Page 14 of Crimson Sin
“I'm not his territory,”I huffed.
“Tell that to the man who had your measurements without asking for them.”
The memory makes my stomach flutter as Daniil guides me through the mansion's interior. How had he known my size so precisely? The dress fits like it was made for me, hugging every curve while maintaining an elegant sophistication that I've never achieved on my own.
Daniil, on the other hand, looks born to this place. His suit is charcoal gray, impeccably cut, the fabric moving like it has a mind of its own. He guides me with ease, not possessive or forceful, just present. Like he knows exactly where he's going and how to take me with him.
We move through grand rooms with ceilings frescoed in gold and velvet. Oil paintings line the walls. Some I recognize frommy art history studies, others look like they should be in the Met. Crystal chandeliers send prisms of light across Persian rugs that are so intricate, they must have taken years to complete. Every surface gleams, and every detail is perfectly curated.
“Your mother had excellent taste,” I observe, nodding toward a Ming vase positioned on a marble pedestal.
“She believed in surrounding herself with beauty,” Daniil responds. “She once told me that ugly things breed ugly thoughts.”
“And beautiful things?” I ask.
“Beautiful things remind you what you're fighting to protect.”
His words are casual, but I study his profile, searching for the meaning beneath them. His expression remains polished and professional. It’s the same mask he wore at the museum, the same carefully composed exterior that reveals nothing.
Daniil makes introductions as we move through the gathering, his hand brushing mine whenever someone new arrives. Every time it happens, my skin tingles as if I've touched a live wire. He leans in to whisper their names and affiliations, sometimes slipping in a dry comment that makes me smile when I shouldn't. And each time, I feel myself relaxing into the act.
A man in an expensive blue suit approaches us, adjusting his cufflinks with nervous energy as if he’s trying to make a good impression. He's tall with light-brown hair and a smile that tries too hard to be charming.
“Nikolai Barinov,” Daniil murmurs near my ear, his breath warm against my skin. “He'll try to impress you with his Oxfordeducation and his collection of rare books. He's also never read a book cover to cover in his life.”
I bite back a laugh. “How do you know?”
“Because I've known him for eight years, and he once asked me if Dostoevsky was Russian or French.”
Despite myself, I smile as Nikolai reaches us, immediately launching into a story about his latest acquisition of a first edition Pushkin that he claims is “absolutely revolutionary.” I nod politely while Daniil's hand brushes mine, a gesture that sends electricity up my arm.
“And you, Mrs. Zorin,” Nikolai continues, his attention shifting to me with obvious interest, “Daniil tells me you're in art history. How fascinating. I've always believed that true culture requires a deep appreciation for literature and the arts.”
“I couldn't agree more,” I reply, watching as he preens under what he assumes is my admiration.
“Perhaps you'd enjoy seeing my library sometime. I have some pieces that would absolutely thrill someone of your...intellectual curiosity.”
The way he says “intellectual curiosity” makes my skin crawl, but I maintain my smile. “That’s very kind of you.”
After Nikolai moves on, still talking about his supposed literary prowess, I lean closer to Daniil. “You weren't exaggerating.”
“I never exaggerate,” he remarks, his voice low and amused. “The truth is usually more interesting than fiction.”
A woman in an impeccably tailored cream-colored suit approaches with the stride of someone who's spent years incourtrooms. Her dark brown hair is pulled back in a perfect chignon, and her red lipstick is applied with meticulous care.
“Irina Volkov,” she introduces herself, extending a manicured hand. “I handle the family's legal affairs.”
“Naomi,” I reply, accepting her firm handshake. There's something in her grip, not quite a warning but close.
“I've heard so much about you,” Irina continues, her voice smooth as silk. “Such a whirlwind romance.”
“Sometimes the best things happen quickly,” I offer, hyperaware of Daniil's presence beside me.
“Indeed. Though I imagine the paperwork was challenging to expedite.” Her eyes glitter with amusement. “Marriage certificates, legal documentation. Such tedious but necessary details.”
The comment feels loaded, like she's speaking in code. I glance at Daniil, but his face gives nothing away.
“Worth every bureaucratic hassle,” he interjects smoothly.
