Just then, the fire chief jogged out of the villa and up to Kyril.
“This is your home?”
Kyril confirmed that it was.
“It was a small kitchen fire. The alarms were set properly, so there’s relatively little damage. More smoke than anything. Next time you bake a cake, I’d suggest using a timer.”
Kyril looked at Hannah, and to her shock, an amused grin played over his lips. “We most certainly will.”
An hour later, they rode through Santorini on the way to the dock. The villa smelled like smoke, and Hannah couldn’t stop shaking her head in disbelief. How had she forgotten the lava cake? How? It didn't help that Kyril teased her over her choice of dessert, as it seemed fitting that a lava cake would catch fire. Or maybe it was the…eruption he had in mind.
“It’s all right,” Kyril said, soothing her with a few words.
“It’s not. I can’t believe I forgot.” Hannah shook her head, though the kind words soothed her irritation at his earlier teasing.
He rested a hand on the swell of her belly. “There are more changes going on with you than the outward ones. And we lived, didn’t we? That’s all that matters.”
11
Kyril’s phone buzzed against the bedside table.
They were back on the yacht, and after his time with Hannah had been interrupted by the sudden combustion of one lava cake, he'd felt nearly mad with need for her. It had been an exercise in torture to sit through dinner, delicious as it was, and as hungry as she was. The moment they left the dining room, he'd pressed her back against the wall and kissed her like he was as desperate for her as a drowning man is for air. Which, perhaps, he was.
But Hannah—Hannah wasn’t a creature of the water. She was fiery, scratching at his shoulders and back and opening her legs wide for him. She met each of his kisses with a dueling tongue and soon moved her mouth to his chest. Hannah peppered his skin with hot, wet kisses, licking and sucking and biting, and when her teeth closed on his skin he'd let out a roar of impatience and picked her up in his arms. He’d taken her directly to bed, drawing out her passion as she squirmed on the bed before he allowed himself to climax. He wanted her again, even now. His need for this woman had no limit.
When had they fallen asleep? He didn’t know. Kyril could feel Hannah beside him, hear her even breathing, and he didn’t want to wake up yet.
He closed his eyes and began to drift off.
Another buzz from his phone.
With a growl, he snapped it up from the table, intending to silence it. It buzzed again in his hand. What was happening? Were people that concerned about a minor kitchen fire?
No.
The screen of his phone was filled from top to bottom with messages. From his father. From his mother. From his brothers, Rami and Issam, and from his sister, Adira. The last one was from her. “Tell me it wasn’t your wedding night!”
He covered his eyes with his hands.
Then he looked back to the phone.
It was a parade of links and messages. The kitchen fire, it turned out, wasn’t the main event—the paparazzi photos of him carrying suspiciously rounded woman wearing only a bathrobe and an enormous ring had sparked rumors all over Al-Dashalid.
And the rest of the planet.
Kyril’s face burned with a hot shame. He hadn’t told his family he’d gotten married. In all the excitement, he hadn’t made the calls. He’d been so busy tending to Hannah’s every need that he’d only focused on the most pressing duties from Al-Dashalid. It was a mistake, clearly, and his family deserved better. His country deserved better. There was uproar in Al-Dashalid, and it was all his fault.
There was no way around it. Kyril would issue a terse press release, deal with the fallout, and move on.
Hannah stirred as he threw his legs over the side of the bed, and his phone rang in his hand again. His father.
“Good morning, Darling.” He ran a hand over her hair. “I have to make a few calls. The news is out.”
“What news?”
“About our marriage.”
That was all he had time for before he answered the phone, pacing quickly toward the window.