Page 72 of Unholy Tsar

Before I can ask what he means, he addresses someone behind me. “Whatever you do, leave her hair down.”

Shit, I forgot we had an audience.

My cheeks flush so hot, I know I must be as red as a tomato. Maksim chuckles at my reaction and gently rubs his knuckles down my cheek before leaving.

The heat doesn’t fade until I’m settled into my makeup chair. Alena and her girls are professionals, and they doll me up as I daydream, feeling like a real princess. When they’re done, and I get my final look, I can’t help but gasp.

My usually straight hair is now cascading in soft, luscious waves. The left side is clipped behind my ear, with one short strand kissing the top of my collarbone. On the right side, my hair covers my ear but falls down my back in the same soft curls.

And my face.

It looks flawless. The makeup is so expertly done, it looks completely natural, except for my perfectly shaped brows, of course.

“Wow,” is the only thing I can say as I stare at myself in the mirror, mesmerized.

I’m stepping into a pair of glittery black stilettos when the elevator doors open and Maksim strolls in. I almost swallow my tongue. Oh my.

He looks like he just walked right out of a GQ cover.

He’s in a black three-piece tux that hugs his body like it’s custom-made—which I’m sure it is—and a bow tie in the same midnight blue as my dress. His salt-and-pepper hair is parted at the sides and slicked back.

His cufflinks gleam like they’re made from real gold, and his wristwatch glimmers like the most extravagant jewelry.

When he sees me, he does a double take. We both stop in our tracks, absolutely in disbelief of each other.

“There won’t be a man there tonight who isn’t kicking themselves with jealousy,” Maksim says thickly, and for the first time since I’ve known him, I detect a hint of an accent in his words. “Because of the gorgeous queen in my arms.”

I blush for the umpteenth time as I meet him halfway and fuss unnecessarily with his tie just for something to do with my hands. “You look so dashing,” I tell him, gazing up into his eyes. Because of my heels, I don’t have to tilt my head as far as I usually do.

“Shall we, dushen’ka?” He crooks his arm at me, and I take it with a wide smile.

“We shall.”

Mikhail’s palace is so massive it’s hard to comprehend, and its ostentatious decor makes it seem almost fake, like a showcase. Everything looks so expensive that I make sure to stick close to Maksim’s side, just to avoid accidentally bumping into something that might cost more than my entire life.

My eyes wander and latch onto something gleaming. Whoa, is that real gold? I try not to gape at a bust of Mikhail perched on a tall table in the foyer.

“Relax, dushen’ka. I promise you belong here.”

Mikhail’s butler leads us past an indoor fountain and through a series of hallways before finally opening the door of what seems to be a grand ballroom. It’s clearly been redecorated for this special dinner, but its size is still mind-boggling, easily twice the size of our giant penthouse suite at the hotel, with steps leading down to the main room, a room that’s already bustling with plenty of important-looking people.

Someone standing next to the doorway announces us—well, he announces Maksim—like we’re in some medieval movie or something.

I clutch Maksim’s hand as we walk down the steps. Even though I’m looking the best I ever have, I feel so out of my depth.

Mikhail Ivanov, our host, walks up to us with an older woman who’s decked out in jewels. “Maksim! I’m so glad you could make it.” Mikhail shakes Maksim’s hand, then grins at me, “And you look so beautiful tonight.”

“Thank you.”

“Maksim, this is my wife Katerina. Katerina, you know Maksim, of course. The Tsar of America.”

Maksim doesn’t physically react, but because I’m holding his hand so tightly, I feel his slight flinch. I frown up at him, wondering what’s up with that. Is it the title?

“And this is his Tsarina?” Katerina asks in broken English. It might be because of her accent, but I swear there’s an almost mocking quality to her tone.

“Yes,” Maksim answers succinctly, and that’s that.

The Ivanovs lead us further into the ballroom. Introductions are made. Pleasantries are shared. People quickly lose interest in me, focusing instead on speaking to Maksim in a mix of English and Russian that makes the conversation nearly impossible to follow.