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He hadn't just sent a bodyguard—he had mobilized a small private army.

I considered refusing.

It was well within my rights to throw a fit and demand a more reasonable entourage. Not that he would care. Not that it would make any difference at all.

These weren't the terms I had agreed to. I had agreed to a guard, not a full-blown military escort, and I had half a mind to confront him about it.

But then I reconsidered.

There were too many things I didn't know. I didn't know why Pavel came home a few weeks ago and tried to bleed out in the bathroom.

I didn't know where he went every day and what he did.

He loved talking about how I spent my day but wouldn't say a word about his.

When I stitched him up, I noticed a lot more scars, some very old, barely more than a slight discoloration.

Others were fresher, still in various stages of healing.

Some were tiny little scratches, others considerably larger and more than a few were puckered like they were slashes, or grazes—actual gunshot wounds.

His tattoos camouflaged them from a distance, but up close, I saw every single one of them, and they scared me.

Maybe it wasn't safe.

People could be after him, and willing to use me to get to him or his brothers.

But if that was the case, why weren't the other women locked down?

Maybe Pavel just didn't trust me yet, and going overboard was his way of compromising.

It was going to take time. It was going to take baby steps.

I had to keep reminding myself that this was a step in the right direction.

He was letting me out of the penthouse without him.

That was progress.

For the moment, I was going to have to just take the win.

Pavel entered the room, a cocky smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. "Your chariot awaits."

I smirked right back. "We'll talk about our very different definitions of a guard when I get back."

"One hour," he reminded me.

"Pavel," I whined.

One hour was not enough time.

I didn't even know if that entire motorcade could get to the gallery in a single hour.

It looked like a damn parade.

I might have gotten there faster if I walked.

"One hour," he said again, gripping my chin with two knuckles and tilting it up so I met his eyes. Something I couldn't quite read flashed across his eyes and he let out a resigned sigh. "One hour starting when you arrive. The driver will send me a message when you get there and that is when the timer will start."