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It’s bad enough I force her to say it to me every night, each time I take her.

Burying my face in her hair, I breathe in her scent, the sweet freshness of flowers shaded with sleep-warmed feminine skin. And as I have for the past two months, I fight off a surge of gut-wrenching fear.

Fear that I’m going to lose her. That the wick will burn out, leaving nothing but ashes.

It’s irrational, illogical, but I can’t help it. I thought extracting the words from her would rein this fear in, letting me get through the day calm and secure in the knowledge that she’s mine, but if anything, the worry has grown stronger, more pervasive. Sometimes it’s all I can think about: how fragile this happiness is, how illusory.

After all, in the beginning, my mother also loved my father. Once upon a time, they’d known happiness as well.

I try not to think about that, about how everything went to pieces for them, but there are times when I look at Chloe and see my mother’s face. Not bright and healthy, the way it’d been when I was a child, but drawn and pale, deeply unhappy—the look she’d worn in her final years.

Partially, it’s that I still haven’t told Chloe about what happened that winter night—and she hasn’t asked. Despite imposing it as a condition for our wedding, she seems reluctant to hear the full story. I think it’s because she’s afraid of the truth, fearful of finding out just how horrible of a monster she married. So she skirts the topic, and so do I.

There’s every chance she’ll hate me for what I’ve done, that she’ll look at me with terror and revulsion.

It doesn’t help that I’m aware I’m keeping Chloe like a captive princess in a high tower, completely isolated from everyone and everything. We don’t leave the compound; we don’t go anywhere. We exist in our own little world, one where she has no choice but to be mine. It’s for her safety, true, but it’s also for my peace of mind.

If given the opportunity, would she flee again?

If the danger to her were eliminated, would she want to leave?

I don’t know the answers, and the questions torment me, so much so I’ve become even more obsessive about keeping tabs on her. I know she can’t leave—and with Bransford hunting her, probably doesn’t want to leave—but I still feel compelled to know her whereabouts each and every moment we’re apart. To that end, I’ve installed cameras in our bedroom and every corner of the house with the exception of my sister’s room and Pavel and Lyudmila’s private quarters, and I check the video feed on my phone with the mindless frequency of a social media addict.

“What are you always looking at?” Alina asks, walking in on me in the dining room one day as I wait for Chloe to wrap up her lesson with Slava and come down for lunch. “Is something going on?”

I put my phone away. “Something’s always going on.”

It’s not a lie. Not only is Masha working on getting close to Bransford and sending me daily updates on her progress, but I’ve also got men keeping tabs on Alexei Leonov. He’s still here in the States, the last few days in Chicago. It appears he’s there for business meetings, but I can’t help feeling uneasy.

Chicago is that much closer to Idaho, to my compound and my son.

Alina regards me thoughtfully. “Is it the Volkov thing? Konstantin mentioned he’s been inquiring about investing in his nuclear venture.”

“That too.” I’m not surprised she’s heard about that. A self-made oligarch, Alexander Volkov is one of the wealthiest—and most dangerous—men in Russia. An alliance with him would be both advantageous and risky, especially given his propensity for business practices as ruthless as our own.

If things go south for any reason, we’ll have another powerful enemy, but if all goes well, he could help speed up the approval process for the new technology, accelerating its adoption worldwide.

Alina sighs. “I wish he wouldn’t go there, but Konstantin rarely listens. Maybe you can talk to him—unless you think it’s a good idea, getting involved with Volkov?”

I shrug and change the subject. The truth is, Volkov and the potential joint venture are low on my list of worries, so I’m content to let Konstantin run with it. Our genius brother may be too intellectual for his own good at times, but he’s still a Molotov and thus perfectly capable of assessing the risks for himself.

My priorities these days are Slava and Chloe, and I intend to do whatever it takes to keep and protect them both.

* * *

That night, one of my worst fears comes true. Shortly after midnight, the door to our room bursts open and Lyudmila runs in, yelling my name.

I’m on my feet and armed with the gun I keep under the mattress before she can explain—and when she does, I set the gun down and bolt into our closet.