He grins and steps back, releasing me. “Ricotta pancakes. You hungry?”
“I could definitely eat,” I admit, and watch his metallic eyes brighten with pleasure.
I sit down as he grabs plates for both of us and sets them on the table. Though he only came back for me last Tuesday, he’s already completely at home in my tiny kitchen, his movements as smooth and confident as if he’s been living here for months.
Watching him, I again get the unsettling sensation that a dangerous predator has invaded my small apartment. Partially, it’s his size—he’s at least a head taller than I am, his shoulders impossibly broad, his elite soldier’s body packed with hard muscle. But it’s also something about him, something more than the tattoos that decorate his left arm or the faint scar that bisects his eyebrow.
It’s something intrinsic, a kind of ruthlessness that’s there even when he smiles.
“How are you feeling, ptichka?” he asks, joining me at the table, and I look down at my plate, knowing why he’s concerned.
“Fine.” I don’t want to think about yesterday, about how Agent Ryson’s visit had literally made me sick. I’d already been anxious about the wedding, but it wasn’t until the FBI agent slapped me in the face with Peter’s crimes that I lost the contents of my stomach—and nearly stood Peter up.
“No ill effects from last night?” he clarifies, and I look up, my face heating as I realize he’s referring to our sex life.
“No.” My voice is choked. “I’m fine.”
“Good,” he murmurs, his gaze hot and dark, and I hide my intensifying blush by reaching for a ricotta pancake.
“Here, my love.” He expertly plates two pancakes for me and pushes a bottle of maple syrup my way. “Do you want anything else? Maybe some fruit?”
“Sure,” I say and watch as he walks over to the fridge to take out and wash some berries.
My domesticated assassin. Is this what our life together will always be like?
“What do you want to do today?” I ask when he returns to the table, and he shrugs, his sculpted lips curved in a smile.
“It’s up to you, ptichka. I was thinking we could go out, enjoy the beautiful day.”
“So… a walk in the park? Really?”
He frowns. “Why not?”
“No reason. I’m game.” I focus on my pancakes so I don’t start giggling hysterically.
He wouldn’t understand.
We eat quickly—I’m hungry, and the ricotta pancakes (sirniki, he calls them) are to die for—and then we head out to the park. Peter is driving, and when we’re halfway there, I notice a black SUV following us.
“Is that Danny again?” I ask, glancing back.
Ever since Peter’s return, the Feds have left us alone, and Peter is much too calm about the tail for it to be anyone but the bodyguard/driver he hired.
To my surprise, Peter shakes his head. “Danny is off today. It’s a couple of other guys from that crew.”
Ah. I turn around in my seat to study the SUV. The windows are tinted, so I can’t see in. Frowning, I look back at Peter. “You think we still need all that security?”
He shrugs. “I hope not. But better safe than sorry.”
“And this car?” I look around the luxurious Mercedes sedan Peter bought last week. “Is it extra secure somehow?” I rap my knuckles on the window. “This seems really thick.”
His expression doesn’t change. “Yes. The glass is bulletproof.”
“Oh. Wow.”
He glances at me, a faint smile appearing on his lips. “Don’t worry, ptichka. I have no reason to think we’ll get shot at. This is just a precaution, that’s all.”
“Right.” Just a precaution—like the weapons he had inside his jacket at our wedding. Or the bodyguard/driver who’s there to pick me up when Peter can’t. Because normal suburban couples always have bodyguards and bulletproof cars.
“Tell me about the houses you found,” I say, shoving aside the unease generated by the thought of all those security measures. Given his former profession and the kinds of enemies he’s made, Peter’s paranoia makes perfect sense, and I’m not about to object to whatever precautions he deems necessary.
Like he said, better safe than sorry.
“I’m going to show you the listings in a second,” he says, and I realize we’re already at our destination.
He expertly parks the car and walks around to open the door for me. I place my hand in his, letting him help me out, and I’m not the least bit surprised when he uses the opportunity to draw me to him for a kiss.
His lips are soft and gentle as they touch mine, his breath flavored with maple syrup. There is no urgency in this kiss, no darkness—just tenderness and desire. Yet when he lifts his head, my pulse is just as fast as if he’d ravished me, my skin warm and tingling where his palm cradles my cheek.
“I love you,” he murmurs, gazing down at me, and I beam up at him, my unease replaced by a light, buoyant sensation.