Page 46 of Lord of the Underworld

Vadim…

"Can I ask you something?" Oksana asks.

It's midnight, and we're wandering through my - our - house. My bride pauses to look in each room, analyzing it before moving on.

"Of course," I say.

"There are sixteen rooms in this house," she muses, trailing her hand over a long, carved table in the hall that I had brought from St. Petersburg. "Five bedrooms, five bathrooms, an office, a library. Then, that enormous kitchen. Gordon Ramsey would give up his first born for that kitchen, by the way. A garden room, the living room, and another meeting room."

She gives me a sly glance, something I'm beginning to recognize as proof that she's beginning to understand me, almost more than I want her to.

"I suspect there are probably a few special rooms downstairs in the basement." She taps her chin, considering it. "Concrete rooms, soundproof, maybe they have drains?"

Raising a brow in appreciation at her analysis, I keep quiet.

As we keep walking, she continues. "Maybe half of these rooms are furnished. Obvious ones, like the kitchen and bathrooms. Your study. Your bedroom, Slava Bogu, thank god." She chuckles. "I appreciate having somewhere to hang my clothes. About half of these rooms, though, are empty. You could have had a designer come in and do the entire house, but you didn't."

"This move could be temporary," I shrug.

"Now, see, I don't think so," she says, following me into the library. "You knew you were going to be here for the foreseeable future, overseeing whatever it is…?"

She pauses, waiting to see if I'll fill in the blanks.

"Whatever it is that you're manufacturing," she continues. "At the very least, you're planning a semi-permanent stay here in Chicago. So why all the empty rooms?"

Giving her the courtesy of considering it, I realize it wasn't a conscious decision, though I rarely purchase anything just for show. If something isn't useful, it's not interesting to me. But she is correct. What was I waiting for to fill those rooms?

"I hadn't thought about it," I say truthfully. I pour myself a glass of vodka from the bar here in the library, and pull out a bottle from the white fridge, holding it up inquiringly.

The library is my preferred room in the house. The deep oak paneling and tall bookshelves remind me of our home in St. Petersburg. The green and blue tiled fireplace is enormous, and there are a few different places to settle here. Wingback chairs by the fireplace, or a couch by the bookshelves. It occurs to me now that there's only one place where two people could sit comfortably together, a leather sectional by the windows. Oksana has settled herself there, her shoes off and legs tucked under her.

"I'd love a glass, thank you," she says. "Well, if I can be so bold, I think your focus has been somewhat narrow." She's treading carefully, I can see the little frown between her brows as she thinks it through. "Horses. Your work. Basic functions of living. It feels like the rest of your life is waiting for you to fill it up with something else." She takes a nervous sip of her wine. "I can't believe I'm talking like this to a man I married two days ago."

Leaning against the window, I automatically run a quick visual check on the exterior of the house before my gaze returns to hers.

"What do you think I should fill it up with?" I ask.

Now, the look she gives me is uncertain. Questioning, perhaps, if she's pushing her luck. "I hope you'll let me fill up a bit of it," she says, offering me a small, teasing smile. "Maybe just a room or two. I would like to be one of the things that fills your life."

My mouth is curving into a smile, goddamnit. A real one. Crossing the room swiftly, I kneel in front of her, putting two fingers under her chin and lifting it so I can kiss her. Slowly, this time. No destination in mind, just appreciating the warmth of her lips and her warm scent of cinnamon. Her lips are soft, yielding eagerly to my tongue and we stay like this, exploring with lips, tongues, and the occasional nip of teeth.

When I break the kiss, my forehead stays pressed against hers for a moment. My bride's eyes are closed, with a dreamy little smile on her lush mouth.

Drawing in a deep breath, she says, "That feels like it might be a yes."

Pinching her chin, I stand up. I'm not ready for more of this yet. This afternoon was almost too much. The unfamiliar sense of hope, the disappointment. The unexpected anticipation of how she'd respond to my private space.

Glancing over at the chess set on the table by the window, I ask, "Do you play?"

"I do. My mother taught me." She rises with her glass of wine, strolling over to the table. "This set must be very old," she says, carefully touching the black and white ivory squares.

"Two hundred years at least," I say, pulling out a chair for her at the table. She turns the board carefully, choosing the white side. "The head of the Turgenev family then used to challenge his opponents to a game. He said it taught him how they strategized for warfare and conflict, their weaknesses."

"Interesting," she says, picking up her queen, and admiring the elaborate detailing. I seat myself across from her, and she eyes me speculatively. "What should we play for?"

Tapping the table with my fingers, I consider it. "A confession, or a kiss," I say. "The winner can demand a confession from the loser. A memory, perhaps." Her smile falters a little. "Or a kiss," I finish.

"I accept your terms," she says, straightening up in her chair like a student called on for an answer. It's an oddly endearing move. She eyes the board and her pieces again; brow furrowed in concentration before moving the king's pawn two squares toward the center.