Page 186 of Filthy Promises

To my surprise, she does. Her fingers are cold and fragile against mine as I help her from the car.

“This place looks like it belongs in some fucked-up Russian fairy tale,” she says as she casts a wary eye over the imposing façade with its stone balconies and mullioned windows.

“Not far off.” I guide her toward the front steps. My hand hovers near the small of her back without quite touching her. “My grandfather had it built to resemble the family estate outside St. Petersburg. The one the Bolsheviks burned in 1917.”

“Holding grudges seems to be a family trait.”

“You have no idea.”

The massive front doors open before we reach them. Ivan, our head of household security, stands at attention. He’s been with the family since before I was born—a mountain of a man with hands like hammers and unwavering loyalty.

“Mr. Akopov,” he greets in his thick Russian accent, inclining his head respectfully. “Welcome home.”

“Ivan.” I nod back. “This is Rowan St. Clair. My fiancée.”

Ivan’s eyes widen—the only visible reaction to this unexpected introduction. But I know he’s cataloging everything about her—height, weight, coloring, the bulge beneath her sweater where our child grows. He won’t forget a single detail.

“Ms. St. Clair.” He bows formally. “Welcome to Akopov Manor. We have prepared the east wing for your arrival.”

“Thank you,” Rowan replies, her voice smaller than usual in this imposing setting. “Though I didn’t know I was expected.”

“Mr. Akopov called ahead this morning,” Ivan explains, stepping aside to let us enter. “Everything has been arranged according to his specifications.”

I feel her stiffen beside me. “His specifications,” she repeats flatly. “Of course.”

I sigh internally. “Ivan, Ms. St. Clair and I will need a moment. Please have Marta prepare tea in the library.”

“At once, sir.” Ivan withdraws with the silent efficiency of a man who’s spent decades anticipating needs before they’re voiced.

Alone in the massive marble foyer, Rowan steps away from me, arms crossed defensively over her chest. “You ‘called ahead’? When exactly did you decide I’d be coming here?”

“It doesn’t matter, Rowan.”

She’s unconvinced. “It didn’t occur to you to maybe ask what I wanted?”

“Would you have agreed to come?”

She looks away. “That’s not the point.”

“It’s exactly the point.” I step closer, careful not to crowd her, but I need to impress upon her the seriousness of everything that’s happening here. “I’m trying to keep you alive, Rowan. You and our child. If that means making decisions that piss you off, so be it.”

To my surprise, she doesn’t immediately argue. Instead, she stares up at the sweeping staircase, the gleaming floors, the priceless artwork adorning the walls.

“This is really your world, isn’t it?” she says softly. “All of this wealth. Power. An entire staff jumping to attention when you walk through the door.”

“It’s part of it.” I follow her gaze. “But not the part that matters.”

“What part matters, then?”

“The part that keeps you safe.” I gesture toward a long hallway. “Come. Let me show you.”

I lead her through the main floor of the house. As we go, I point out security features disguised as architectural elements. The reinforced windows. The panic buttons hidden in decorativemolding. The strategic placement of security cameras, designed to be unobtrusive but undeniable.

“The entire property is surrounded by a twenty-foot perimeter wall with motion sensors and infrared cameras,” I explain as we move through the grand dining room. “Guard dogs patrol the grounds at night. Every entrance has a minimum of three separate security measures: mechanical, biometric, and audiovisual.”

“It’s a beautiful prison,” she observes, trailing her fingers along a mahogany sideboard.

I sigh. She isn’t wrong.

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