“That will be all, Anfisa, thank you. Go get some sleep now. All that remains now is for us to board Glazov’s jet in the morning.”

“Yes, ma’am, goodnight,” the young woman said with a bright smile, closing the door silently behind her.

“So lovely. I need to find her a nice boy,” Vladimira murmured under her breath as she disrobed. “A nice Bratva boy…”

She took a deep, cleansing breath and, naked as the day she was born, stretched as high as she could reach. As her aching muscles slowly relaxed, she reflected on the long day she and Anfisa had spent sorting through belongings and packing for the journey ahead. But all of that was done now. It was time to relax.

She pinned her long hair into a high bun, then moved through her bedtime routine of a few simple stretches and yoga – nude, of course. She didn’t care for the sensation of fabric against her skin when she was focusing on her breathing during her Sun Salutation. Yoga was her secret weapon against Father Time, and so far, so good; she was as slim and supple as she had ever been.

After a quick shower, she put on a nightgown that was little more than a simple, silk shift secured with delicate strands of ribbon tied in a bow at each shoulder. She didn’t bother with a robe since she was planning to curl up in front of the fireplace one last time before starting her American adventure in the morning. The diaphanous fabric was nearly translucent as it clung to her damp skin. As she padded across the room, she released her hair from its topknot, shaking it loose.

It had been a long day, full of instructions for the house staff and a final review of her packing list to ensure she didn’t leave anything important behind. With the hectic day behind her at last, she lowered herself onto the cream-colored, tufted bench at her vanity table to begin her nightly beauty routine.

After brushing her hair and sweeping it over one shoulder, she used a cleansing cloth to remove her makeup. She was quite regimented about her skincare routine, preferring to save this step until after her shower so she could take her time. With each sweep of the tiny cotton square across her skin, more of her flawless porcelain complexion was revealed until she was barefaced. Anfisa was the only person Vladimira allowed to see her in such a natural state – not because she didn’t like how she looked but because it made her feel exposed…vulnerable. She knew she had won the genetic lottery; with only minimal effort, she looked far younger than her years. But makeup was her armor, her fortress in a world of powerful, alpha men.

A little moisturizer and she was done. She leaned forward on a sigh, tilting her chin up as she turned her head from side to side in the age-old choreography of a woman searching her reflection for telltale signs of the passage of time.

“The lady is unmasked.”

She gasped and white-knuckled the edge of the vanity. Her glossy black hair tumbled down her back as she turned toward the rich, sexy baritone that could only belong to one man.

“Yafon,” she breathed, flustered by the sight of him leaning against the bedroom wall by the door. How long had he been standing there? Her hand fluttered to her chest as she searched for words of greeting and found none, instead settling for a painfully inane, “You’re here.”

“I am,” he replied solemnly, his gray eyes hungrily taking in every detail of the woman who had consumed his thoughts for so long: the glossy hair trailing down her back, her almost unearthly beauty without a trace of makeup, and her perfect breasts barely visible through her sheer nightgown. Even during their one night together all those months ago, he hadn’t seen her without makeup like this. With her flawless skin, luminous eyes and rosebud lips, she looked like a perfectly crafted china doll. “Makeup only conceals your true beauty.”

She smiled softly at the compliment, then frowned. “But why are you here? Did Glazov send you?”

“You know why I’m here.” He pushed off from the wall and took slow, deliberate steps toward her. Then he was standing behind her as they both faced the mirror, his hands heavy and warm on her slender shoulders. He slid his thumbs back and forth, unable to resist the allure of the velvety skin that had driven him to distraction that night in Louisville.

At the first brush of his calloused thumbs against her skin, Vladimira shuddered and closed her eyes for a long moment. When she opened them, her gaze took in the sharp, severe contours of his face and the corded muscles of his neck before coming to rest on his hands. They were the weathered, strong hands of a working man, the fingers long and thick with formidable knuckles and blunt, squared nails. Those massive hands, which had leveled countless Bratva enemies, had left no part of her body unexplored while taking her to the heights of sheet-clawing passion.

Yafon admired how they looked together within the frame of the antique, gilded mirror; her inky black mane and sleek curves in stark contrast to his bulky, muscular build and gleaming bald scalp. It occurred to him to ask the Pakhan’s wife if she still dabbled in photography. Yes, an engagement portrait would do nicely. But there would be ample time for such formalities later. For now, he had other, more important matters to attend to.

Vladimira cleared her throat and summoned what bravado she could. “My flight leaves first thing in the morning, Yafon,” she stated imperiously. “Did my brother send you to escort me?”

He didn’t reply, merely grasped the ribbons of first one bow and then the other between the thumb and forefinger of each hand. She could barely breathe, could only stare, transfixed, as he slowly, deliberately, tugged on the ribbons.

“You know why I’m here,” he repeated softly, as the delicate bows connecting the front and back of her shift loosened and came undone. The sheer fabric gave way, fluttering down her torso like rippling water to reveal delicate, alabaster breasts; high and round, with just the slightest womanly pout and pretty pink tips that tilted upward, begging for his attention.

His eyes locked with hers as his warm, rough hands returned to rest on her shoulders, then moved lower and caressed the soft, velvety mounds. “I’m here to claim you, printsessa.”