Page 42 of Lord of the Underworld

She lets out a short, hysterical little bark. "Of course I'm not okay. We keep getting reports from the bartender at the club he frequents, and every fucking conversation just gets worse."

"Don't you always scream at me for spiraling?" I ask. "Get it together, woman!"

Yvette sounds relieved to be able to laugh a little. "Please let me know when you're back in the States."

"I will. Take care." The bathroom door is still closed. I breathe a sigh of relief, slipping my phone in the robe's pocket. I'm pulling clothes out of my suitcase to change into when he walks out of the bathroom, the steam rolling behind him, and...

Oh.

The water is running down his pale body, beautifully sculpted and as hard as marble. I greedily look over the firestorm of tattoos sweeping from his shoulders, arms, and chest around to his back. I get a good look as he walks past me to head into his closet.

"Good morning, husband." He turns and gives me a nod. "I was just getting dressed," I offer awkwardly. "I know that you probably want to head back to the U.S. as soon as possible and I am all for it." Oh, dear. The Patented Vadim Brow Rise again. "The charity I work with has a lot of meetings," I explain, smiling with what I hope looks like confidence. "There's always some mess or another to clean up, some disaster, so I'm eager to get back to work."

Vadim's listening as he casually drops his towel.

A deeply unattractive, shrill little noise escapes me as I spin around, staring at the steam-wreathed bathroom. I swear I hear something that sounds like a chuckle, but I have to be wrong, since he doesn't laugh. I hear the rustle of clothing and turn around to see him pulling up the zipper on his pants.

"So, you know, of course, anything you need me to do, obviously, as your wife, you just need to let me know. Is there, like, a schedule or...?"

A crisp white dress shirt tragically covers his perfect torso as he walks over to me, putting his hand on my chin and gently closing my mouth. Holding my jaw, he takes a deep breath, then lets it out, and mine rises and falls with his without any input from me.

"There is nothing yet," he says. "Your charity work is fine."

There's an odd inflection on how he says charity. I choose to ignore it. Maybe he just thinks I'm one of those silly, proper young Bratva princesses who busies themselves with good causes. I call them the Ladies who Lunch. The type who drinks heavily during planning meetings and then throws lavish fundraisers that cost more than they bring in.

Vadim leaves the bedroom and I quickly shower and dress. There's a swift breakfast in a sunlight-filled room off the kitchen and I hurry to pick up my bag as he rises. He frowns at me, taking it away and handing it to a guard.

He guides me out into another hallway with a door on one side, and one on the other. "Which exit do we take today, husband?" I ask. Vadim looks like he's pretending he's not sure, looking between the two exits.

"Are you being playful?" I blurt out.

He frowns at me disapprovingly before taking my arm and turning left, heading to the door in that direction. Another biometric panel is on the wall next to it.

He turns to me. "Put your hand on the panel."

"Is it going to zap me?" I chuckle nervously. He ignores me, punching in a code as I place my palm flat against the screen. The outline around my hand flashes from red to green.

"You are in the system now," he says.

As we step back out onto the hallway leading to the elevator, for a moment, I feel a little bit like Alice, stumbling through Wonderland. Except for here, the White Rabbit is a tall and monstrously dangerous Russian who can kill faster than I can blink.

Many of the Bratva families here use the same private airfield. Our entourage, though, turns and takes a different direction. Apparently the Turgenevs aren't comfortable with sharing. The cars turn toward an area just outside of Moscow near the river. It's relatively desolate. The long buildings ahead of us look like warehouses. However, there's a heavy chain link fence topped with barbed wire surrounding the buildings.

Vadim's driver taps a complicated code for the gates to open, taking us through. The building is actually a hangar, designed to look like a simple warehouse, with three jets sheltered there. The medium sized one is my favorite. A dark blue, the color of the sky at its bluest.

"An October sky," I murmur. Vadim looks at me, and I try to explain. "There's nothing bluer than an October sky. I've always thought that. Just before winter comes in, and autumn is in its last blaze of glory." The corner of his mouth curls up slightly. "It's fanciful, but that's why the blue jet is so pretty to me. It's the same color. October blue."

Just then, that is the jet that taxis out onto the runway, before pausing and allowing the jet stairs to unfold.

I smile up at Vadim. "This is your jet, isn't it?"

"This jet is your favorite," he murmurs, "it also belongs to you."

The moment feels so warm. So husband and wife-like, that I practically float up the stairs.

The two pilots and the flight attendant are standing there to greet us. They all look like military veterans to me. A couple of my father's men came from the service. They all had that battled-scarred look of stoicism.

After a nod from Vadim, they introduce themselves and as the attendant shakes my hand, his shirt sleeve pulls up. I see the beginnings of an RAF tattoo.