Page 11

I close my eyes and try to count sheep, just like I did as a child when I couldn’t sleep. It doesn’t work now. With a groan, I toss onto my back and resort to staring at the ceiling again.

My mind refuses to quiet down, replaying every second with Agafon at tonight's charity event. The night had been going so well. One minute we were talking—actually talking—and it was fun.

I flip my pillow to the cool side for the fifth time and groan into it.

We were doing so well. He was actually joking around with me, keeping me on my toes and challenging me to maintain the fiery exchange.

There was a moment when I thought I had made him smile, when the corners of his lips turned slightly up, and I felt absurdly proud—as if I had tamed some wild animal.

And within a matter of minutes, his warm grey eyes turned to frost.

Why does he hate me? What did I do?

Or had I imagined it the whole time along? Had I imagined that he seemed to be enjoying himself on the dance floor? Had I imagined the respect in his eyes as we’d chatted up the crowd prior to dancing?

What the hell happened to make him turn away from me with such ice ? I replay every quip and barb of our fiery banter, but nothing comes to mind.

His face comes back at me, how it turned from something soft to such hate within a matter of seconds.

His words ring in my mind. I think the room’s convinced, but you don’t have to play wife much longer.

I wasn’t playing wife. We had been connecting, or so I thought. Maybe he remembered who I was—an Orlov. The bride he took to amplify his power. Not someone who deserved a real smile.

During the ride back, I tried to speak to him, but I was met with that same icy, hateful glare. When we reached home, he exited the car as if it were on fire, as though he couldn’t get far enough away from me.

A lump forms in my throat at the hurt I feel at being treated with such disrespect. Whatever did I do to deserve such treatment?

I glance at my phone and see it’s well past two in the morning. I kicked off the sheets ages ago, but still feel hot. My throat feels dry from all that champagne I drank, and my head is starting to ache from the lack of sleep. Water. I need water.

I step out of bed and pause at the door, suddenly realizing how I’m dressed. I’m in an oversized T-shirt that hits up my thigh and don’t have any shorts on. Or a bra, for that matter. Should I get a robe?

I’m being ridiculous. It’s my home. I’m allowed not to worry about stepping out of my room well past midnight to get some water. Who's going to see me?

The house feels quiet, unnervingly still as I make my way to the kitchen on quiet steps, careful not to make a sound that might bring Agafon checking. After how he treated me tonight, like absolute dirt, he’s the last person I want to see.

I walk down the stairs, through the living area, across the formal and informal dining areas, and walk past the pantry.

During this whole time, I think about how much I miss being home with my siblings.

Before I left for my world adventure, we would often bump into each other in the kitchen and raid the fridge for midnight snacks.

I miss my brothers, even when they drive me crazy.

At least with them, I knew where I stood.

The kitchen light is already on as I approach. Is someone there, or did one of the maids forget to turn off the light? I hesitate, worrying it might be Agafon, but when I hear no sound, I dismiss it as the latter possibility.

I step through the doorway and freeze.

It's not staff.

It's Agafon. A very shirtless Agafon, and instantly, the sight of him does something strange to me. My blood boils, while at the same time, my toes curl.

He's leaning against the counter with a glass in his hand. But it's not the unexpected encounter that makes my breath catch—it's him.

Lord help me.

I've known he was fit, but nothing prepared me for this. His chest is a muscular sculpture, the kind that people can’t attain even after hours spent in the gym. His body is hardened, scarred at various points. It’s the body of a fighter, of a man who can fight for survival come what may.

Broad shoulders taper to a narrow waist, the planes of his abdomen clearly defined, and a light dusting of hair trails down to disappear beneath the waistband of his low-hanging pajamas.

His biceps flex slightly as he puts down his glass, and when I look away to make way to his face, his eyes meet mine across the room, as though he’d seen where mine had travelled.

I'm suddenly aware that I've been staring, mouth slightly open, for several seconds. Heat rushes to my face as his one eyebrow arches in question, and I try hard not to swallow, not to let him see the effect he has on me.

“See something you like, sweetheart?” His voice is deeper at this hour, rougher.

The condescension in being called “ sweetheart” snaps me out of my haze. I straighten my spine, suddenly angered by his words. On one hand, he ices me out. Now, he acts like nothing happened?

“Don’t call me sweetheart,” I say briskly, forcing myself to walk normally to the refrigerator. “I thought I was the only one awake.”

I bend down to reach for the water.

“Clearly not.” His eyes follow me as I turn and close the fridge, and I suddenly remember I’m only in a T-shirt, how I bent for that water. I feel his gaze like a physical touch against my skin.

I’m hyper-aware of how close I have to be to him to get the water. He smells fresh, like he’s taken a shower and washed his hair. An image forces itself into my mind: Agafon in the shower, the water pelting off his planes. I sip the water, trying to calm my racing heart.

“Trouble sleeping?”

His question sets me on edge. What am I thinking, standing here admiring the view, seeming open to a conversation with Agafon as though nothing wrong happened?

I fix him with a narrowed gaze. “It’s none of your business whether I sleep well or not.”

Agafon straightens from his casual lean, and his jaw tightens.

“You know what? I'm tired of walking on eggshells, tired of trying to figure out what I did wrong, tired of being treated like an inconvenience.” I set the water bottle down harder than necessary. “One minute we were having an actual conversation, and the next you were looking at me like you’d rather be dead than be caught in my presence. What was that about?”

“It was nothing.” He turns away, placing his own glass in the sink. “You're imagining things.”

“Bullshit.”

He turns back, surprise flashing briefly in his eyes before his expression hardens.

“Excuse me?”

“I said bullshit.” I step closer, emboldened by frustration. “I'm not imagining things. You completely froze me out on the dance floor, and I want to know why.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, which only serves to emphasize the muscles there. I force my eyes to stay on his face.

“You’re tired. You need to go to your room and go to sleep.”

“Don't talk to me like I'm a child,” I snap.

“Then don't act like one.”

“Asking for basic respect is childish?” I laugh in what is more of a scoff. “God, you're just like my brothers sometimes. Thinking you can bark orders and everyone will just fall in line.”

His eyes narrow. “You don’t know me well enough to make that deduction.”

“No? Because from where I'm standing, you're pulling the same dickhead moves they do when they don't want to address something head-on.”

There's a tense silence as we glare at each other. I can see the muscle in his jaw working as he grinds his teeth.

“What exactly do you want from me, Lilibeth?” he finally asks.

“I want you to treat me like a person. Not an obligation, not an enemy, not a wife whose only job is to fulfil whatever duty you believe she must uphold. A person.”

I take another step closer, needing him to understand. “I didn't ask for this arrangement, but you did, and here we are. And I refuse to spend however long this lasts being treated the way you treated me tonight.”

“How I treated you tonight?” he asks, but his voice is softer, as though he’s trying to understand exactly where I’m coming from.

“Like I was nothing.” The words come out softer than I intended, revealing my hurt. I clear my throat. “One minute we're having a conversation, you're almost—almost flirting with me—”

“I wasn't flirting,” he interrupts, but there's something in his eyes that makes me think he's lying.

“Whatever it was,” I continue, “it was at least respectful.

And then suddenly you're making some excuse about how we played our part and put on a solid show. People noticed, Agafon, as you refused to look at me after that. I looked like an idiot standing there, an idiot as I tried to talk to you in the car. The driver kept flicking his gaze back at us—at me.”

He's quiet for a moment, studying me. “You care too much about what others think.”

“That's not the point!” I throw my hands up in exasperation as I step even closer. “The point is, I wasn’t the only one who thought it strange, so you can’t say I’m wrong here.

I won't put up with being treated like that.

I didn't take it from Lion or Benedikt or Sergey or Samuil growing up, and I'm not going to take it from you now.”

“I don’t know what your brothers—”

“Don't.” I cut him off. “This isn't about them. It's about you and me and whatever this is supposed to be.” I gesture between us. “I'm tired of being told I have to 'play wife' like I'm some prop in your life. I'm a real person with real feelings, and—”

“I never thought of you as a prop,” he says, voice suddenly quiet but intense.

I falter, caught off guard by the shift in his tone.

“Then why do you act like it?” I ask, and my voice breaks as I do, as though the hurt is too much to contain.

A flicker of worry crosses his eyes, and he moves toward me, cocking his head as he looks into my eyes.

Suddenly, I realize there’s no more space between us.

If I take one more step forward, if he takes another, we’d be skin to skin.

When I breathe, I smell him. From where I stand, I see every angled muscle. He runs a hand through his black hair, messing it up in a way that makes him look younger.

He sighs as my eyes meet his. “You caught me off guard tonight. I didn't expect you to be so...willing to participate.”

I blink. “That's why you went cold? Because I was being a good company? That makes no sense.”

“It doesn’t.” His eyes flicker to my lips before darting back up, and there's something going on here he’s not telling me. “And partly because I found myself enjoying our conversation more than I should have.”

The air between us shifts, thickens. I'm suddenly aware of the heat radiating from his bare chest, of the fact that we're alone in this massive house in the middle of the night.

“Why shouldn't you enjoy talking to me?” I ask, my voice softer now.

He doesn't answer immediately, his eyes tracing over my face like he's seeing it for the first time. “Because it makes things... complicated.”

“Things are already complicated.” I lick my dry lips, noticing how his gaze drops to follow the movement. “I'm here. You're here. We're stuck in this situation together.”

“You make it sound so appealing.”

“I'm just being honest. Neither of us chose this, but we can choose how we handle it.” I have to tilt my head back to look him in the eyes. “And I choose basic decency. Equal ground. As much honesty as our circumstances allow.”

“Equal ground,” he repeats. “I can do that.”

We're standing too close. I can see the subtle variations of gray in his eyes, the tiny scar cutting through his left eyebrow, the dark stubble that's grown in since he shaved this morning. My body hums with awareness, a pull.

“We should establish some ground rules,” I say, trying to sound strict despite the warmth pooling in my belly. “Things that will make this arrangement work better for both of us.”

“Such as?” His eyes haven't left mine.

“Communication. If something's bothering you, tell me instead of shutting down. Respect. No more treating me like an inconvenience.” I swallow hard.

“I can do that.” His hand moves, fingers accidentally brushing against mine where they rest on the counter. It's barely a touch, but it sends electricity up my arm.

“I—” The word sticks in my throat as I feel a shiver go down my spine. “I think it's necessary.”

My heart pounds traitorously in my chest. I should step back. I should make some cutting remark, reestablish the boundaries I just claimed to want. Instead, I stay rooted to the spot, caught in his gravity.

“Necessary, yes,” he whispers, and his gaze drops to my lips. This time, it doesn’t move away, and there’s something in his breathing, a laboring of it, that matches the breathlessness I feel in his proximity.

I almost lean into his touch, almost close the final distance between us.

But then reality crashes back in. This is Agafon Letvin.

The man who looked at me like I was nothing just hours ago.

The man who, despite everything, makes my body react in ways I can't control. The longer I stay here, the more I’d lose sight of my anger, the more I’d wilt in his presence, the more I’d burn and long for his touch.

If I don’t get out of here now, I might end up making a decision I’ll regret.

I step back abruptly, breaking the spell. “I should go back to bed. It's late.”

Something like disappointment flashes across his face before the mask comes back down. He straightens and steps back, putting distance between us. “Of course.”

Back in my room, I collapse onto the bed, my body humming with unfulfilled tension. Sleep seems even more impossible now, but for entirely different reasons.

I grab my pillow and cuddle into it, groaning into the darkness.

How am I supposed to maintain any kind of boundary with Agafon when my body betrays me at the first glimpse of his bare chest? How am I supposed to demand respect when I nearly melted at his touch?

I squeeze my eyes shut, but all I see is the intensity in his gray eyes as he looks at me, the way his voice drops when he says my name, the heat of his skin near mine.

I'm in so much trouble.