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He’s standing with his back to me, staring out at the vineyard as the last of the bloody sunset weeps across the horizon. There’s a glass of wine in his hand, half-empty. His shirt is untucked, sleeves rolled to his elbows, collar unbuttoned. Now that I know to look for them, I can see the faint ridges of his scars where the fabric hugs his back.

And now that I know how to read him, just a tiny bit better than before, I sense that he looks tired. Still achingly handsome, but tired. Worn thin in some way I can’t quite put my finger on.

I wonder what he’s been doing all day. Does he have Natasha or someone like her stashed in another chateau just around the bend? Or was he in confession at the nearest church, begging a priest to absolve him of his sins?

The latter image makes me laugh. One, because of what he said to me not so long ago:I don’t think you’d be particularly interested in a man who has to beg for what he wants.The message was clear: Lukas Lazarev does not beg. Not for women, not for sex, and certainly not for absolution from God. If I had to guess, I’d say he doesn’t give a damn about any afterlife or eternal damnation.

The other reason the thought of Lukas confessing makes me laugh is because, if any priest alive heard half the things he’d snarled in my ear last night, I’m pretty sure they’d have acoronary on the spot. The whole confessional booth would go up in unholy flames.

I bet Lukas would walk right out of the ash unscathed.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” he says without turning around. “I hope you like?—”

He turns.

He stops.

And for one glorious, heart-stopping moment, I watch Lukas Lazarev be lost for words.

His eyes travel down my body with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. They snag on my cleavage, skate lower to the hem of the dress, then drag back up to my face with visible effort. His jaw goes tight. His knuckles whiten around the wine glass.

There it is—that look. The one from last night. Raw and hungry.

Got you, you son of a bitch.

But then, just as quickly as it appeared, the heat vanishes. His face smooths into something cold and distant.

“Take it off.”

I do a double-take. “Excuse me?”

Is thatTake it offlike in a sexy way? OrTake it offin, like, aHow dare you besmirch this fabric with your peasant asstype way?

“That dress is not yours,” he growls. “Take it off.”

Peasant way,confirmed. He does not sound pleased.

“Do you actually think I’m about to strip naked just because you don’t like my outfit?” I ask incredulously.

Inwardly, I’m a bit taken aback by my own sass, but I blame the weird day we’ve had and the somewhat surreal surroundings. Little by little, I’m becoming a version of myself I didn’t know existed: a feisty, smart-mouthed brat.

And it’s making Lukas go purple with rage.

“Fuckingnow, Rae.”

He hasn’t budged from his spot by the railing, but somehow, the distance between us feels like it’s shrinking. Like the air itself is compressing, getting heavier, hotter, and harder to breathe.

I purse my lips. “No.”

Lukas’s eyes flare. “That wasn’t a request.”

“Good thing I don’t take orders from you, then.”

I half-expect the stem to snap in his fist. I quarter-expect him to then shank me with the broken glass.

“You have no idea what you’re playing at.”

“Me? I’m not playing at anything.You’rethe one going bananas over nothing!” I take a step forward, which is either the bravest or the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. “From where I’m standing, it looks like you can’t even handle a little red fabric.”