Page 30 of Cruel Russian King
“I get why you don’t want me in the city,” she said softly. “You should’ve told me. I would’ve understood.”
I lifted a brow, a small smirk teasing my lips.
She rolled her eyes, laughing faintly. “Fine. I would’ve been pissed. But I would’ve understood. I wouldn’t risk myself getting hurt.”
I lifted her hand to my lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. I watched as a soft pink hue ran across her face before she lowered her eyes.
“Thank you,” I murmured. “Shall we?” I extended my free hand toward the gazebo.
She smiled up at me. “We shall.”
As we walked in a comfortable silence, something dawned on me. This wasn’t just lunch. This was our first date as husband and wife. Yes, we were at home but I was determined to ensure it would be memorable for the both of us.
Chapter 10 - Ninel
I closed my eyes, thinking back to yesterday’s lunch with Artyom. He had insisted on feeding me, and every time Iobeyed, I saw it…the dark, simmering intensity in his eyes. It was as if he were unraveling, not in a gentle, romantic way, but in a way that was dangerous and captivating.
When a bit of chocolate melted on his finger and he licked it off, his gaze never leaving me, my nipples hardened despite myself. Heat rose to my cheeks, and I had to look away, ashamed of how quickly my body responded to him by a mere look.
After lunch, the chef brought out a small raspberry rose opera cake. It was layers of almond sponge, coffee buttercream, chocolate ganache, crowned with edible rose petals. And a portable radio appeared shortly after.
There was one knife and one fork. Artyom took my hand and helped me to my feet.
“Every bride and groom should have a chance to cut a cake,” he murmured. His low tone paired with the intensity of his eyes sent an involuntary shudder through me. “Don’t you think?”
I nodded, my pulse thundering in my chest.
He placed the knife in my hand, his large hand covering mine. The moment our hands touched, warmth shot through my arm. My reflex kicked in and I tried to yank my hand away, but Artyom tightened his grip as we cut a small triangular piece. Then he fed me with the fork first, and I returned the favor, hands trembling slightly.
What the hell was wrong with me?
When he stepped away from me I inhaled deeply, needing the distance he created. But, that was short lived. Because after he plugged in the radio, and pressed play I was in his arms. One arm captured mine while the other pressed firmly against the small of my back holding me close against him. My hand rested on his shoulder. My heart slammed against my ribs rattling my rib cage.
I expected something Russian, or classic, something elegant. Nothing had prepared me for Earned It by The Weeknd.
He maneuvered me effortlessly across the gazebo as we danced, his gaze locked on mine. Wherever he led I followed. I felt like he was the Pied Piper and I was locked in a trance.
I didn’t notice when the song ended. I couldn’t tear my eyes from him, nor my hands away from his body.
Then his phone rang, cutting through the spell. He pressed a kiss to my forehead before stepping away, briskly answering his phone. The warmth of the moment vanished in a heartbeat.
Only then did Ruslan return, silently resuming his post.
After Artyom had whipped Ruslan naked in front of me, guilt clawed at me, even though I had apologized a thousand times. Ruslan told me it wasn’t my fault, that if he had done his job properly, he wouldn’t have been punished.
Back home, before I was married, running away earned me scoldings, maybe even a smaller allowance, but no guard had ever been punished for something I did. The contrast made every fibre of my being tense, a reminder of just how different this world…his world was.
You’re no longer on Safin turf, Ninel. You’d better learn the new rules.
Today I sat curled in a chair in the library with a book, Ruslan standing in the corner.
Artyom had sent a message via Ruslan, saying he’d be home for dinner. Around five-thirty, I closed my book and made my way upstairs to the bedroom to get ready.
I stepped into the room and froze.
On the bed, two wrapped gifts waited: one flat, the other a large box. Artyom must have dropped them off himself; none of the guards were allowed in our bedroom.
I opened the flat gift first, and my breath hitched. It was the same painting I had been staring at in the art gallery. I sat on the bed, staring at it. Why would he get this for me? Was it because he knew I liked it, or because he hoped it would make me more compliant to his demands? More obedient?
