“Olivia,” he called from somewhere outside the bedroom.
I slipped on the silk nightgown from the bedroom floor and padded out into the living area. Lucien stood in his boxers in the kitchen with a glass of water in his hand.
“Come here and take this,” he ordered.
I drew near and he held out his palm with a small white pill in it. I glanced up at him, looking for some reassurance, but his eyes were as blank as ever.
“What is that?” I whispered.
“Morning-after pill. Take it,” he said, without room for argument.
I accepted the glass of water and swallowed the pill and only when it was gone did his shoulders relax a little. He bent forward and kissed my mouth briefly and headed toward the bedroom. I followed him, hovering in the bathroom door to watch him strip naked and turn the shower on. He had a strong, attractive body and it seemed like he knew it because he moved just as confidently naked as when he was clothed.
“Will everything be alright now?” I asked hesitantly.
He stepped beneath the open shower and let the water run over his head. “We caught it early on, so it should be fine. I sent for real birth control for you so we’ll have it for most of the honeymoon and in the meantime I’ll use a condom. Don’t worry about it, I have it handled.”
The honeymoon. In all the anticipation of the wedding, it hadn’t occurred to me to ask about it. It was customary in the outfit for the bride’s family to handle the ceremony and reception and the groom to make all the honeymoon arrangements. The subject of where we were going had never been brought up to me as it wasn’t deemed my responsibility.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“I’ll tell you when we get there.”
I frowned. “Why can’t I know now?”
He glanced over at me. “Take off your nightgown and get in the shower with me.”
His commanding tone sent a pleasant shiver through my body and I obeyed, letting the fabric fall from my body. He pulled me against his chest, the hard muscles of his torso slippery and warm. Then his mouth brushed over the side of my neck and hovered by my ear.
“Always assume any building belonging to the outfit is bugged,” he whispered. “We’re going to Moscow, to Viktor’s mansion.”
I glanced up, looking around the room. “Bugged?”
“Better to be paranoid than dead.”
“Oh,” I said, barely audible through the spray of water. “So we’re staying in Viktor’s house for our honeymoon? Isn’t that a little awkward?”
“It’s bigger than my house. We’ll have plenty of space to do as we please. And when we’re not busy, Viktor and I will have time to work on our plan to put Romano under the ground. For everything he did to me and everything he did to you.”
I stilled in his arms. Sometimes I forgot who he was, that he was an underboss and a practiced killer. He’d been so attentive last night, so reassuring…almost tender. But as I looked up into that cold, blank stare, I believed him fully capable of killing anyone he pleased.
When we stepped outside the hotel, Lucien’s Tesla was already parked in the driveway with our bags in the trunk. The wedding guests were either gone or still sleeping off the night before so we were undisturbed as we left the hotel and drove off toward the airport.
The drive was only twenty minutes, but it felt like forever. Lucien was quiet, leaning back in his seat with his hand hanging over the steering wheel. I’d wondered why he never had his driver take us places, but now that I knew him better, it made sense. Lucien wasn’t a man who gave up control. He drove himself, and wherever he went, there was a pair of pistols in his shoulder holsters, tucked beneath his fine suit.
Just as we pulled up to a landing strip where a private plane sat waiting for us, Lucien reached over and squeezed my thigh. The gesture sent a shock of electricity through me and my nipples tightened. It was possessive, just like the hand on the small of my back as he helped me into the plane a few moments later.
I was a little flushed from his touch when I sat down and put my seatbelt on, but Lucien didn’t seem to notice. His phone had just rung and he was pacing back and forth talking quietly in another language. I leaned a little closer and realized he was speaking French rapidly, throwing a few English words in here and there when his grasp of the language failed him. He was far more expressive when he spoke French, although his face remained blank. His hands moved more and he gave a shrug here and there that I hadn’t seen when he spoke English or Italian.
He hung up the phone and sat down beside me, loosening his tie. A smattering of hair was visible beneath his collar and I had to drag my eyes from it.
“Duran?” I asked softly.
He nodded. “How did you know?”
“You said your mother taught you both to speak French,” I said. “I don’t know anyone else who does.”
“It’s proved useful,” he said.