just having him here is enough.
I stop just outside the door to the office and gesture for him to enter ahead of me. He slips inside quickly, his arm brushing my chest as he enters the room. It was probably accidental—a large man squeezing through a small doorway, but I can’t help the jolt of excitement at the touch. Sweat breaks out on my forehead, as I close the door behind us.
“Are you going to lock it?” he asks, unbuttoning his suit coat before sitting down—in the chair behind my desk.
“Excuse me,” I say pointedly. Heat rushes to my face. The nerve of him acting like he has the upper hand in this situation.
“What? I can’t sit?” His question holds mock innocence and his expression is playful, but I’m not having it. I have to take a deep breath to keep from slapping him across the face. I still might, depending on how this conversation goes.
I can’t recall another time where I was so emotionally confused. Alternating waves of anger and relief roll through me. I’ve been toeing the line between screaming and crying since I found out he was alive.
“Get up,” I command. The tables have turned. He may have paid for this place, but I am the queen here.
He chuckles and slides out of the chair, brushing me again—this time most definitely on purpose—as he rounds the corner of my desk.
I drop into my chair, exhausted from the mental and emotional rollercoaster of the last few days. I haven’t been able to talk to anyone about him and it’s been killing me. When he told me to stay away, I never thought I’d see him again.
And here he is, sitting across from me with his legs spread, chest open, and his elbows resting on the arms of the chair, staring at me as if I’m the one who should explain something to him. Everything about his posture screams dominance and power.
His presence stimulates every single nerve in my body. Deep down, I want to jump over the desk and straddle him. The diamond on my left hand catches my eyes and I remember I’m engaged to another man.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, finally breaking the silence. “Why are you tormenting me?”
“I’m not trying to torment you. I cou
ldn’t leave things how I did. You deserve an expla—”
“Say what you came to say then!” I interrupt him, waving my hand in exasperation. “Start with why you faked your death.”
He leans forward. “I didn’t fake my death.”
“Don’t insult my intelligence, Kirya! I saw you get shot.”
“I realize what you saw, Stasya. I was shot, yes. But I wasn’t dead.” He takes a deep breath and sits back as he exhales.
I’m stunned. “If you weren’t dead why didn’t you contact me?”
“I did.”
I slam both palms on the desk. “Stop with the mind games!”
Kirill doesn’t even wince. How can he stay so still? How can he show zero emotion when I’m on the verge of hysterics?
He thinks he has power over my life—that I don’t make my own choices. But I’ve been making my own choices this entire time. I chose to be with him. I could have left. I could have run. I could have killed myself to escape my fate—Kirill or Sobakin.
“When you told the Georgian you were my wife, it set a plan in motion. Sobakin was after you again. I had to get you out of Moscow. Nothing else would have kept you safe.”
“You planned it?” I ask.
He shifts in his seat as if talking about it is uncomfortable. “I didn’t plan on getting shot, but yes, I planned on getting you out of the Soviet Union.” His voice softens. “It wasn’t an easy decision, Stasya. I wanted you by my side forever. My original plan was to get you to America and join you later. It killed me to send you away, but I had to. That’s why I tried to make the morning as special for us as possible.”
I swallow back emotion at the memory of how that day started.
Love isn’t always about grand gestures. Sometimes it’s about the seemingly insignificant moments you can look back on and tell that someone really loves you because they remember what makes you happy. Kirill is phenomenal at the little moments, like today when he wakes me up in my favorite way. When he presses his thick, hard cock against me. I wiggle and grind my ass into him letting him know I’m awake and ready to accept him. I’m always ready to accept him.