Page 5

Unless I find a way out first.
I move to the window again, pressing my palm against the glass as I stare out at the glittering city. Somewhere out there, he's waiting for me—the man who will either be my protector or executioner.
Either way, I refuse to go to him like a lamb to slaughter. If Mikhail Zhukov wants Anton Malakhov's daughter, he'll get her—but he'll soon learn I'm nothing like the docile bride he expects.
Chapter 3
Mikhail
Itap my fingers against the lacquered table, each rhythmic strike echoing through the Russian Tea Room's opulent dining room like a countdown to war.
Fifteen minutes late. In my world, punctuality isn't courtesy—it's survival. The red walls seem to close in around me as I inhale the familiar scent of borscht and caviar, memories of childhood dinners here with my family bleeding into this moment of barely contained fury. My father, Dmitri, sits across from me, his weathered hands folded with the patience of a man who's orchestrated a thousand deals, but I can see the steel in his pale eyes.
"They test us," he murmurs in Russian, his voice carrying the weight of decades in this business.
I don't respond. My jaw clenches as I study the ornate samovars lining the walls, their polished surfaces reflecting the amber light from the crystal chandeliers. This place reeks of old money and older secrets—fitting for a transaction disguised as tradition.
The mahogany doors swing open with a theatrical flourish, and Anton Malakhov strides in wearing his wealth-like armor.But it's the figure behind him that makes my blood freeze, then ignite.
Auburn hair escapes from what was probably a pristine arrangement this morning, wild strands framing a face flushed with exertion and defiance. Kira Malakhov's gray dress—expensive, I note automatically—bears the subtle wrinkles of struggle, and there's something feral in her ocean-blue eyes that speaks of recent rebellion. She moves like a caged wildcat forced into submission, every step radiating barely leashed energy.
Kira Malakhov. My intended bride.
Heat shoots through my chest, unwelcome and dangerous. I bury it beneath layers of ice, letting my fury rise instead. This slip of a girl—this spoiled princess—dares to make us wait while she plays at freedom in the streets of New York.
Her gaze finds mine across the room, and something electric passes between us before she looks away, chin lifted in challenge.
The defiance in that gesture should infuriate me further. Instead, it sends a dangerous thrill down my spine that I crush with practiced brutality.
I rise slowly, letting my height cast a shadow across their approach. My father's eyes narrow slightly—a warning I choose to ignore. The scent of her reaches me first: jasmine and rain mixed with the metallic tang of adrenaline. She's been running. Hard.
"Anton." I extend my hand to her father, my voice carrying the frost of a Siberian winter. "Your daughter seems to have gotten... lost."
Kira's eyes flash, and I catch a slight tremor in her hands before she clasps them behind her back. Good. She should be afraid.
"Traffic," Anton lies smoothly, his accent thicker than usual. "You know how the city can be."
I let the silence stretch until it becomes uncomfortable, studying the wild creature before me. There's dirt on Kira's designer shoes and a small tear in her stockings that suggests she's climbed something—or someone has tried to stop her. The thought of other hands on her skin ignites something primal and possessive that I ruthlessly suppress.
"Indeed." My gaze locks with hers, and I see her jaw tighten. "Though it appears your daughter has been... exploring."
She lifts her chin higher, those blue eyes blazing with unspoken curses. The urge to step closer, to crowd her space until she backs down, wars with the need to maintain the facade of civilized negotiation.
My father clears his throat. "Perhaps we should sit. We have much to discuss."
But I can't look away from her. Can't stop cataloging the way her chest rises and falls with each controlled breath, the way she holds herself like a blade, ready to cut anyone who gets too close.
She's magnificent in her rebellion. And she's going to be mine.
But she’ll need to be tamed first.
"Please," I gesture to the table with calculated precision, watching as Anton guides his daughter toward her seat. Her movements are fluid despite her disheveled state—a dancer's grace that betrays years of expensive training. But there's nothing rehearsed about the storm brewing behind those eyes.
"Kira," Anton hisses under his breath, nudging her forward when she hesitates.
I pull out her chair with mechanical courtesy, allowing myself to stand close enough that my breath stirs the loose strands of hair at her neck. She stiffens but doesn't flinch. The subtle scent of her skin beneath the city grime hits me like a blow. Something primal stirs—a hunger that has nothingto do with the gleaming silverware and everything to do with conquest.
"Thank you," she says, her voice surprisingly steady, accent crisp and cultured. But as she sits, I catch the slight tremble in her fingers as they brush the tablecloth.