Page 11

Elena appears with the first course—delicate scallops arranged like pale moons on black ceramic. She pours wine, a crisp white that catches the candlelight, then vanishes as silently as she arrived.

I take a sip, letting the cold acidity wash over my tongue. "The orchid was beautiful," I say, surprising myself. "Elena told me they were your mother's favorite."

His fork pauses midway to his mouth, and something unreadable flashes across his face. "Elena talks too much."

"Or perhaps you don't talk enough." The words slip out before I can stop them, emboldened by wine and the strange intimacy created by the storm.

Lightning illuminates his face in stark relief—the sharp planes of his cheekbones, the shadow of stubble along his jaw, and the small scar that bisects his left eyebrow. For a moment, he looks almost vulnerable.

"What would you like to know, Kira?" He sets down his fork, giving me his full attention. "What secrets do you think I'm keeping from my wife?"

The word 'wife' in his mouth sounds both possessive and uncertain as if he's testing how it feels on his tongue.

"Everything," I whisper. "And nothing. I don't even know where to begin."

He leans forward, elbows on the table, studying me with an intensity that makes my pulse flutter at the base of my throat. "Begin with what you want."

"What do I want?" I laugh, the sound brittle even to my own ears. "Does that matter now? I'm already here, aren't I? The contract signed in blood and black ink."

"It matters to me." His voice drops lower, rumbling like the distant thunder. "Despite what you may believe."

I stare at him, searching for the lie, for the manipulation behind his words. Instead, I find only that same haunted look, quickly masked by practiced indifference.

"I want..." I begin, then falter. What do I want? Freedom seems too obvious an answer, too simple for the complex web I'm caught in. "I want to understand why you agreed to this arrangement. Why did you agree to it when you clearly have no interest in a real marriage."

Mikhail takes a slow sip of his wine, considering. Outside, the storm reaches its crescendo, rain hammering against the glass like desperate fingers seeking entry.

"My father believes your family's connections will strengthen our position on the East Coast," he says finally, the business answer I expected. But then he continues, his voice changing subtly. "I agreed because when I saw you at the Russian Tea Room, you looked... familiar."

"Familiar?" I repeat, confused.

"Like someone who understands what it means to be surrounded by people yet completely alone." His eyes hold mine, unblinking. "Someone who wears masks as skillfully as I do."

The honesty stuns me into silence. I reach for my wine glass, needing something to hold onto as the ground seems to shift beneath me.

"And the separate bedrooms?" I ask, my voice barely audible above the storm. "Is that part of understanding me?"

A muscle tightens in his jaw. "That was for your protection."

"From what? From you?"

"Yes." The single word contains multitudes—confession, warning, perhaps even regret.

Elena returns, clearing our plates and replacing them with the main course. The interruption gives me time to collect myself, to rebuild the walls his unexpected candor had begun to crumble.

When we're alone again, Mikhail cuts into his steak with surgical precision, the knife glinting in his scarred hands. "You asked if you would ever love me," he says without looking up. "I heard you on the terrace."

Heat floods my cheeks. "You weren't meant to hear that."

"Yet I did." He raises his eyes to mine, and for the first time, I see something that might be vulnerability in their icy depths. "The better question might be whether I am capable of being loved at all."

The confession hangs between us, raw and unexpected. I find myself reaching across the table before I can think better of it, my fingers stopping just short of his.

"What happened to her?" I ask softly. "Your first wife?"

Pain flashes across his face, so visceral I can almost feel it. "Alina was killed because of who I am. Because of what I am." His voice is flat and controlled, but his knuckles have gone white around his knife. "I made a mistake, believing I could have something normal. Something good."

"And now?"

"Now I know better." His eyes meet mine, a storm raging behind them that rivals the one outside. "But knowing better doesn't seem to matter when it comes to you."

My breath catches. "What does that mean, Mikhail?"

He sets down his cutlery with deliberate care, then reaches across the distance between us. His fingers brush mine, calloused skin against soft, and the simple contact sends electricity racing up my arm.

"It means I'm making the same mistake twice," he murmurs. "And this time, with eyes wide open."

I lean back in my chair, trying to escape the intensity of his touch, but his fingers follow mine, tracing the delicate bones of my wrist. The wine has made me bold and reckless in a way that should terrify me.

"Maybe it's not a mistake," I whisper, the words escaping before I can cage them. "Maybe it's just... inevitable."

His thumb finds my pulse point, pressing gently against the frantic rhythm there. "You don't know what you're saying, kisa ."

The endearment falls from his lips like honey and smoke, and something deep in my belly tightens at the sound. "Don't I?" I turn my hand palm up, letting our fingers intertwine. "I may have been sheltered, Mikhail, but I'm not naive."

Lightning splits the sky, casting us both in stark relief for one breathless moment. In that flash, I see something break open in his expression—a crack in the armor he wears so carefully.

"The wine is making you brave," he says, but his grip on my hand tightens.

"Good." I lift my glass with my free hand, taking another deliberate sip. The alcohol burns warm in my chest, loosening the careful control I've maintained for days. "I'm tired of being afraid."

"You should be afraid of me." His voice is rough velvet, a warning wrapped in desire. "I'm not a good man, Kira."

"I know exactly what you are." I lean forward, close enough to catch the scent of his cologne mixed with something darker, more dangerous. "The question is whether you know what I am."

His eyes narrow, studying me with a predatory focus. "Enlighten me."

"I'm not the porcelain doll my father presented to your family." The words flow like silk, emboldened by wine and storm and the electric current running between us. "I'm not fragile. I won't break."

Something feral flickers in his gaze. "Careful, little wife. You're playing with fire."

"Then burn me." The challenge slips out before I can stop it, brazen and wanting.

The effect is immediate. Mikhail's chair scrapes against the marble as he pushes back from the table, rising to his full, intimidating height. But instead of walking away, he moves around the table with fluid grace, stopping beside my chair.

"Stand up," he commands softly.

My legs feel unsteady as I rise, whether from wine or proximity to this dangerous man I've married. He towers over me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.

"You want to play games?" His hand cups my jaw, thumb tracing my lower lip with agonizing slowness. "I've been playing them longer than you've been alive."

"Then teach me the rules," I breathe against his thumb.

His control snaps like a taut wire. In one fluid motion, he lifts me, setting me on the edge of the table. Crystal glasses chime softly as the surface trembles, but his hands are steady on my waist, holding me captive between his arms.

"The first rule," he murmurs, leaning down until his breath fans across my lips, "is that there are no rules."

Thunder crashes overhead as he closes the final distance between us, his mouth claiming mine with a hunger that steals my breath. The kiss is nothing like the chaste press of lips at our wedding ceremony—this is possession, demand, a claiming that sends fire racing through my veins.

I thread my fingers through his dark hair, pulling him closer, and he groans against my mouth. His hands slide up my sides, reverent and desperate, as if he's mapping territory he never expected to claim.

"Come here," he rasps against my lips, his accent thicker now, roughened by desire. Without waiting for an answer, he lifts me from the table, carrying me to the leather chair by the window, where he settles with me across his lap.

The storm rages beyond the glass, but inside this cocoon of heat and wanting, nothing exists except the taste of him on my tongue and the solid strength of his body beneath mine. His fingers tangle in my hair as he deepens the kiss, and I arch against him, shameless in my need.

"Kira," he breathes my name like a prayer, like a curse. "You're going to destroy me."

"Good," I whisper back, claiming his mouth again as lightning illuminates us both in silver fire.