Anya stood just outside the room on the balcony, shivering in her scraps of silk and lace. Her eyes were round and her nipples tight. My body hardened under the blankets in response, my cock pressing against my boxer briefs.

“You really thought you could just run from me?”

“You really thought I would just marry you?”

“I did, actually. I’m told I’m a catch.” I made my tone casual, but the alternatives she was facing were deadly serious. Did she not understand that?

She glared at me, her shaking hands going to her hips. “I just got to this country, Viktor. I’m not going to give up my freedom that easily.”

“You little fool, without me you have no freedom.” Tamping down my frustration, I hopped out of bed. I stalked over to her, the hard length of my dick bobbing like a divining rod. She gasped and spun around.

She froze when my hand went to her hair. But it was all I could stand. If I touched her skin, I knew I would be lost.

“What?” she asked. Caught between my warmth and the chill of the air, she trembled. “What are you doing?”

“I’ll make you a deal,” I said, dropping my hand. “I’ll let you go if you can climb over the balcony.”

She slowly turned to me, indignation printed on her face. “Of course, I can climb over it. My legs aren’t that short, Viktor.”

I chuckled. “Very well. Go for it.”

Anya looked past me into the room, then back at the night sky. Then she shrugged and stepped up on the bottom rung of the balcony.

I stepped closer, crowding her against the rail.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I thought you were climbing?” I kept my voice light and even, but it seemed to throw her off even more. Well, throw off her focus, at least; not throw her off the balcony. I didn’t want to push her that far.

Looking at the balcony’s construction, we both realized that in order to climb over she’d have to take another step up. With the rail split into two parts and a solid structural panel piece in between, she’d have to spread her legs—wide.

I waited, rubbing my chin.

Taking a deep breath, she raised her left foot. Then her right foot, which effectively scissored her legs as though she were doing the splits, although it was in the air on a rail system hanging forty feet in the air.

She seemed to be contemplating her next move when my hand went to her calf. “Ah!” She swayed; my grip tightened. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Helping you,” I said, my lips almost brushing against her the soft skin of her ear.

She loosened her hold on the rail long enough to swat at me. “I don’t need that kind of help!”

I ignored her as she hoisted herself up more. Only one rung to go before she’d be at the highest level of the rail. My teeth clenched together at the thought of her splattered on the concrete below.

My hand went further up her thigh.

With her legs stretched, she wasn’t able to move or let go. She was poised in an intimate position, her silk shorts and tank offering very little in the way of protection.

She huffed. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Hell of a view from here.”

Any second now, she would realize the private show she was giving me. If she gave up or tried to cover herself, our deal would be kaput. Then marriage, and maybe she’d spread her legs for me a different way… My hands crept up the back of her thigh.

She inhaled, holding completely still.

“One more rung,” I mused behind her. “I wonder what it will bring?”

Her indecision was carved into every tense muscle of her lithe body. Fear. Insecurity. Curiosity. And, from the subtle tang in the air, more than a little lust.

“Will it bring you back inside to me, printsessa?” I murmured.

Her head hung down a little, a breeze lifting her hair from her face. “I barely know you.”

“I know.”

“But I want you,” she confessed.

“I know that, too.”

Her head whipped around to meet my gaze, the sudden movement making her wobble. Without thinking, my hands splayed out to clutch her perfect, round bottom. I wanted to pull her back down, but I needed her to believe it was her idea.

Her submission. Her surrender.

“Can I trust you?”

For a moment, I wasn’t sure if the question came from her innocent eyes or her perfect pink mouth. I looked past her creamy skin to the darkness beyond and raised an eyebrow. “You prefer suicide?”

Her laugh came out like a hiccup. Blinking away tears, she sniffed. “I suppose there are worse fates.” Sighing, she climbed down off the railing—with my help. As soon as her feet were back on the concrete of the patio, though, she pushed me away. “Don’t even…”

“I’m gratified to know that marriage to me ranks only slightly higher than jumping off the roof of a motel in Jersey.”

She held her hand up, her thumb and forefinger pinching about an inch of air. “This much.” But a smile tickled at the edge of her lips, nonetheless.

I remained on the balcony as she went back inside. As I leaned and scanned the parking lot, the chilled metal of the railing bit into my arms.

Now I just had to convince her of the benefits of marrying a strange Russian mafia enforcer. I might have to show her the size of my… gun. Tugging at my beard, I waited for the sting of sensation to bring me back to the present time and problem. We would make it work.

When I got back in the bed, she was huddled in a ball, her nose barely peeking over the covers. “Moy Anya,” I said gruffly as I hauled her into my arms. Her shivering took another few minutes to subside. It wasn’t until I closed my eyes that she spoke.

“I won’t run again. You have my word.”

I woke up before Anya sometime later. I didn’t have to move to feel the imprint of her small hand in mine and her feet balanced on top of mine. She was nestled safely in the vee of my crotch and I threw a prayer heavenward that I could escape without waking her.

I thought again about the marriage plan, but I didn’t see any way around it. It would secure her citizenship, alleviate the Ramone warfare, and also prevent Boss Petrov from using her in ways that were… inappropriate in my books.

I wasn’t sure I’d ever really know what the Boss had wanted with her, but thinking about her being forced to have sex with other men made me physically ill.

Carefully, I extricated myself from the bed and grabbed a shower, hoping that she wouldn’t wake up for a few more hours. She needed her sleep and we had a big day ahead of us.

I dressed. She slept on. I checked my email and voice mails on my phone—several from an angry Pakhan Petrov—yet she didn’t stir. Finally, I had to wake her, or we would miss our checkout time. There was no need to call extra attention to ourselves.

Her eyes flew open as my lips landed on her cheek. “Wake up, printsessa. It’s our wedding day.”