“Is that him?” Taara whispers, pointing to the muscular blond man standing by the entry.
“It is.”
“Okay so he looks terrifying.” Her voice shakes. “There’s something ruthless about him.”
“Baby, there’s something ruthless about all of us.” Did she forget she witnessed an execution?
“Yes, but—”
“You’re not used to the way Russian men carry themselves. Russian Bratva are feared, and for good reason.”
“I’d say so,” she mutters.
“Demyan is a stern pakhan,” one of the men says. “But he is loyal and fearless, and the most well-respected leader our men have had in decades.” He gives Taara a reassuring smile. “As you’re here as Stefan’s woman, you have nothing to fear.”
Her eyes widen and she bites her lip, but nods.
“Stefan’s woman,” she whispers in my ear. “I like the sound of that.”
Jesus, so do I. So, do I.
I get out first and open the door for her. It’s cooler here than in Boston but temperate. A light breeze brushes her hair off her shoulder, and when she steps out of the car, the golden beams of the setting sun kiss her shoulders and the top of her head, giving her an almost angelic appearance.
“You look like an angel,” I say to her, taking her hand.
“Ha,” she laughs. “I think you’d know better by now.”
“Brother, welcome.” Demyan reaches us and extends his hand. A pretty, petite woman with jet black hair stands by his side. She wears a wedding ring on her left hand. His wife, then.
I take his hand and shake it hard. “Demyan. Thank you, brother.”
“Meet my wife Larissa,” Demyan says with pride, ushering Larissa forward with his palm on her lower back. She smiles at me, gracious and beautiful, but she has a steel about her that reminds me of both Marissa and Caroline. I’m convinced now that Bratva woman are tenacious. They have to be to withstand life married to one of the brotherhood.
“Pleased to meet you,” I say, shaking her hand warmly. “And this is…” I hesitate. What do I call her? “This is Taara,” I say firmly.
“She’s yours?” Demyan asks, shaking her hand.
I place my hand on her lower back and draw her to me. “She is mine.”
Larissa gives Taara a smile. “Forgive me if this is too forward. You two are the most unlikely couple, but you look as if you belong together.”
Taara laughs out loud, and I swear I fall in love with her all over again at the sound.
“Thank you.”
Larissa meets my eye. “The King’s ransom,” she says softly.
I don’t respond but give her a curious look. Taara doesn’t hesitate, though.
“What do you mean?” she says.
Larissa smiles at her. “It’s an expression,” she says. “It means of exceptional worth. Years ago, the king’s ransom was the money demanded for the return of a captured king, but the expression’s evolved. It simply means of great value. And I can tell,” she says softly, eying my hand on Taara’s back. “That you are his treasure.”
“I see,” Taara says softly, her cheeks flushing. “Well, that’s cool.”
Larissa grins.
Taara is so damn cute.
Demyan gestures them inside impatiently and takes Larissa by the hand. “This king is about to forfeit over half his kingdom for a meal. Let’s go.”
“He’s always like this when he’s hungry,” Larissa says. “And when he isn’t. And when he wakes up in the morning and when he’s—ow!”
Demyan tugs her hair and gives her a mock look of reproach. Taara smiles then yawns widely.
“Anyway, let’s feed these two so they can get some rest.”
Over dinner, I fill Demyan in on everything, but it seems Nicolai has already told him most of what I need to. Nicolai, once a member of this Bratva group, is well respected among Demyan and his peers. I’m grateful. It makes my job here that much easier.
“So you want to end the slave trade?” Larissa asks, signaling for waitstaff to bring us a tray of desserts.
“I do,” I say, taking a tea cake. The buttery cookies dotted with nuts and drenched in powdered sugar are my favorite, and I haven’t had any in years. “God, it’s good to be back in Russia.”
Taara gratefully takes a large chocolate brownie studded with chocolate chips. “I can make those for you, you know,” she says. “They’re easy enough.” She takes a bite. “Oh, I love chocolate,” she says. I didn’t know that. There are many things I don’t know about her, but I will note each one.
“I’d like that,” I tell her, though right now the idea of getting back to my brothers in America seems like a distant one.
“What was your role in Atlanta, Taara?” Larissa asks.
Taara swallows her bite of brownie, and casts her gaze to the table.
“I was his housekeeper,” she says. “And caretaker.”
“I see,” Larissa says. “Then how did you get roped into this?”
Demyan doesn’t bother to stop Larissa from asking questions. Though some of the men prefer their women not be party to the inner workings of the brotherhood, he allows her free reign. Taara looks to me, and I nod my permission to tell Larissa what happened.