Page 45 of Lord of the Underworld

"Thank you!" she beams. "That would be wonderful to have my Zlo so close. I have to keep her at a stable about eight miles away from my father's house here."

We pause in front of the tall, heavy iron gates as they slowly open. She gives me a sly glance out of the corner of her eye. "Do you have land mines in the backyard?" she asks.

Fighting a smile, I shake my head. "It would be unwise. The guard dogs might set them off." Her smile disappears, and I get the sense my wife is not quite as comfortable with dogs as she is with horses.

I bought this house because it already had excellent stables on the grounds. But it also reminded me of St. Petersburg, a Georgian style mansion built with golden stone, with huge oak trees lining the drive.

Turning into the circular driveway, I see the front door is already open and Mrs. Christova is waiting to greet us, a huge smile wreathing her face.

She's an unnaturally cheerful woman in her early sixties who insisted on following me from Moscow after her husband, a soldier of mine, was shot. He didn't die in conflict; it was during a hunting trip. For a respected Brigadier, it was considered the most ignominious possible end. We still took care of her as if Martyn had died in service to the Bratva. They'd never had children, and when I relocated to Chicago, she came, too.

She is a bit jumpy around me - especially since the first night when I came home covered in blood after handling a "construction issue" with the new plant. So perhaps she's relieved to have another woman in the house.

"Welcome home!" she calls happily as I help Oksana out of the car, the line of chase vehicles pulling up behind us.

My bride might be taken aback by the exuberance of Mrs. Christova's greeting, but she doesn't show it. "Hello," she says warmly, holding out her hand. I allow her to make her own introductions. "A pleasure to meet you, I'm Oksana Vasilieva Turgeneva," she says, glancing at me as she stumbles over the unfamiliar last name.

The housekeeper's hands fold over hers warmly. "We were so very happy to hear that Mr. Turgenev had married such a lovely bride. I'm Mrs. Christova. If there's anything that you might require, please let me know. Would you like a tour, Mrs. Turgeneva?"

"Actually…" Oksana looks at me hopefully, biting her lip. "Do you think it's possible to see your stables first?"

"Of course," I say, taking her hand and leading her down the long hallway to the back of the house. Three sets of French doors fill the hall with sunlight, opening onto the back terrace facing the forest.

It takes me a minute to realize that instead of placing my hand on the small of her back, I'd taken her hand. Like lovers would. She doesn't seem to mind, fingers pressed confidently against mine as we walk.

"Do you think Mrs. Christova is disappointed about the tour?" she whispers. "I know it's a pretty big flex, showing off how beautiful the house is when you're the one caring for it."

Kissing her hand, I say, "She will survive."

The stables are an easy walk from the house. There's a road that runs alongside the house, curving around the back, that ends by the stables and tack shed. We have golf carts for getting around, but Oksana's already walking rapidly, eager to meet the horses.

Charon is out in the corral with my stable manager, Tomas, who's been grooming him, and his dark coat shines like obsidian. When my horse hears our footsteps, his ears twitch, and his head jerks in our direction. Tomas is abandoned, landing on his ass as Charon bumps him in his haste to trot over to the fence, whinnying insistently.

"Of course, he's yours," Oksana says, trying to hide a smile at my stable manager's embarrassment.

"Welcome home!" Tomas calls, getting to his feet, wincing.

"Charon," I murmur, running my hand over the long, smooth profile of his head. "I've missed you too, yes?" He bumps my shoulder impatiently, bending his head closer. "Ty dolzhen khorosho otnosit'sya k moyey koroleve. You must be good for my queen."

Rearing his head back as if he's nodding, my stallion steps closer to Oksana. Her hands are planted over her heart, her eyes a bit watery as she stares at him. "Charon,” she says. “The gatekeeper who carries the souls of the dead across the River Styx. Would he allow me to touch him, or does he need some time to get used to me?"

"Be good for me now, my friend," I tell him. I take her hand, bringing it closer. He is still for a moment before dipping his head slightly and I place her hand along his neck and mine over hers, running them down his silky coat.

"Oh," she says softly, rapturously. "You are so beautiful, Charon. You're…"

Her hand pauses, her lips parting as she stares, her hand still on Charon.

Does she remember?

Blinking, she looks at me. "I just remembered! Before I left here for Moscow and the wedding, I think I saw you. It was very early one morning, way before the sunrise, you were galloping down the trail behind my house. Galloping in the pitch black like a man who has no fear of tree branches. It was you, wasn't it?" Her eyes are alive with excitement.

There's a dull ache of disappointment in my gut. When she'd said, "I just remembered," I'd thought…

It's not important. For fourteen years, I've never wanted her to remember what happened to her. That shouldn't change now.

Chapter Twenty

In which chess can be foreplay.