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Story: Beautiful Monster

Someone calls me Mrs. Zhukov. I am Mrs. Mikhail Zhukov now.
But what does that mean?
Chapter 6
Mikhail
She belongs to me now, yet she fights it like a caged bird that remembers the sky.
I watch Kira from across the reception hall, the crystal chandeliers of the Plaza Hotel casting her in a golden glow that makes her auburn hair shimmer like fire. She's wearing a champagne-colored dress that hugs her delicate frame, revealing just enough skin to drive me mad.My wife.The word still feels foreign on my tongue, like vodka that burns but leaves you craving more. I never thought I’d use them again.
The string quartet plays something melancholy in the corner, the notes hanging in the air between us like unspoken promises. I drain my glass of whiskey, welcoming the familiar burn as I observe Kira's smile politely at some associate of her father's. It doesn't reach her eyes. I've cataloged all her smiles already—the fake ones she gives to strangers, the tight ones she reserves for me.
"Your bride is exquisite, Mikhail." My father appears at my side, his voice low and approving. "Much better suited for our family than Alina was."
I stiffen at the mention of my first wife's name. "Don't."
My father raises his hands in mock surrender, but his eyes are calculating. "The Malakhov girl brings more than beauty, and don’t pretend you haven’t noticed. I see the way you watch her when you believe no one is looking.”
"I didn't marry her for her beauty," I growl, though I'm not entirely sure why I did. A business arrangement, protection for her, expansion for us—these were the reasons that made sense. Not the way my chest tightens when she enters a room.
I excuse myself from my father and move through the crowd. Bodies part before me—they always do. Fear has its privileges. But when I reach Kira's side and place my hand on the small of her back, she flinches slightly before composing herself.
"Having fun,kisa?" I murmur against her ear, inhaling the scent of jasmine and something uniquely her.
"Immensely," she replies, voice dripping with sarcasm only I can detect. "Nothing quite like being paraded around like a prize mare."
My fingers press slightly harder against her back. "You're not a mare. You're more like a wildcat I've somehow coaxed into my home."
She turns to face me, those striking blue eyes meeting mine with defiance. "Coerced, not coaxed."
I can't help the smile that tugs at my lips. Most people wouldn't dare speak to me this way. Most people value their lives. But Kira Malakhov—no, Kira Zhukov now—seems to fear nothing, least of all me.
Throughout the evening, I keep her close. My hand finds her waist, her shoulder, the nape of her neck. Each touch sends electricity through my fingertips, and I hate myself for wanting her this much. She was supposed to be a transaction, not a temptation.
When she excuses herself to the powder room, I give her exactly three minutes before following. The hallway is dimly lit,all dark wood and heavy sconces casting shadows that dance along the walls. I spot her immediately—not heading to the restrooms but toward a service exit.
My footsteps are silent as I approach. Years of moving through shadows have taught me how to remain unseen until I choose otherwise.
"Going somewhere, wife?" My voice echoes in the empty corridor.
She whirls around, startled, a hand flying to her throat. "I needed air."
"There are balconies for that. Much safer than alleyways." I close the distance between us until she's backed against the wall, my arms caging her in. "Did you think I wouldn't notice you slipping away?"
"I thought you might be too busy discussing my dowry with your father," she retorts, but her breathing has quickened.
"I don't give a fuck about your dowry." The admission surprises even me.
Her eyes search mine, looking for the lie. "Then what do you want from me, Mikhail?"
The question hangs between us, heavy and dangerous. What do I want? Peace. Revenge. Power. But at this moment, with her pressed against the wall, her lips parted, and her pulse visible at her throat, I want something else entirely.
I capture her mouth with mine, swallowing her gasp of surprise. The kiss is nothing like our sterile exchange at the altar. This is hunger and heat and something dangerously close to need. Her hands push against my chest for a moment before clutching my lapels, pulling me closer.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard. Confusion and desire war in Kira's eyes, mirroring the battle in my own soul.
"That," I whisper against her lips, "is what I want from you,kisa. And I think you might want it, too."