There’s a car waiting for me at the airport when I arrive. The driver doesn’t say a word to me as he helps me into the backseat and drives through the city streets. After so many betrayals, I can’t help but be nervous about where I’m being taken. I worry it’s a trap or a trick. Something Ilyasov set up to capture me.
But then the car pulls through a wrought iron gate and stops in front of a two-story white house with pillars along the front, jutting balconies, and massive windows.
Dima is standing in front.
He opens my door and pulls me in for a kiss as soon as I’m standing. His hand curls around my lower back, pulling me against him, and his other hand rakes through my hair.
“I’m glad you’re back,” he murmurs against my lips.
“I sense that,” I tease, poking a finger into his rock-har
