"Go ahead and get that embroidered on a doily. It'll brighten the place up." I sweep past her into our bedroom, dumping the contents of her suitcase in one sweep and dragging it over to the dresser.
"Hey! That's mine!" She follows me, storm-light casting shadows across her face.
"What's mine is yours, krasavitsa." I start throwing clothes into the suitcase---Brioni suits, Tom Ford shirts. Each one selected and purchased because a man in my position needs armor, even if it's made of silk and wool.
"We aren't married yet."
That 'yet' catches in my chest. Dangerous word, that one. Especially now, with seven bodies cooling in Moscow and the wolves circling ever closer. My fingers still on a black tie. The one she straightened for me last week, her small hands so careful against my throat.
