Page 7

The endearment—pussycat—slips out unbidden. Kira's eyes widen fractionally at the unexpected intimacy, a flush creeping up her neck that has nothing to do with the room's warmth. For a heartbeat, the hostility between us transforms into something menacing—a current of awareness that makes my skin prickle with unwanted heat.
"Don't call me that," she whispers, but there's less conviction in her voice than before.
I allow myself a small, predatory smile. "You'll need to get used to it. A wife should answer to her husband's endearments."
"I'm not your wife yet."
"A technicality that will be remedied in a week."
Her spoon clatters against the bowl. "A week? That's?—"
"Generous," I interrupt. "My father wanted three days. Your mother requested two weeks. We settled on one."
The color drains from her face, and for the first time since she entered, I see genuine fear beneath her bravado. It doesn't satisfy me the way it should. Instead, I feel an unexpected urge to reassure her, to explain that while this marriage is non-negotiable, I have no intention of breaking her spirit—only redirecting it.
Our fathers' conversation grows louder, signaling the negotiation phase is beginning in earnest. Anton's gestures become more animated as he outlines what he considers fair compensation for his daughter's hand. As if she's a business asset being transferred between corporations.
Which, in essence, she is.
Kira watches them with a detachment that speaks of years of practice, of being discussed as property rather thanperson. But beneath that practiced indifference, I sense a calculation happening behind those ocean eyes. She's planning something––perhaps another escape.
"Don't," I say quietly.
Her attention snaps back to me. "Don't what?"
"Whatever you're plotting." I hold her gaze steadily. "It won't end well for anyone involved."
A smile curves her lips, genuine in its coldness. "You don't know what I'm thinking."
"I know that look. I've seen it in men before they make fatal decisions." I take another spoonful of borscht, never breaking eye contact. "You won't make it past my security. And your father will pay the price for your disobedience."
The threat lands precisely as intended. Kira's shoulders tense, then deliberately relax as she processes the implications. I've found her weakness—not fear for herself, but concern for her father, despite everything.
Interesting.
"You're very confident for someone who just met me," she says finally.
"I did my research, Kira Antonovna." I set my spoon down. "I know you studied art and want to be an artist or work in a grand museum. You love expensive things and enjoy accepting jewelry from men who are dying to marry you. I expect you to return every piece after our wedding.
Kira frowns, and her lips curl with distaste.
I continued in a hushed tone. “I’ve also heard you have a tendency to lose your security detail at least once a month. That won’t happen under my watch.”
With each detail, her eyes grow wider, her breathing more shallow. Good. She should understand that nothing about her has been private. Nothing has been truly hers.
"That's—" she struggles to find the word "—invasive."
"That's thorough," I correct. "I never enter into a contract without understanding exactly what I'm acquiring."
"I'm not a company merger."
"No." I allow my gaze to drift deliberately over her face, down to where her collarbones peek from beneath her disheveled dress. "You're much more valuable."
The flush returns to her cheeks, anger and something else battling for dominance. She opens her mouth to respond, but Anton's voice cuts through our private battlefield.
"Kira will bring her trust fund, of course," he says, his eyes slightly glazed from the vodka he's been steadily consuming. "Access upon marriage, as is tradition."
My father nods, his expression giving away nothing. "And the properties in Switzerland and Spain?"