Maksim's eyes harden. "And my orders, in my home, supersede all others. Unless…" He tilts his head. "You're questioning the terms of our arrangement? Perhaps Alessandro should know his soldier doesn't respect the alliance he's brokered."
Valentina's eyes find mine, a silent warning in them.
We both know what's at stake if I challenge him directly.
Not just my life, but the fragile peace between our families.
Hundreds could die if this alliance crumbles.
"Ten paces," I concede, feeling like a fucking traitor to my duty to Valentina.
Maksim places his hand possessively on the small of Valentina's back. She stiffens but doesn't pull away.
The sight of his fingers splayed across her body makes me want to break each and every one of them and shove them up his ass.
As they walk ahead, I follow at the prescribed distance.
Ten paces might as well be a mile if something goes wrong.
At this distance, I can see them but can't protect her from a sudden movement, can't intervene if his hand slides lower, can't hear what threats he might be whispering in her ear.
I scan the area, hyperaware of every guard positioned throughout the garden.
Their eyes track us.
There’s too many of them.
If shit goes badly, I’m a dead man.
Hopefully, I’ll have time to kill Maksim before my own demise.
11
VALENTINA
Maksim’s garden is much like him. Perfectly trimmed. Symmetrical. Controlled.
It appears pleasant, but there’s an undercurrent of darkness.
I take smaller steps, hyperaware of the distance ten paces is between me and Cristian.
It feels like a million miles.
With each step, I fight the urge to look back at Cristian, to feel his strength, his protection.
But bringing awareness to him will only make things worse.
Maksim is a man who expects everyone in his presence to focus only on him.
"These roses were imported from Bulgaria," Maksim explains, his fingers digging slightly into my hip as he guides me closer to blood-red blooms. "They required special cultivation to survive our climate."
I know for a fact that it’s not true.
I’m no master gardener, but my mother loved roses and I remember walking through the garden with her learning about the plants and flowers.
Bulgarian roses are grown in a climate not so different from ours in Long Island, New York.
"They're lovely," I manage, trying not to show my repulsion at Maksim's touch.