The ride from the motel to my family’s estate feels longer than it ought to.
If I were a different kind of man, I might try to fill this silence with something. Apologies. Promises. Fucking small talk, if that’s all I could conjure up.
But I’ve never been that man, and trying to become him now would just be another lie between us.
So I let the silence roil, watching the city fade into suburbs, then into the rolling countryside of upstate New York. Watching her.
The purple shadows beneath her eyes tell me she’s barely slept. The tight line of her mouth shows she’s still furious. The slight tremble in her fingers when she pushes her hair back betrays her fear.
I did this to her. Me. The man who swore to protect her.
I feel like fucking shit.
“We’re almost there,” I say finally, my voice rough from disuse.
She nods without looking at me. “You still haven’t told me exactly where ‘there’ is.”
“My family’s estate. About forty miles outside the city.” I lean forward, pointing through the windshield. “Just beyond those trees.”
As if on cue, the dense forest breaks, revealing the sprawling Akopov compound. Ten acres of manicured grounds surrounded by a high stone wall. The main house is old money—Georgian architecture, three stories of pale stone and ivy, with a circular driveway leading to imposing double doors.
“Jesus,” Rowan mutters. “Is that a moat?”
“Security ditch,” I correct. “With sensor alarms and reinforced barriers underneath the water. The bridges are weight-sensitive and can retract.”
She turns to me, one eyebrow raised. “Do you have boiling oil to pour on invaders from the battlements, too?”
Despite everything, a smile tugs at my lips. Even now, wounded and angry, she’s still defiantly herself.
“Unfortunately not. Health and safety regulations are a bitch.”
She almost smiles back. Almost.
Then her face shutters again, the wall between us reasserting itself.
The car slows as we approach the front gates. Two armed guards step forward, hands resting openly on their holstered weapons. I watch Rowan tense at the sight.
“This is a bit excessive, isn’t it?” she asks. “What’s this place guarding, Fort Knox?”
“Something far more valuable.” I catch her eye. “My family.”
The guards recognize the car and wave us through, but not before conducting a thorough check of the undercarriage with mirrors and scanning devices. Standard procedure.
For me, at least. For Rowan, it’s her first glimpse of just how serious this world is.
“Why bring me here?” Rowan asks as we pull up to the main house. “Why not just take me to your penthouse?”
“Because this is where you’ll be safest.” I turn to face her fully. “And because, if we’re going to start over—if I’m going to earn back your trust—you need to see all of me. No more shadows. No more half-truths.”
You need to see that I’ll burn everything to the ground before I let anyone touch you again.
The driver opens my door. I exit first, scanning the perimeter out of habit before moving around to Rowan’s side. I offer my hand, though I never in a million years expect her to take it.
To my surprise, she does. Her fingers are cold and fragile against mine as I help her from the car.
“This place looks like it belongs in some fucked-up Russian fairy tale,” she says as she casts a wary eye over the imposing façade with its stone balconies and mullioned windows.
“Not far off.” I guide her toward the front steps. My hand hovers near the small of her back without quite touching her. “My grandfather had it built to resemble the family estate outside St. Petersburg. The one the Bolsheviks burned in 1917.”
“Holding grudges seems to be a family trait.”
“You have no idea.”
The massive front doors open before we reach them. Ivan, our head of household security, stands at attention. He’s been with the family since before I was born—a mountain of a man with hands like hammers and unwavering loyalty.
“Mr. Akopov,” he greets in his thick Russian accent, inclining his head respectfully. “Welcome home.”
“Ivan.” I nod back. “This is Rowan St. Clair. My fiancée.”
Ivan’s eyes widen—the only visible reaction to this unexpected introduction. But I know he’s cataloging everything about her—height, weight, coloring, the bulge beneath her sweater where our child grows. He won’t forget a single detail.
“Ms. St. Clair.” He bows formally. “Welcome to Akopov Manor. We have prepared the east wing for your arrival.”
“Thank you,” Rowan replies, her voice smaller than usual in this imposing setting. “Though I didn’t know I was expected.”
“Mr. Akopov called ahead this morning,” Ivan explains, stepping aside to let us enter. “Everything has been arranged according to his specifications.”
I feel her stiffen beside me. “His specifications,” she repeats flatly. “Of course.”
I sigh internally. “Ivan, Ms. St. Clair and I will need a moment. Please have Marta prepare tea in the library.”
“At once, sir.” Ivan withdraws with the silent efficiency of a man who’s spent decades anticipating needs before they’re voiced.
Alone in the massive marble foyer, Rowan steps away from me, arms crossed defensively over her chest. “You ‘called ahead’? When exactly did you decide I’d be coming here?”
“It doesn’t matter, Rowan.”
She’s unconvinced. “It didn’t occur to you to maybe ask what I wanted?”
“Would you have agreed to come?”
She looks away. “That’s not the point.”
“It’s exactly the point.” I step closer, careful not to crowd her, but I need to impress upon her the seriousness of everything that’s happening here. “I’m trying to keep you alive, Rowan. You and our child. If that means making decisions that piss you off, so be it.”
To my surprise, she doesn’t immediately argue. Instead, she stares up at the sweeping staircase, the gleaming floors, the priceless artwork adorning the walls.
“This is really your world, isn’t it?” she says softly. “All of this wealth. Power. An entire staff jumping to attention when you walk through the door.”
“It’s part of it.” I follow her gaze. “But not the part that matters.”
“What part matters, then?”
“The part that keeps you safe.” I gesture toward a long hallway. “Come. Let me show you.”
I lead her through the main floor of the house. As we go, I point out security features disguised as architectural elements. The reinforced windows. The panic buttons hidden in decorative molding. The strategic placement of security cameras, designed to be unobtrusive but undeniable.
“The entire property is surrounded by a twenty-foot perimeter wall with motion sensors and infrared cameras,” I explain as we move through the grand dining room. “Guard dogs patrol the grounds at night. Every entrance has a minimum of three separate security measures: mechanical, biometric, and audiovisual.”
“It’s a beautiful prison,” she observes, trailing her fingers along a mahogany sideboard.
I sigh. She isn’t wrong.
We continue to the east wing, where the staff has prepared rooms for Rowan as I instructed. A spacious bedroom with an adjoining sitting room, decorated in soft greens and blues. A private bathroom with a claw-footed soaking tub.
She notices it immediately. “This wasn’t prepared today.”
“No,” I admit. “I had this wing renovated six weeks ago. After you agreed to marry me.”
She turns to me. “But we were staying at your penthouse. You never mentioned bringing me here.”
“It was meant to be a surprise.” I move to the window and gaze out over the gardens below. “Somewhere for us to escape the city. Somewhere you could be comfortable raising our child.”
Her hand drifts to her stomach again in that now-familiar protective gesture. “You were planning that far ahead?”
“I’ve been planning for you since the moment I knew you existed, Rowan.” I turn back to face her. “The difference is, now I’m planning with you, not about you.”
She looks away, but not before I catch the flicker of emotion in her eyes. “Where will you be staying?”
“The west wing. Opposite side of the house.” I gesture vaguely. “As agreed. Separate bedrooms.”
“Good.” She nods, still not meeting my gaze. “That’s… good.”
An awkward silence descends. This part is new for both of us—the strange, careful dance of rebuilding what I so thoroughly fucked up.
“Would you like to meet the rest of the staff?” I ask. “The ones you’ll see regularly.”
She hesitates, then nods. “I suppose I should know who else is watching me.”
We make our way back to the main part of the house, where I introduce her to the core household staff. Marta, the housekeeper who’s been with us since I was a child, whose potato soup cured every illness I ever had. Nikolai, the groundskeeper with the gruff exterior and surprising talent for coaxing flowers from the harsh New York soil. Vasily, my father’s driver—and occasional enforcer—who knows more about the Akopov family’s secrets than anyone outside the inner circle.
I watch Rowan with each of them, noting how she softens with Marta, whose motherly demeanor seems to cut through some of her wariness. How she straightens her spine when meeting Vasily, as if sensing the danger that radiates from him despite his impeccable manners.
She’s observant, my little doe. Always has been. It’s one of the things that made me notice her from the beginning—long before I understood what she was becoming to me.
After the introductions, I take her to the security center—the heart of the estate’s protection. A windowless room in the basement level, filled with monitors showing every angle of the property.
Two men sit at the controls. When we enter, they acknowledge my presence with respectful nods.
“Ms. St. Clair, meet Sergei and Dima. They coordinate all security operations for the estate.” I gesture to the bank of monitors. “Twenty-four-hour surveillance, rotating shifts, direct lines to both local authorities and our private security forces in the city.”
I move to a control panel and tap in a code that brings up a new set of screens. “This is your biometric profile. As of now, you have full access to every secure area on the property.” I turn to face her. “Your prints open every door. Your voice activates every system. Your eye scan grants you entry to every room, including my private office and the panic room.”
“And if I decide to use that access to, I don’t know… rob you blind and disappear in the night?”
I shrug. “Then you’ll have earned it.”
Her eyes widen before she schools her expression. “What happened to thinking I’m a Petrov plant?”
“If you were, you’d have made your move long ago.” I step close enough to catch the faintly fruity scent of her shampoo. “Besides, you’re carrying my child. You’ve gone to extraordinary lengths to protect my secrets from the FBI. And you look at me like I’m the worst mistake you’ve ever made—which is far too genuine to be faked.”
A flicker of a smile touches her lips before she suppresses it. “At least you’re self-aware.”
“I’m trying to be.” I gesture toward the door. “One more stop, then I promise I’ll leave you to settle in.”
I lead her to the far end of the east wing, to a room I hadn’t planned to show her until much later.
But new promises require new commitments.
The door recognizes my handprint, clicking open soundlessly. Inside is a spacious, sunny room with pale yellow walls, empty except for built-in bookshelves and state-of-the-art air filtration systems disguised as decorative vents.
“What’s this?” Rowan asks, stepping inside cautiously.
“A nursery.” I stay in the doorway, giving her space to explore. “Or it will be. I thought perhaps you might want to design it yourself. When you’re ready.”
She turns in a slow circle, taking in the empty space with its large windows overlooking the most protected part of the grounds. “You built a nursery. Before knowing if I’d even speak to you again.”
“I built it because regardless of what happens between us, our child will need a safe place.” I run a hand through my hair, suddenly feeling uncharacteristically awkward. “I thought you might appreciate the chance to create it the way you want. No Akopov family traditions forced on you. No expectations. Just a blank canvas.”
She doesn’t respond immediately, just continues her slow circuit of the room, trailing her fingers along the built-in shelves, the windowsills, the smooth walls. I watch her, trying to read what’s happening behind those green eyes.
“Thank you,” she says finally, her voice soft. “This was… thoughtful.”
It’s not forgiveness. It’s not even close.
But it’s something—a small crack in the wall between us, a tiny opening where light might eventually penetrate.
I’ll take it.
“The staff will serve dinner at seven,” I say as I back toward the door. “Your rooms have everything you should need, but if there’s anything missing, Marta can help. You have free run of the house and grounds, though I’d ask that you stay within the perimeter wall.”
She nods, still not looking at me. “What will you do now?”
“Work,” I answer honestly. “I’ve been distracted these past few days. There are matters that need my attention.”
Now, she does look at me, those perceptive eyes scanning my face. “Bratva stuff?”
“Some of it,” I agree. “Also company business. The FBI investigation hasn’t gone away just because our personal lives imploded.”
“Right.” She wraps her arms around herself, suddenly looking smaller in the empty room. “Of course.”
I hesitate in the doorway, fighting the urge to go to her, to pull her against my chest and promise her everything will be alright.
But I’ve made too many promises already. Actions matter now, not words.
“Rowan…” I wait until she meets my eyes. “I meant what I said before. You’re safe here. Not just from external threats, but from everything. Including me. This isn’t a prison, contrary to how it may seem. If at any point you want to leave, just say the word and I’ll arrange it.”
“But you don’t want me to leave.”
“No,” I agree. “I don’t. But what I want stopped mattering the moment I betrayed your trust. Now, it’s about what you need.”
Something shifts in her expression—a softening around the eyes, perhaps, or a slight relaxation of her tense shoulders. It’s minimal, barely perceptible. But I’ve spent so many nights now studying every nuance of Rowan St. Clair’s body language. I know what I’m seeing.
It’s not forgiveness.
But it might be a beginning.
