Page 12

Her lips are swollen from my kiss, her chest rising and falling rapidly beneath the silk of her dress. The sound of her breathing fills the narrow space between us, mingling with the distant hum of the reception. She's staring at me like I'm a puzzle she can't solve, her fingers still twisted in my jacket.
"I don't know what I want," she whispers, and the honesty in her voice cuts through me like a blade.
My thumb traces the line of her jaw, feeling the delicate bone beneath her velvet skin. "Then let me show you."
She shudders at my touch, and I can see the moment her resolve wavers. The careful walls she's built around herself crack just enough to let me glimpse the woman beneath—not the oligarch's daughter or the reluctant bride, but Kira. Raw and honest and terrifyingly beautiful.
"This isn't supposed to happen," she breathes, but she doesn't pull away. “We agreed this marriage would be in name only.”
"No," I agree, my voice rougher than I intend. "It wasn't."
The scent of her perfume mingles with something darker—fear, arousal, the metallic tang of inevitability. My body responds despite my efforts to maintain control, and I press closer, trapping her more completely against the wall. She's so small beneath me, so fragile, yet I can feel the steel in her spine.
"People will notice we're gone," she says, but her hands haven't released their grip on my jacket.
"Let them." My lips find the sensitive spot just below her ear, and she makes a sound that goes straight to my groin. "They already know you belong to me."
"I don't belong to anyone." The words are defiant, but her body betrays her, arching into my touch.
I pull back to look at her, taking in the flush that's spread across her cheekbones, the way her pupils have dilated until they're dark pools ringed with blue. "Don't you?"
Her mouth opens as if to argue, but no words come. Instead, she reaches up and traces the scar that runs along my left temple—a souvenir from the night Alina died.
"What happened to you?" she asks softly.
The gentleness in her touch, the concern in her voice—it's more dangerous than any weapon I've ever faced. I catch her wrist, stilling her fingers against my skin.
"Nothing that matters now."
But she doesn't look away, doesn't flinch from whatever she sees in my eyes. "It all matters, Mikhail. Everything that made you who you are."
The sound of approaching footsteps echoes down the hallway, and reality crashes back into focus. I step away from her, immediately missing her warmth, and straighten my tie. She smooths her dress with shaking hands, trying to erase the evidence of what just passed between us.
"Mr. Zhukov?" One of the hotel staff appears around the corner, his expression carefully neutral. "Your father is looking for you, sir."
"Tell him I'll be right there." My voice carries enough authority to send the man scurrying away.
When I turn back to Kira, she's watching me with an expression I can't read. The vulnerable woman from moments ago has disappeared behind her carefully constructed mask, but I've seen what lies beneath now. I know what she tastes like, how she sounds when she's breathless with want.
"This conversation isn't over," I tell her, adjusting my cufflinks.
"Isn't it?" She lifts her chin, every inch the defiant princess. "We have a lifetime of conversations ahead of us, husband. I'm sure this one will get lost among them."
I step closer, close enough that she has to tilt her head back to meet my eyes. "Nothing about you will get lost,kisa. I remember everything."
My words make her shiver, and I have to force myself to walk away before I do something that will compromise us both beyond repair.
But as I move down the hallway, I hear her soft footsteps following behind me, and something primitive and possessive unfurls in my chest. She's learning already—that running from me is futile.
We return to the reception separately, maintaining the fiction of propriety, but I feel her awareness of me like electricity in the air. Every glance she steals in my direction, every time she unconsciously touches her lips—I catalog it all. When she accepts a glass of champagne from a waiter, I notice how her hand trembles almost imperceptibly.
"You look pleased with yourself," Anton Malakhov comments as he approaches, his weathered face creased with something that might be approval. "My daughter seems... settled."
I follow his gaze to where Kira stands near the windows, the city lights of Manhattan creating a glittering backdrop behind her. She's speaking with some banker's wife, but her fingers worry the delicate gold bracelet at her wrist—a nervous habit I've already committed to memory.
"She's adjusting," I reply carefully.
"Good." Anton's voice drops lower. "The Novikov situation has escalated. Three of their men were spotted near her grandmother’s home yesterday. This marriage couldn't have come at a better time."