The Professional (45 page)

I gasped. “Sevastyan . . .”

“The first time I saw you, you nearly put me to my knees. I wanted to invade your thoughts as totally as you had mine. When I did manage to sleep, I’d dream of you and wake up fucking the sheets.” His grip grew harsher, as if someone were trying to take me away from him. “I’d will you to look at me. And then, in that bar, you did. You showed interest in me, and amazingly Paxán
approved the match. All he asked was that I give you time.” He released my shoulders to pace. “Time—while goddamned Filip moved in on
my
woman!”

“I didn’t choose Filip.”

“You didn’t choose me either! Not until you were alone and confused, reeling from Paxán’s death. I took advantage of you that night, and every night after.”

“No,” I said firmly, “I wanted you.”

“Because you didn’t know the real me. Can you understand now why I didn’t want to give in to my perversions with you, to give you pain? I feared becoming like my father. I fought so hard, but the thought of you going to another . . . it sent me over the edge.”

Was I hurting
him
by putting on pressure? To engage in sex he wasn’t comfortable with? Considering all the abuse I knew about—and the abuse I could only imagine—I had to wonder.

He might enjoy what we did together, then be appalled at himself.

He was talking to me now; I needed to dig deeper with him. “Will you tell me when you first realized your particular interests?”

His voice was so grave when he asked, “I’m to reveal even more?”

“Yes, Sevastyan,” I answered. “There’s no word limit here.”

His brows drew together. “It didn’t start out as a sexual thing.”

“I don’t understand.”

He exhaled. “I’d always had my brothers in my life, but in St. Petersburg, I suddenly had no one. Though there were other children, I couldn’t connect with them. Not with my background. Yet I hated being alone. Even at that age, I decided that I needed a wife—who would belong to me.”

I tried to picture Sevastyan as a boy, mulling marriage of all things. Yet decades later, he’d never wed.
He wants to marry
you,
Nat. . . .

“I was young enough to make ridiculous plans, but old enough to realize I was homeless and penniless. I knew I had nothing to offer anyone. Until a year later . . .” He trailed off.

“Tell me.”

With reluctance, he said, “There was a back-alley prostitute that all the boys used to watch. I could tell she was feigning passion with her clients, faking screams—desperate just to be done for the night.”

I cringed to think of all the things he’d seen when living on the streets.

“Then one night, a man came to her, touching her in ways I’d never seen before—exacting, even cruel ways. He made her put her hands against the wall as he whipped her. I couldn’t believe he was striking her. I was ready to kill him for hitting someone so much smaller. I started for the man, but then I looked at her face—really looked. Her eyes were glassy, and she couldn’t catch her breath.” Sevastyan’s gaze flicked to me—to see if I was still with him?—then away. “She was . . . she was in heaven.”

“Go on.”

“Once the man finally fucked her, this jaded woman melted for him. In those moments, she would’ve done anything for more. She
belonged
to him absolutely.” Sevastyan faced me, holding my gaze, as if he needed me to fully understand him. “He had something to
offer
her—something that other men didn’t. I realized if I could learn how to do the things he’d done, I could master a woman like that.
I
could make her melt. I didn’t crave the acts as much as I did the result.”

I’d suspected that kink for this man had more to do with
a woman’s pleasure than his own. Now I was learning that he’d imprinted the day he’d seen a woman taken to heights he’d never before witnessed. “And then later?”

“As I told you, it always felt like practice. After I met you, I understood why. But then when my needs grew fiercer with you, I feared I was interested in pain for the wrong reasons. Maybe because I’d received so much of it. Maybe because I wanted to control it like alcohol, meting doses of it. I was terrified that I would scare you away—or lose control and harm you.”

And all I’d done was push him. Regret weighed on me. “Then I’ve pressured you into things you’re not comfortable with.”

He shook his head forcefully. “When someone like
you
had those needs . . . what I did to you didn’t feel sordid. You made it . . . clean. I went to a place like that club, and I felt hope too.”

I must have looked unconvinced, because he added, “I was right all those years ago. That night of the club,
you
looked like you were in heaven—and I knew you were mine.”

I recalled how his eyes had glinted, how he’d rested his forehead against my shoulder. He’d told me I was made for him.

“On the ride home, you curled your little fingers into my hair and shivered against me. You sighed like you loved me.” His gaze bored into mine. “I will do
anything
for that reaction.”

He’d seen how tastes of pain could affect a woman, and he’d internalized that want. This man only yearned to madden me, to take me to new heights. Which meant I wasn’t hurting him!

And he was actually communicating with me.

Right when I was growing convinced that we could make this work, his eyes turned bleak. “But you weren’t mine, were you?”

“I was. I am!” I made a sound of exasperation. “Do you know how frustrating it’s been to fall in love with every facet you let me see—even when I believed you’d never let me see more?”

“Love?” His Adam’s apple bobbed.

“Yes, Sevastyan. I’m willing to work on us, if you are too. If you’ll just keep talking to me, I believe we can handle anything.”

He eyed me suspiciously, as if he couldn’t fathom this turn of events. “You’re giving me another chance?”

“If you’ll give me one too. I do need to learn to be more patient, just like you said.”

He eased closer. “I know I’m not right. But if you help me, I can be better. That’s what I want. Natalie, understand me: I’m . . .
asking
.”

I was already reaching for him. When he swung me over to straddle his lap, I wrapped my arms around his neck. Against me, his body shuddered as if a weight had been lifted from him—like an overworked muscle finally allowed to rest.

I whispered, “You let me in.”

He could only nod.

“Please don’t shut me out again. As long as you talk to me, I’ll never leave you.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes.”

For what might have been hours, he held me like this. “Sevastyan, what happens now?”

In a voice hoarse with emotion, he said, “Now we go home.”

T
he Moskva River was almost frozen.

From the pavilion, I watched otters frolicking on blocks of ice. I’d seen a stoat, several hares, and a snowy owl. They were all thriving in these bitter temperatures—a damp cold even more biting than I’d known in Nebraska.

The pavilion was one of my favorite places on the property. I would come here whenever Sevastyan was working.

All around me, Berezka was covered in snow, pristine. Which helped me to forget the fight to the death by the boathouse, the war for control that had raged over these grounds.

Paxán’s untimely death.

Seamless white reminded me that wounds heal.

Though Paxán’s grave site was beautiful—a clearing atop a hill, surrounded by birch trees—I felt closer to him here.

His funeral had been somber, attended by so many who’d loved him. In front of others, Sevastyan hadn’t allowed himself to show grief. Later that night, in front of me, two tears had slid down his face, which might as well have been a thousand for a hardened man like him.

Every day that passed we could think of Paxán with less pain. I was thankful that I’d gotten to spend even that short amount of time with him. In just weeks, he’d changed my fate forever.

His dying wish had been fulfilled: my life was better because he’d been in it.

I glanced over and saw Sevastyan striding toward me, his long charcoal coat whipping about his legs; my heart sped up at the sight of him. I knew that it always would.

The winter sun caught his face as he neared. To look at him now, I would say he’d found some measure of peace. He appeared younger, that weariness I’d first sensed in him lifted. He smiled more often, and I could even make him laugh on occasion.

“Ready to go in?” He offered his arm for the walk back to the main house. We’d redone my wing for the two of us, moving his things from his house on the property.

“All set.” I took his arm with a gloved hand, glancing up at his flushed cheeks and brightened gaze. Sigh.

Over the last month since we’d returned, Sevastyan had been able to disentangle Paxán’s legacy from
mafiya
concerns; then he’d taken over as
vor
, though in a scaled-back capacity. Now he focused on protection for Paxán’s territory and people.

And,
damn
, did the job of protector suit Sevastyan.

“Your gifts for your mother and Jessica arrived from Buccellati today.” Boxes of extravagant jewelry.

Okay, okay, so the money was growing on me.

For Christmas, Sevastyan and I planned to visit Nebraska. I could only imagine what my family and friends would think about my ex-enforcer.

“Thanks for letting me know about the presents,” I told him with a grin. I was pretty sure he sometimes talked just to make some kind of mental “word quota.” I razzed him about that all
the time. “Have you thought any more about your brothers?” I’d floated the idea of Sevastyan calling them on Christmas, a tentative start toward something more.

“I . . . haven’t ruled out anything. Though Maksim might think I’m leaning toward his proposal.”

“You have a point.” While I was angling for a mere holiday call, Maksim was angling to unite his might with Sevastyan’s and take over, well, Russia.

Sevastyan hadn’t agreed to anything, but his rivals had caught wind of the potential alliance and backed off considerably. Which meant he didn’t have to work so much.

Maybe he could leave his post this spring and take me around the world?

Or perhaps I’d enroll in school over here. No surprise: I hadn’t decided yet.

One thing I was certain of? I was determined to make this winter different for him, to have him associate it with our warm bed, our wicked lovemaking, and our hopes for the future.

“Oh, before I forget, Jess has kind of called dibs on your old place. She wants to fly back with us after the holidays.” And she might’ve vowed never to leave. As she’d put it: “If I get to live in my own mini palace, Imma be one borscht-eating bitch.”

“Then it’s hers,” Sevastyan said, surprising me. “As long as I get you to myself during the nights.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal, Siberian.” For the first time in his life, he was enjoying the long nights. We swam together, read together, and played chess by the fire. Or we tried to. Last night, we’d scattered the pieces when he’d tossed me atop the board to have his way with me.

Never had a queen been so happy to be taken.

Often, we talked into the night as he shared more of his burdens.
With each one, I marveled at the loving and honorable man he’d become. He’d also been telling me all about Paxán, and I could see the kindly clockmaker’s hand in guiding him.

Sevastyan still had shadows; now they were
our
shadows.

As for me, I’d been working on becoming more patient. To help with that, I was repairing my
bátja
’s clocks. Clock-making demanded patience.

When the wind whipped, Sevastyan said, “Come here.” He tugged me closer, shielding me with his big body. He always did that, just as he warmed my hands whenever they got cold.

I snuggled up to him, even though I was warm in my luxurious cashmere coat and sweater—that I’d paired with jeans and clodhopper boots.

I’d been making an effort to preserve my
self 
; Natalie was back—hopefully a little more patient and accepting. Maybe, just maybe, a little wiser . . . ?

When a white hare crossed our path, I murmured, “It’s so beautiful here.”

“Wait till you see it in the summer.” He’d started talking about the future, growing increasingly confident that I wasn’t going anywhere.

Probably because we’d taken to living together like a house on fire. “Hey, maybe we’ll have gotten rid of Jess by then.”

He flashed me an amused look.

The only thing missing between us? He hadn’t told me he loved me. Though he showed me every day, and he’d certainly convinced me of it in Paris, I needed to hear the words. Yet this was one thing I couldn’t ask him for; it had to come naturally. . . .

“Tomorrow we should visit the
banya
.” As he peered down at me, the sun struck his eyes, setting them aglow.

Molten gold: my new favorite color.

“I agree. It’s important. For our health.” Had I thought I would miss the thrills to be had at Le Libertin? Wrong. Sevastyan had already made me fly on several occasions since we’d been home.