by Zoe Blake
Damien moved toward the door. “I’ll go get the car.”
“Stop,” I called out.
Everyone in the room turned to look at me. “This is between Nadia and me. I’ll be the one — the only one — going after her.”
Gregor looked as if he was going to object, but then slowly nodded. “Take the plane.”
Damien nodded as well, then turned to glare at Yelena. “That is for the best. We’re going to have our hands full here.”
I had a feeling after this stunt, neither Samara nor Yelena was going to be able to sit for a week. Nadia would be in good company. When I got my hands on my babygirl, I was going to tie her to my bed and show her exactly who was in charge. Right after I held her in my arms and told her how much I loved and needed her.
The girls didn’t have any other further details other than Nadia was landing at Heathrow. They had deliberately told her not to divulge her plans so no matter how severely they were punished, they couldn’t betray her confidence. I had to admire their loyalty to one another. Nadia had shown the same level of loyalty to them when they first ran.
As I turned to go, Samara called out to me, “We’re telling you where she is because we know you’ll do the right thing. Nadia only thinks she wants this kind of adventure. She needs to learn it’s not all it’s cracked up to be, but you need to give her the space to learn that for herself. Otherwise, you may never know if she is with you for the right reasons.”
Gregor smiled and pulled her close and kissed her forehead, and then growled, “I’m still punishing this cute ass of yours.”
Samara blushed and hid her face against his chest.
Gregor held her close and stroked her hair. Looking over the top of her head, he said to me, “Go bring our little sister home.”
I shook my head. “I’m going to bring my kroshka home.”
Chapter 27
Mikhail
She looked beautiful today.
I watched as Nadia exited the Victorian line train at the Warren Street Station. She stopped for a moment before a crimson red mural of an intricate labyrinth maze meant to be a play on the word warren. She then followed the press of the crowd up the escalators.
She was wearing her new pair of Doc Martens. They were the original, iconic 1460 eight-hole black boots with bright red roses stitched into the leather. From outside, I had watched her through the store windows as she clapped with glee after entering their store on Oxford Street yesterday. She'd matched it with a black babydoll dress with long balloon sleeves and a cute, ruffled hem. I had watched her buy the dress a few days ago in Soho at a small boutique on Carnaby Street.
Unfortunately, another man had been watching her as well. I grabbed him by the collar just as he lunged for her. Nadia turned at the commotion and almost spotted us, but by then I had dragged the perpetrator into a small space between two brick buildings. It was a tight fit, probably no more than four feet wide, but I still kicked the shit out of him and left him bloody and bruised in the sludge and runoff from a nearby gutter.
No one was going to ruin my baby’s Operation Fly the Coop run away from home trip. If this was what she needed, I was going to give it to her — within reason.
We had both been in London for two weeks now, just not together.
Day after day, I watched over and protected her from a distance. I wasn’t worried she’d spot me. I had years of practice observing her closely without her knowledge. I had a tiny spark of guilt over once again stepping on her independence by surveilling her without her knowledge, but only a tiny spark. My need to keep her safe far outweighed any feelings of regret or guilt. I was willing to work through many of her concerns about our future life together, but doing everything in my power to protect her from the known and unknown dangers of the world was not one of them.
With the benefit of a private plane, I had actually managed to beat her to the city. I was there waiting just outside Heathrow as she hailed a black cab. I followed her to the Savoy Hotel. She was not aware of it, but I had already reserved the room directly next to her own. If she was trying to stay off the radar, my baby was truly terrible at it. She had kept her original phone, which made her every movement embarrassingly easy to track. She used her credit card to reserve the hotel room before even arriving. Seriously, the only thing she wasn’t doing was posting selfies of herself online.
For the first few days, she did the usual tourist things: a visit to Buckingham Palace, touring the Crown Jewels at the Tower of London, taking a photo of herself with the wax figure of Prince William at Madame Tussauds. It had been easy to blend into the crowd of tourists at each location and still stay within view of her cute figure as she took photos and consulted her guidebook. She came close to catching me at Sherlock Holmes’ house. They set the museum up as a traditional Georgian House with narrow stairs, tight corridors, and small rooms cluttered with all manner of decor and objects. I got caught behind a family from Wisconsin and was trapped on the stairs. I was only saved by vaulting over the banister and sneaking behind an employees' only stanchion, a move that got me promptly kicked out.
After that, it was a parade of museums and parks each day. She never talked or engaged with anyone, which left me both relieved and sad. While some people are content to travel alone, I had a feeling Nadia was not one of them. Not everyone enjoyed that level of solitude, especially in a bustling, energetic city like London. Each time she sat alone in a cafe or pub, I would watch as she slowly ate her meal while silently observing the heightened chatter of the tourists and locals about her. Once or twice, I could have sworn I caught her sighing. On more than one occasion, I caught a glimpse of sadness in her eyes.
In those moments, I had to restrain myself from going to her, but Samara was right. I needed to give Nadia space and time, though every second that passed where she wasn’t in my arms was killing me. Apparently, after three years watching her from afar, my patience had truly run out.
It was a good thing she was tiring of her little adventure. The signs were there. Plus, I knew her better than I knew myself. She had stopped going to the tourist attractions. She left her hotel room later and later each morning and had spent long afternoons in different cafes around the city.
Instead of museums, she now walked up and down Hatton Garden, the center of the London diamond and jewelry trade. She would stop at all the black glossy and fresh flower garland shop windows and peek inside: Smith and Green, Berganza, Pasha of London, Webley London. Occasionally, she would go inside and ask to see a few pieces. The shop clerks would pull piece after piece out of the display cases, not understanding her love for the jewelry was the love of a craftswoman, not a buyer.
The one time she did buy, she practically gave me a heart attack. She breezed into Presman Mastermelt, a precious scrap metal trader, and bought a small fortune in platinum and palladium, and then breezed out again onto the dangerous, busy streets of London as if she wasn’t carrying close to ten pounds of platinum worth one hundred thousand dollars. I almost had to give up my surveillance right then and there. Thank God she at least took a black cab straight back to the Savoy. I then had to arrange for the General Manager to knock on her door and surreptitiously inform her of the hotel’s secure safe that was available for the valuables of all guests.
Today, she strolled past the colorful shops and restaurants on Warren Street to stop in front of a cafe with bright fuchsia painted trim. I waited outside till I could see her order something and find a table in the back. She opened her book, The Great Pearl Heist, about the theft of a pearl necklace from a famous London jeweler along Hatton Garden in the early nineteen hundreds, and was soon engrossed. I wondered if she’d gotten to the part where they exchanged the sugar cubes for the pearls. I shook my head. If Gregor and Damien ever found out that I'd purchased the same book Nadia was reading to feel close to her, I would never hear the end of it.
Slipping in with a small group of friends, I faked a limp and sat at a dark corner table. The limp allowed me to ord
er something from a staff member without conspicuously standing at the counter where I might be noticed. Raising the newspaper I had brought with me from the hotel, I observed her from afar.
The cafe she had chosen for today was called Coffee, Cakes & Kisses. She sat alone at one of the tables with a white cup filled with a frothy hot chocolate and garnished with three pink marshmallows on the side. The owners had covered one particular wall in scraps of paper. I watched as Nadia asked for and was handed one of the papers. After digging for a pen in her purse, she wrote something on the paper. A minute or two later she wiped a tear off her cheek. Taking a small push pin, she secured the paper to the wall behind her and rose to leave. I ducked behind my newspaper and waited till she was out the door. Striding over to the wall, I snatched the piece of paper and folded it in half as I left. With an eye on her a few blocks ahead, I opened the paper. It had three questions printed on it in fuchsia ink. Nadia’s responses were in black pen.
What is your favorite coffee? I usually drink mochas, but I like hot chocolate with extra marshmallows if I’m feeling sad.
What is your favorite cake? Chocolate with vanilla buttercream frosting.
What is your favorite kiss? When Mikhail wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me in close and calls me his kroshka before kissing me.
I smiled as I folded the paper and placed it in my inside pocket for safekeeping. It was finally time to come out of the shadows.
Chapter 28
Nadia
Where the hell was Mikhail?
This was getting ridiculous. I was carrying around my phone. I used my credit card to book the hotel — in my own name. I’ve been walking around this entire damn city visiting every major tourist location for two weeks now. I’ve even trudged up and down Hatton Garden countless times, just in case he thought to look for me there, among the jewelry stores. I was doing everything but posting selfies online.
What did a girl have to do to get kidnapped by the man she loves?
Running away from home sucked. I missed Mikhail. Time away had shown me we both had overreacted. Mikhail definitely went into hyper protective alpha caveman mode, but I wasn’t exactly innocent either. There was no doubt I was pushing his buttons and deliberately provoking him. I had no explanation other than testing the boundaries of our new relationship. The truth was, if I hadn’t been so sensitive about him and my brothers trying to rule my life and take away my independence, I would have noticed how hard he was trying to make up for burning down my shop and how supportive he was being.
And I would tell him all of this if he ever bothers to show up to drag me back to his cave.
I couldn’t really be blamed for wanting what Samara and Yelena had. What could be more romantic or a better affirmation of Mikhail’s undying love for me than having him chase me down halfway across the world and drag me home? It was possible he was being all enlightened by giving me space and respecting my wishes. Hoping I would return to him when I was ready, which really should be a good thing. Most women would kill for a man that is sensitive to their needs. Most women, but not me. Call me a bad feminist, but I wanted the caveman. I wanted Mikhail to toss me over his shoulder, smack me on the ass, and announce that I was his and his alone. The problem was, I also wanted him to give me the independence I craved. What a mess. At least there was one thing I was sure of.
No matter what, all choices led back to Mikhail.
He was my first crush, my first love, and I desperately wanted him to be my only love.
With a sigh, I walked up the slick, rain-soaked steps of the St. Martin-in-the-Fields Church just off Trafalgar Square. I was attending their longstanding evening event, Baroque by Candlelight. Tonight’s program would include Haydn and Mozart. I couldn’t say they were my favorite composers, truth be told I could take or leave classical music, but it reminded me of home. When other teenagers were blaring rock music in their bedrooms, Damien used to play classical music on his stereo. He was super weird that way.
I entered the hushed interior of the small, ancient church. There had been a church on these grounds since medieval Domesday, hence the name, St. Martin-in-the-Fields. The city of London literally rose around its steeple, where previously there had been nothing but farmland. The six massive chandeliers over the tall, darkly stained pews were lowered and bright with candles. There were also tea light candles set along the upper back of each pew. In front, the cream and gold altar was ablaze with several lit candelabras. The faint scent of frankincense and myrrh from centuries of worship permeated the air. Four musicians dressed all in black sat on spindly wooden chairs set in a semi-circle in front of the altar, tuning their string instruments. I selected a pew in the back off to the right.
As I slipped along the smooth, varnished seat, it was as if the world disappeared. With the tall back of a pew both behind and in front of me, I was in my own private cocoon. Taking off my coat, I put my phone on silent and settled in. I closed my eyes and waited for the opening strains of Haydn’s Cello Concerto No. 2, the first composition on tonight’s program.
Instead of the light and airy violin opening typical of chamber music from that time period, the dark and somber bass tones of the cello filled the air. I listened for a moment. The music was strangely familiar.
Someone in the pew next to me hummed along. I could tell from the deep baritone it was a man, but because of the height of the pew I couldn’t see him. The violins started, and I finally recognized the song. It was the Russian love song, Dark is the Night. The song Mikhail sang to comfort me.
The man behind me sang, soft and low, for my ears only.
I have faith in you, in you, my sweetheart.
That faith has shielded me from bullets in this dark night ...
I am glad; I am calm in deadly battle.
I crept onto my knees and peered over the top of the pew. Mikhail sat there looking devastatingly handsome in a charcoal cable-knit sweater and dark jeans.
When he saw me, he grinned and raised his voice to sing. “Znayu, vstretish' s lyubov'yu menya, chto b so mnoy ni sluchilos'.” I know you will meet me with love, no matter what happens.
With a cry, I climbed over the top of the pew. He caught me in his arms. My thighs straddled his hips as I wrapped my arms around his neck. “You came for me.”
He pushed a curl behind my ear, before running his knuckles down my cheek. “Always, kroshka.”
I pouted. “It took you long enough. Did you get lost? Have something better to do?”
The pad of this thumb stroked my bottom lip. “Better than chasing my girl across the Atlantic Ocean only to spend two weeks watching her window shop? Nope, nothing comes to mind.”
My eyes widened. “You’ve been here the whole time?”
He wrapped his hand around my neck and pulled me close. Our lips were only a breath apart. I could feel the strong, steady beat of his heart under my right palm as the sandalwood scent of his cologne surrounded me. He really had the perfect boyfriendy scent.
He rasped against my lips. “When are you going to learn, kroshka? From the moment I met you, I’ve never really left your side. You’ve been mine to watch over, protect, and love from the beginning.”
He claimed my lips in a soul stealing kiss. Damn, could this man kiss. It wasn’t just a meeting of the lips. It was all-consuming. His hand on my neck, holding me close. His muscular arm around my waist. The taste of him. The feel of his lips against mine. The way his chest would vibrate with low possessive growls as his tongue swirled around mine, but most especially the hard press of his cock.
I pulled back, but only slightly, breathlessly whispering close to his open lips, “Does this mean you love me?”
He shifted his hips to grind his cock against my inner thigh. “What does that tell you?”
“It tells me you want to f—”
He kissed me again. “Hush, you dirty girl, uttering such profanity in a house of God,” he teased with feigned shock.
I shimmied my hips on his lap, pleased
when he bit his lower lip, closed his eyes and groaned. “Let’s get out of here. It’s been two weeks,” he pushed his hand beneath the hem of my skirt to caress my pussy through the thin silk of my panties, “and I’m starved.”
My cheeks flamed at the naughty implication of his words. “Wait. We’re leaving?”
“Yes, I want to get you back to the hotel. Now.”
I looked over my shoulder at the softly candlelit altar. Technically, this wasn’t a Russian Orthodox Church, but it was still a church. “I thought… well… I thought you were going to….”
Mikhail gave me a bemused smile. “You thought what?”
I sighed. So he wouldn’t let me off easy. I deserved it for running away. Tracing one of the cable-knit swirls on his sweater, I rambled, “I thought we were going to get married. I mean you said you wanted to marry as soon as possible and that you loved me, and here we are in a church, and you obviously planned this because that song was not on the program.”
He shook his head. “Nope.”
“You mean Gregor and Damien and Samara and Yelena aren’t hiding somewhere waiting for you to give the signal to start the wedding ceremony?”
“Nope.”
“We’re not getting married?”
“Nope.”
I sat back and met his gaze. “You’re not even going to propose?”
“Nope.”
My chest tightened at the thought. Had I ruined everything? Had I chased away the only man I’d ever loved with this foolish stunt? Why had I ever let Samara and Yelena convince me this would be a grand adventure that would prove his love for me? “Stop saying nope! Do you not want to marry me anymore?” I braced for his response.
“More than life itself.”
“Then… why?”
He shrugged. “I thought it would be fun to date first. You know, do proper girlfriend-boyfriend stuff like going to the movies and out to dinner.”
“So we’re not getting married today?”