Page 15 of A Love Most Brutal (Morelli Family #2)

MARY

Maxim drives us to one of the nicest hotels in the city—an Orlov hotel, of course—and the valet is already expecting us when we arrive. It was a quiet, tense sort of ride, two people who don’t love each other wearing rings heavy with meaning on their hands.

“Mrs. Orlov,” the concierge greets me first, and I let the name roll around in my brain. It’s more abrupt than Morelli, but no less strong.

Marianna Claire Orlov.

“Everything is prepared for you, and your bags are already delivered to your suite,” the man says, walking ahead of us toward the elevator.

I stride beside Maxim, my hand in his, not really listening as the man describes a laundry list of amenities available to us during our stay.

When we reach the elevator, the man places a black card in Maxim’s hand after swiping the scanner and typing in a room number.

Remaining in the hall, he wishes us a peaceful stay and the metal doors slide shut in front of us. I let my hand drop from Maxim’s.

The metal box is quiet and we stand next to each other without touching. As the elevator climbs, I peer up at Maxim, whose eyes dart away from me like he was already looking down at me.

Is he. . .nervous?

He hasn’t seemed nervous even once through the day, a picture of serene composure.

I blink, wondering what it could be that has him on edge now, but as the doors open to the world’s most glamorous suite, it dawns on me.

Today was our wedding. Tonight is our wedding night.

Do we begin attempting to make a baby tonight? Am I even ovulating?

I suppose we should have discussed expectations on the matter of sex further than “full fidelity” and creating the Orlov heir.

I exhale a breath and step into the suite—though suite doesn’t even begin to describe the grandeur that is this massive apartment-like hotel room.

It opens into a living room not unlike Maxim’s with tall windows spanning the walls, only, there’s a patio of sorts—if you can call it that.

I stalk across the room to investigate this, the exterior lights drawing my eye to. . . Is that?

I slide open the glass door and poke my head out to find, yep, a private hot tub with a perfect view of the city.

It’s insane, and garish, and even though it’s still cold as hell outside, the water is bubbling and steaming.

I kneel and feel the water, which is hot, perfect for soaking.

Despite my protests, Willa insisted she pack my bag for this little mini honeymoon.

She thought I wouldn’t bring enough fun outfits, but I think most of my outfits are mostly fun.

I can only hope she included a swimsuit.

Maxim stands at the door, those blue eyes impassive as he watches me.

“I’ve never stayed at an Orlov,” I say as I stand, flicking the water off of my hand. “Are they all like this?”

“No, they’re not all so ridiculous.”

“Hm.” I stride past him, my arm lightly brushing his chest as I do.

On the marble table in the kitchen, a bottle of champagne sits on ice in a metal bucket next to a plate full of chocolate strawberries.

There’s a note, too. Handwritten congratulations and a reminder that room service is on call for us at any hour.

I offer the note to Maxim between my index and middle fingers and take one of the strawberries before circling the table, my fingers skimming over stone.

There’s a fridge with various beverages in glass bottles and fresh fruits, a bedroom with carpet so plush, I kick off my heels just to feel it beneath my feet, and one massive bed.

I stare at it, unsurprised that there’s only one bed in this romantic honeymoon suite, but still surprised at the unease of what it means. Of course newlyweds share beds. Of course, so will we.

I hear his leather shoes step slowly through the hall until they stop at the doorway behind me. Even if I hadn’t heard him, I would feel his eyes on me, heavy as they always are. His attention is tangible.

I peer over my shoulder. “I’ve never stayed somewhere so nice,” I say, and his eyes dart to the floor, almost as if he’s embarrassed, like he’d been when I mentioned the plane, the boat, the car. “I like it.”

“Good,” he says, and his shoulders relax just so. I stand, waiting for him to talk, but he remains quiet.

I lean against the foot of the bed and cross my arms and ankles in front of me.

I am channeling relaxed, confident, cool into my every motion and word, though my skin is tingling with the general anxiety that I’ve felt all day.

Part of my mind still works to convince me that Maxim thinks I’m too young, too childish, a nuisance, and now his responsibility ‘til death do us part.

“You should take off your shoes,” I say after the moment of levity dissolves into silence. He blinks once, and does as I say. Seeing his black socks feels intimate.

It serves to remind me that I’ve just married a stranger.

“Is the weight of your mistake dawning on you now?” I ask.

“What?”

“Because unfortunately you’re rightfully stuck with me now. Before law and God.” I point toward the inordinately high ceilings, and he winces.

“No, of course not, it’s—” He stands straighter. Maxim is nervous, I wonder how many people have seen this side of him, even momentarily. It makes me want to press, to needle, so I step closer. “It’s only that I don’t want you to think that I have expectations of you. Not tonight.”

“Expectations,” I repeat.

I know he means sex. He expects that I will produce him a baby, and presumably he knows how babies are created, but I like to see him this way, so I raise an eyebrow and wait for him to spell it out in no unclear terms.

“There’s no need to consummate tonight,” he explains. “I don’t even expect we share a bed?—”

“You don’t want to share a bed with me?”

“I mean only that I do not expect that you share one. Nor do I believe that because you’re my wife am I entitled to your body in any way.”

“A criminal and a gentleman,” I remark. “You don’t want to consummate our marriage?”

“No—I meant, we do not have to tonight. If you are not ready, I?—”

“Are you?” I ask. “Not ready, I mean.” He looks stiff as a fucking board, but after a tense moment, he shakes his head.

“I am comfortable,” he says, though there is a strain to his voice.

“ You’ve had sex before, I presume?”

His face turns perplexed, but a shadow of a smile makes itself known. “I have.”

My eyebrows pinch between my eyes, realization souring my stomach. It may not be just my age or his attentiveness keeping him so restrained; I hadn’t considered that Maxim Orlov might not want me at all.

I drop my eyes to the ground, embarrassed suddenly—not something I feel often. I don’t know how I could have just believed that he would be attracted to me, would take no pain in our marriage bed. He could love exclusively blonde women. Models. Older women.

He’s never said he wanted me, only ever offered intense stares and tight-lipped smiles.

“Where have you gone?” he asks.

I take a deep breath and clasp my hands behind my back.

“I have asked a lot of you. Infinitely more than you have asked of me. I. . .”

My mind rolls over the wrong words, the ones that tell too much, that reveal me too plainly. I am not pathetic, I never have been, but I am not unrealistic. I am beautiful, I am strong, I am good at my job, but I’m headstrong, argumentative, and sometimes rude as my sisters are quick to point out.

I am not easy to love. Not even easy to like.

Maxim waits, quiet as he always is, so still and solid.

“I should have considered that you may not want that.” I force my eyes to his, though I would rather look elsewhere. “Sex,” I clarify. “With me. Unless necessary.”

“That’s not it, Marianna, I just. . . I want you to feel comfortable?—”

I believe that he wants me to be comfortable—he’s the type to worry about that type of thing, but I’m not fully convinced that he does indeed want to have sex with me.

“Well, for what it’s worth, I think we probably should consummate this thing. Don’t want anyone discovering my unbroken hymen,” I say, and suddenly Maxim looks extraordinarily panicked.

“Kidding, breathe. I think my hymen broke when I was learning to ride a horse as an eleven year old.” His shoulders hitch with a surprised laugh. The smile on his face is preferable to the strained seriousness that was there before.

“We can sleep together tonight,” I say with finality. “Unless, that is, you want a sexless marriage. In which case, I suppose I do have very many toys.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a brat?”

I blink, a smile taking over my face at his boldness. He has no idea .

“Maybe. But none brave enough to tell me twice.”

Maxim chuffs and shakes his head. My husband is perfectly respectful and, it seems, perfectly uninterested in me.

I could take his offer to sleep separately, to get my bearings on my own, but why delay the inevitable?

He needs a baby, I need his resources, and he probably will be more inclined to lend his support to my family if I am upholding my side of the bargain.

Thus, it’s prudent we move forward with the arrangement. Why wait?

I stand and step in his direction, fully aware that if I do not make the first move, Maxim’s propriety will keep him from doing so.

“I have no doubt that you are a noble man, Maxim Orlov. I trust that my body is safe in your very large, bloodied hands.”

He looks down at his hands, like there may actually be blood on his palms, then back at me, still inching toward him.

“You won’t break me,” I assure. With one last step, the space is closed between us and that cologne that’s already become familiar fills my senses. “I do not fear you.”

“Is that wise?” Maxim asks.

“Well, I am a very good fighter,” I remind him, my voice just above a whisper.

“You are,” Maxim says.

We stand in front of each other, quiet and still, and I guess we are doing this, because I turn around and look over my shoulder. “The zipper.”