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Ruslan accepts it. Stares at it. Looks at me.
Eat it, I say with my eyes.
He takes a bite.
“This is very good,” he says, in careful English. “Spasibo.”
“You’re welcome.” Cora is already passing the next slice. “You must all tell me your names.”
Twelve men tell her their names. Some of them stumble over it slightly, unused to introducing themselves to the boss’s woman.
As we eat, the men relax by degrees. First the shoulders, then the jaws, then someone asks Cora a question that she answers with a smile and a question of her own. After that, the noise around the table sounds like a family dinner.
It’s a shame to spoil that, but I must.
When the second quiche is half gone and the salad bowl is nearly empty, I put my fork down.
“I should explain something,” I say to Cora. “About these men.”
She looks at me expectantly over her wineglass.
“From now on, wherever you go, at least two of these men go with you. Errands. Dinner. A jog in the park.”
Cora glances around the table, her smile dimming. “Is that necessary? I don’t want to be a bother, and this city is pretty safe. I’m sure everyone’s busy with more important things.”
Several of my men look genuinely wounded.
“Miss Cora,” Demyan says, with great dignity. “It would be an honor.”
“Safe?” I repeat her. “That’s a strange thing to say for a woman who was kidnapped from a street in broad daylight.”
“But that wasn’t typical. I’ve always gone everywhere by myself.” Cora glances around uncertainly.
“It was typical enough to happen.” I hold her gaze. “And this is typical for the wife of a vor v zakone.”
She lifts her chin slightly, the angle that means she’s about to cause trouble. I know it well. “You keep calling me your wife, Zevran, but you haven’t actually asked me to marry you.”
Twelve men suddenly find it extremely difficult to maintain their neutral expressions. Ruslan seems to be choking on his salad. Demyan has his hand over his mouth with his brows drawn together as though he’s thinking deeply about something. Like trying not to laugh.
Sweat breaks out on my lower back. Troy isn’t dead so I can’t properly propose. I just assumed that she…
Women hate it when you make assumptions. I don’t need to be a dating expert to know that.
I wait for Ruslan to finish choking on his salad and for Demyan to stop thinking so deeply about nothing, and then I look at Cora.
“I stand corrected, printsessa,” I say smoothly. “We will rectify that mistake, but in the meantime, you’re still my woman, and you’re being protected like it.”
Cora still hesitates, glancing around the table. “I don’t want to be a bother.”
“You’re not a bother,” I tell her. “You’re who I’m keeping safe.”
She looks at her wineglass as she thinks about what I just said.
“All right,” she says finally. Then, in a whisper, “Thank you.”
“Of course, printsessa.”
The dinner noise resumes, and I sit back in my chair and watch her smiling at something Ruslan has said.
