Page 188 of Filthy Promises

“A nursery.” I stay in the doorway, giving her space to explore. “Or it will be. I thought perhaps you might want to design it yourself. When you’re ready.”

She turns in a slow circle, taking in the empty space with its large windows overlooking the most protected part of the grounds. “You built a nursery. Before knowing if I’d even speak to you again.”

“I built it because regardless of what happens between us, our child will need a safe place.” I run a hand through my hair, suddenly feeling uncharacteristically awkward. “I thought youmight appreciate the chance to create it the way you want. No Akopov family traditions forced on you. No expectations. Just a blank canvas.”

She doesn’t respond immediately, just continues her slow circuit of the room, trailing her fingers along the built-in shelves, the windowsills, the smooth walls. I watch her, trying to read what’s happening behind those green eyes.

“Thank you,” she says finally, her voice soft. “This was… thoughtful.”

It’s not forgiveness. It’s not even close.

But it’s something—a small crack in the wall between us, a tiny opening where light might eventually penetrate.

I’ll take it.

“The staff will serve dinner at seven,” I say as I back toward the door. “Your rooms have everything you should need, but if there’s anything missing, Marta can help. You have free run of the house and grounds, though I’d ask that you stay within the perimeter wall.”

She nods, still not looking at me. “What will you do now?”

“Work,” I answer honestly. “I’ve been distracted these past few days. There are matters that need my attention.”

Now, she does look at me, those perceptive eyes scanning my face. “Bratva stuff?”

“Some of it,” I agree. “Also company business. The FBI investigation hasn’t gone away just because our personal lives imploded.”

“Right.” She wraps her arms around herself, suddenly looking smaller in the empty room. “Of course.”

I hesitate in the doorway, fighting the urge to go to her, to pull her against my chest and promise her everything will be alright.

But I’ve made too many promises already. Actions matter now, not words.

“Rowan…” I wait until she meets my eyes. “I meant what I said before. You’re safe here. Not just from external threats, but from everything. Including me. This isn’t a prison, contrary to how it may seem. If at any point you want to leave, just say the word and I’ll arrange it.”

“But you don’t want me to leave.”

“No,” I agree. “I don’t. But what I want stopped mattering the moment I betrayed your trust. Now, it’s about what you need.”

Something shifts in her expression—a softening around the eyes, perhaps, or a slight relaxation of her tense shoulders. It’s minimal, barely perceptible. But I’ve spent so many nights now studying every nuance of Rowan St. Clair’s body language. I know what I’m seeing.

It’s not forgiveness.

But it might be a beginning.

54

ROWAN

I never thought I’d be nostalgic for awkward corporate Christmas parties, but here we are.

This is worse.

From my uncomfortable perch on a stiff brocade chair, I watch as the Akopov family estate transforms into what can only be described as Russian Mafia Central Station. Midnight black SUVs roll through the gates one after the next, each disgorging men in expensive suits and women dripping with diamonds.

Vince calls this a “small gathering of associates” to announce our upcoming wedding.

I call it a nightmare.

“Breathe,” I remind myself, smoothing my hands over the emerald silk dress Vince had delivered this morning. It fits perfectly, of course. The man may be a lying, manipulative crime lord with trust issues, but he knows my measurements down to the millimeter.

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