Rough Exile

When his gaze landed on me, it was all I could do to not cringe away.

“My apologies,” Ilya replied. “Although I’m not sure the guests of honor can be late.”

I expected them to hug or shake hands, but no one moved other than to sip at their drinks and continue their conversations. Considering Ilya hadn’t seen his family in close to five years, it seemed ridiculous that we’d come all this way to be snubbed.

The others were casually taking our measure in between socializing with each other. This wasn’t a family—it was some sort of stupid high school clique.

“Vas, this is my fiancée, Delilah. Delilah, this is my father, Vas.”

Ilya’s father looked me over with an almost rude intensity.

“An American?”

“Yes,” I agreed, not sure whether he considered that a good or a bad thing.

He sniffed, which still wasn’t an answer either way. “She’s pretty enough to be seen with the family. Good bones. Good bearing.”

What the fuck? Was he going to check my teeth next? Kick my tires?

“Does she speak Russian?”

“Not yet.”

His dark eyes met mine and narrowed. “If you’re going to be part of this family, girl, remember your place.”

He walked away, leaving me wishing I had a drink to throw at him.

I turned to Ilya. “Is he always so charming?”

“He must like you. He didn’t throw you out of the house,” Bron murmured.

“He would do that?”

“The man wouldn’t hesitate.”

Ilya’s brows rose.

“You were never allowed to eat with the adults, Ilya. If one of your brothers brought home a woman your father didn’t want to look at, they were out on their asses.”

A server came and asked what we wanted to drink, and we waited for her to move away before continuing the conversation.

“That’s ridiculous. The last time he visited, they made him eat by himself? He would have been what? Twenty-four or twenty-five?”

“I’ve always been shunned here.” Ilya shrugged with about as much concern as a bookworm discussing rain in the forecast.

“But that doesn’t make sense.” I tried not to show my anger.

“I am not my father’s favorite.” His tone was bland. “It has never mattered to me.”

This version of him that didn’t care about anything hurt my heart. On his island, he’d been bright and enthusiastic. Here, a shadow lurked in his dark eyes.

A couple drifted over, and Bron moved behind us again, keeping a respectful distance.

“You’ve grown taller,” the man said in English. He had broad shoulders and shrewd eyes.

“You haven’t seen me in a long time, Alexander. Not since I was a boy.”

“Business keeps me busy, and Alina hates it here.”

Wow. Candid much? I managed not to show my surprise.

“Things are going well?” Ilya asked politely.

His brother inclined his head. “I can’t complain.”

The server arrived with our drinks, and I gratefully accepted my glass of wine.

“This is my fiancée, Delilah.”

“Nice to meet you. Congratulations.”

Congratulations? Oh right, on our engagement.

“Thank you.” I smiled slightly, not sure how much emotion to show.

His wife, Alina, looked like she’d swallowed a live goldfish—disgusted and maybe a bit green. She nodded once, then turned to gaze at a piece of artwork near the door while she sipped at her champagne as though it might wash the unpleasant taste from her mouth.

Wow. The woman didn’t even know me. Why the hostility? Had my smile been too much? Or maybe my dress wasn’t up to her standards?

I focused my attention on Ilya’s conversation with Alexander, which was difficult to do considering they had switched to Russian now that the introductions were over.

A servant opened the door and made an announcement in Russian. Everyone set aside their drinks and filed out of the room and down the hall, two by two, as though it was how things were always done.

“Time for dinner?” I asked Ilya.

He smiled tightly, then glanced over at Bron and said something in quiet, rapid Russian. The pat on my arm felt distracted, but he dropped a kiss on my forehead, which was apparently safe since no one else was around. I’d been lectured about public displays of affection before we’d arrived.

“Soon, wife.”