Page 4

Mikhail

I tap 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 nothing to 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.

I take my place opposite her, allowing myself the luxury of truly examining what Anton Malakhov believes is worthy collateral. High cheekbones flushed with defiance. Full lips pressed into a thin line of resistance. The pulse at her throat flutters rapidly, betraying her calm exterior.

"We were beginning to worry," my father says smoothly, his weathered hands reaching for the vodka. "These days, fifteen minutes without a word can mean many things—none of them pleasant."

Anton laughs too loudly. "My Kira was simply... getting ready. Women, you understand."

The lie hangs between us like smoke. I watch a muscle in Kira's jaw flex as she stares at the caviar, refusing to participate in her father's charade.

"Is that so?" I lean forward slightly. "And did 'getting ready' involve the subway? Or perhaps a taxi chase through Manhattan?"

Her eyes snap to mine, widening fractionally before narrowing into blue flames. A smudge of dirt marks her temple, and I resist the inexplicable urge to brush it away.

"I wanted fresh air," she says, each word precisely chosen. "The weather was too beautiful to waste in a car."

"In those shoes?" I counter, my eyes dropping to her feet beneath the table. "Impressive."

The server approaches with more caviar and blini, breaking the silence of our battle.

My father launches into pleasantries about the restaurant's history, drawing Anton into nostalgic reminiscences of Moscow.

I allow their voices to fade into background noise, focusing instead on the way Kira's fingers curl around her water glass, knuckles white with restraint.

"Your security is lacking," I murmur in Russian, soft enough that only she can hear. "If you were mine already, you wouldn't have made it past the lobby."

She takes a deliberate sip of water before responding in flawless, cutting Russian. "If I were yours already, I'd have made it to Canada."

The unexpected retort draws an involuntary twitch of my lips. Dangerous. This spark of admiration is precisely what I cannot afford.

"You misunderstand the arrangement, Kira Antonovna," I say, reverting to English as the first course arrives. "This isn't a negotiation."

"Everything is a negotiation," she counters, finally meeting my gaze directly. There's intelligence behind that defiance—sharp, assessing. She's searching for weaknesses, for cracks in my armor.

She won't find any. I've buried them too deep.

"Your father seems to think otherwise." I gesture subtly toward Anton, who's laughing too loudly at something my father has said, desperation leaking through his jovial facade.

Something flickers across her face—hurt, quickly masked by contempt. "My father sells things for a living. I shouldn't be surprised I've become inventory."

The raw truth of her statement hits harder than it should. Something about her clarity, her unvarnished assessment of her situation, scrapes against something buried deep inside me.

I lean forward, dropping my voice to a whisper that carries promises of both threat and protection. "You're not inventory, Kira. You're an investment."

Her nostrils flare slightly, the only indication that my words have landed. She reaches for her vodka glass with practiced elegance, but I catch the slight tremor in her fingers before she steadies them.

"And what's your expected return?" she asks, her voice low and dangerous. "My father's connections? The Malakhov fortune? Or just the satisfaction of owning something that doesn't want to be possessed?"

The server appears with steaming bowls of borscht, the rich crimson liquid matching the walls surrounding us.

The interruption gives me a moment to consider Kira's question—and to examine the strange effect she has on me.

Most people cower in my presence; their fear is a currency I've grown accustomed to collecting.

Her rebellious spirit should infuriate me. Instead, it intrigues me.

"All of the above," I answer honestly when we're alone again. "Though I suspect you're worth more than your father has disclosed."

She stirs her soup without tasting it, the silver spoon making soft circles. "You speak as if the deal is done."

"The deal is done, Kira." I taste the borscht, the earthy sweetness of beets mingling with the tang of sour cream. "Your father has debts that can't be paid with money alone."

Her eyes flash up to mine. "So I'm the interest payment."

"You're the collateral." I correct her, watching as she processes this. "And under my protection, you'll have freedoms you can't imagine."

A bitter laugh escapes her lips, drawing a sharp glance from her father. She composes herself quickly, offering him a placating smile that doesn't reach her eyes. When she turns back to me, that smile has transformed into something dangerous.

"Protection," she repeats, testing the word like it's poison. "Is that what you call it? Strange. It looks remarkably like a cage from where I'm sitting."

I lean forward, close enough that I can see the flecks of darker blue in her irises. "The difference between protection and imprisonment depends entirely on what you're running from, kisa ."

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 than person. 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?"

"Part of the package," Anton agrees too quickly.

I watch Kira's face as her father barters away her inheritance piece by piece.

The resignation in her eyes tells me this isn't the first time she's been used as a pawn in his games.

But beneath that resignation smolders something fierce and unbroken—a core of steel that makes my blood heat despite my best efforts to remain detached.

"And what does the bride receive in this arrangement?" Kira asks, interrupting their negotiation.

Both older men turn to her in surprise. My father's expression hardens with a warning, but she maintains an expression of mild interest as if the question is purely academic.

"Protection, of course," her father answers, glancing nervously at his daughter. "Security. Status."

"A gilded cage is still a cage," Kira murmurs, the words barely audible.

I smile, the predator in me recognizing the perfect moment to strike. "Tell me, Kira Antonovna. What would make this cage... comfortable enough to be called home?"