Or had I imagined it the whole time along? Had I imagined that he seemed to be enjoying himself on the dance floor? Had I imagined the respect in his eyes as we’d chatted up the crowd prior to dancing?
What the hell happened to make him turn away from me with such ice?I replay every quip and barb of our fiery banter, but nothing comes to mind.
His face comes back at me, how it turned from something soft to such hate within a matter of seconds.
His words ring in my mind.I think the room’s convinced, but you don’t have to play wife much longer.
I wasn’t playing wife. We had been connecting, or so I thought. Maybe he remembered who I was—an Orlov. The bride he took to amplify his power. Not someone who deserved a real smile.
During the ride back, I tried to speak to him, but I was met with that same icy, hateful glare. When we reached home, he exited the car as if it were on fire, as though he couldn’t get far enough away from me.
A lump forms in my throat at the hurt I feel at being treated with such disrespect. Whatever did I do to deserve such treatment?
I glance at my phone and see it’s well past two in the morning. I kicked off the sheets ages ago, but still feel hot. My throat feels dry from all that champagne I drank, and my head is starting to ache from the lack of sleep. Water. I need water.
I step out of bed and pause at the door, suddenly realizing how I’m dressed. I’m in an oversized T-shirt that hits up my thigh and don’t have any shorts on. Or a bra, for that matter. Should I get a robe?
I’m being ridiculous. It’s my home. I’m allowed not to worry about stepping out of my room well past midnight to get some water. Who's going to see me?
The house feels quiet, unnervingly still as I make my way to the kitchen on quiet steps, careful not to make a sound that might bring Agafon checking. After how he treated me tonight, like absolute dirt, he’s the last person I want to see.
I walk down the stairs, through the living area, across the formal and informal dining areas, and walk past the pantry. During this whole time, I think about how much I miss beinghomewith my siblings. Before I left for my world adventure, we would often bump into each other in the kitchen and raid thefridge for midnight snacks. I miss my brothers, even when they drive me crazy. At least with them, I knew where I stood.
The kitchen light is already on as I approach. Is someone there, or did one of the maids forget to turn off the light? I hesitate, worrying it might be Agafon, but when I hear no sound, I dismiss it as the latter possibility.
I step through the doorway and freeze.
It's not staff.
It's Agafon. A very shirtless Agafon, and instantly, the sight of him does something strange to me. My blood boils, while at the same time, my toescurl.
He's leaning against the counter with a glass in his hand. But it's not the unexpected encounter that makes my breath catch—it's him.
Lord help me.
I've known he was fit, but nothing prepared me for this. His chest is a muscular sculpture, the kind that people can’t attain even after hours spent in the gym. His body is hardened, scarred at various points. It’s the body of a fighter, of a man who can fight for survival come what may.
Broad shoulders taper to a narrow waist, the planes of his abdomen clearly defined, and a light dusting of hair trails down to disappear beneath the waistband of his low-hanging pajamas.
His biceps flex slightly as he puts down his glass, and when I look away to make way to his face, his eyes meet mine across the room, as though he’d seen where mine had travelled.
I'm suddenly aware that I've been staring, mouth slightly open, for several seconds. Heat rushes to my face as his one eyebrow arches in question, and I try hard not to swallow, not to let him see the effect he has on me.
“See something you like, sweetheart?” His voice is deeper at this hour, rougher.
The condescension in being called “sweetheart”snaps me out of my haze. I straighten my spine, suddenly angered by his words. On one hand, he ices me out. Now, he acts like nothing happened?
“Don’t call me sweetheart,” I say briskly, forcing myself to walk normally to the refrigerator. “I thought I was the only one awake.”
I bend down to reach for the water.
“Clearly not.” His eyes follow me as I turn and close the fridge, and I suddenly remember I’m only in a T-shirt, how I bent for that water. I feel his gaze like a physical touch against my skin.
I’m hyper-aware of how close I have to be to him to get the water. He smells fresh, like he’s taken a shower and washed his hair. An image forces itself into my mind: Agafon in the shower, the water pelting off his planes. I sip the water, trying to calm my racing heart.
“Trouble sleeping?”
His question sets me on edge. What am I thinking, standing here admiring the view, seeming open to a conversation with Agafon as though nothing wrong happened?
