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I say nothing. I’m too shocked.
“I had a bad day, and a bad night,” he continues, speaking into the crook between neck and shoulder. The stubble on his jaw draws gooseflesh to the surface, and I shudder.
Even though I know I shouldn’t reply, I can’t seem to help myself. “Why?”
“Work is—complicated.”
“Your mafia business? Or your bank business?”
He stiffens behind me. “It’s Bratva. And how do you know anything about the bank?”
“Maxim.”
“He has a big mouth. Loose lips…”
It’s my turn to stiffen. I twist in his arms to peer up at him, my heart slamming in my chest. “You won’t—will you—I mean you can’t?—”
“Ruby.” Kirill’s hand squeezes the fabric of my tank top into a fist. It’s the first time I haven’t worn one of his shirts to bed. It’s the first time he wasn’t there to give it to me.
“Please don’t hurt him.”
“Why do you care what happens to Maxim?”
“I—I like him.”
He drags his fist with my tank closer to himself, effectively pulling my body closer, too. My breath hitches. “If there’s anything that puts him or any man in danger, it’s having your affection.”
I’m flabbergasted. What is he talking about?
“I don’t understand.”
“It appears, with you, I am a jealous man, little wife.”
My lips part. “I don’t have feelings for him like that! He’s—he’s a friend.”
His tone is dry. “You’re not making this better.”
Twisting to face him fully, considering he’s still tugging on my tank top, and it won’t be long until he moves me to face him anyway, I implore him, “I can’t have someone hurt because of me, Kirill. I just can’t.”
His dark coffee eyes trace my face. “You are so innocent.”
My face begins to heat. It’s not the only thing that heats, either. All of me feels a little flushed, a touch too hot, and a lot exposed.
Searching his eyes, I find myself asking, “Do you help people immigrate from Russia?”
He blinks, brows arching in surprise. “What do you mean, immigrate?”
“Everyone who works in your house speaks Russian.”
He holds my gaze. I don’t miss the way his fist uncurls around the fabric at my belly to slide to the small of my back. His hand is under the material of my shirt now, pressing rough skin against soft. I try to tell myself it’s okay that I’m here like this with him. In my tank top and panties—in his bed—his front pressed against mine. He is my husband, after all.
So, why does this feel like a sin?
Hand splayed flat against the skin of my back, he says evenly, “They speak Russian because we are in Russia.”
It becomes suddenly clear why his hand is firm and flat on my back. He’s holding me prisoner against my shock. Keeping me contained even in my horror.
I’ve suspected this might be the case, but logic has always talked me around the idea. I’m lying down, but I feel wobbly. My vision distorts, my world tipping on its very axis. My hand lifts to land against his bare chest, to cover the ink of the bear, the hard muscle of his peck. I swallow hard. It’s audible.
