Page 8

Mikhail

T he door to our penthouse closes behind us with the finality of a coffin lid. My new wife—this woman I barely know—seems to shrink in the dim light of the foyer.

"Welcome home." The words feel strange on my tongue, hollow as I watch Kira take in her surroundings. Her blue eyes dart from the high ceilings to the fortified windows, scanning each corner where I know she spots my men positioned like shadows against the walls.

Nikolai nods from his post by the stairs, his hand never far from the pistol at his hip. Yuri stands sentry by the back elevator, expressionless as always. Their presence is a reminder of what we both know—this marriage isn't just about paperwork and promises. It's about protection. Survival.

"Your father's men delivered your belongings earlier," I tell her, watching as she wraps her arms around herself. The delicate perfume she wears—something floral and expensive—fills the space between us. "Everything's upstairs."

Kira doesn't respond, just nods once, a quick jerk of her chin. The defiance in that small gesture stirs something in me—admiration, perhaps. Or irritation. It's hard to distinguish between them these days.

"I'll show you the bedroom," I say, moving toward the stairs.

She follows, her footsteps nearly silent against the hardwood. I feel her presence behind me like a physical weight pressing against my spine. When we reach the master suite, she brushes past me, her shoulder barely grazing mine. The contact sends an unexpected jolt through my system.

"There's a bathroom through there," I point to the door on the far wall. "And your clothes are?—"

Before I can finish, she's darting for the bathroom, slipping inside with the quickness of a startled animal. The lock clicks into place.

I stand there, staring at the closed door. Count to ten in Russian, then in English. The old anger management technique my father mocked, but Sasha, my security chief, insisted I learn after I put three men in the hospital last year.

"Kira." My voice is controlled and measured. "Come out."

Silence.

"This is childish." I step closer to the door. "We need to talk about how this arrangement will work."

I hear movement inside, water running. Kira's ignoring me.

" Kisa ." The pet name slips out even though my annoyance. "Open the door."

More silence, though the water stops.

My patience—never my strong suit—snaps like a dry twig. "You have three seconds before I break it down."

"Go away!" Her voice is muffled but strong. "I'm not sleeping with you."

The misunderstanding would be amusing if it weren't so infuriating. "One."

"I mean it, Mikhail!"

"Two."

I hear something heavy being dragged against the door. A futile barricade.

"Three."

My shoulder connects with the door, the wood splintering around the lock with a satisfying crack. It takes a second hit before it gives way completely, revealing Kira standing in the center of the bathroom, a heavy towel rack clutched in her hands like a weapon.

Her eyes widen, a flush of anger or fear—maybe both—coloring her cheeks. She's beautiful in her rage, like a storm about to break.

"Put that down before you hurt yourself," I say, stepping into the bathroom.

"Stay back." She raises the makeshift weapon higher.

I move faster than she expects, closing the distance between us in two strides. One hand wraps around the towel rack, the other around her waist. She struggles, surprisingly strong for someone so small, but I lift her easily, tossing the rack aside and hoisting her over my shoulder.

"Put me down!" She pounds against my back, her fists like bird wings against stone.

I carry her into the bedroom, ignoring her protests, and deposit her onto the king-sized bed. She immediately scrambles to the opposite side, putting as much distance between us as possible.

"You can't lock yourself in the bathroom all night," I tell her, crossing my arms. "This is your room. Your bed."

Confusion flickers across her face. "My room?"

"Yes." I gesture to the space around us. "I sleep across the hall."

"But..." She trails off, suspicion narrowing her eyes. "We're married.”

"On paper." I move toward the door, suddenly needing space from the scent of her, from the way her auburn hair spills across my pillows. "This marriage is about protection and profit, not fucking. You'll be safe here. That's all that matters to your father."

I pause at the threshold, looking back at her. She's sitting up now, her back against the headboard, watching me with those piercing blue eyes that seem to see more than I want.

"Lock your door if it makes you feel better," I tell her. "But know this—no one gets in or out of this house without my knowledge. Not even you."

I close the door behind me, her silence following me like a shadow as I cross the hall to my empty room.

I strip off my jacket and loosen my tie, the silk slithering through my fingers like water.

The muffled sounds of movement from across the hall draw my attention—soft footsteps, the creak of a drawer opening, the rustle of fabric.

I picture her exploring the space that is now hers, testing the boundaries of her gilded cage.

The bed in my room remains untouched, sheets pulled tight with military precision. Sleep won't come easily tonight. It never does.

I pour two fingers of vodka into a crystal tumbler, the bottle still cold from the freezer. The liquid burns a familiar path down my throat, warming my chest while doing nothing to thaw the ice that's settled around my heart years ago.

A soft thud from her room makes me pause mid-sip. Then silence.

I wait, counting heartbeats.

Another sound—glass breaking.

I'm across the hall in three strides, not bothering to knock as I push open her door. "What happened?"

Kira stands frozen by the vanity, surrounded by shards of what was once a crystal perfume bottle. Her feet are bare, vulnerable among the glittering fragments. The scent of jasmine fills the air, heady and overwhelming.

"Don't move," I command, scanning the floor for a safe path to her.

"I can clean it myself," she says, chin lifting in that defiant way that's becoming familiar. "I don't need your help."

I ignore her, crossing the room in careful steps. "You'll cut yourself."

"Why would you care?" Her voice is sharp, but there's something beneath it—uncertainty, perhaps. Or loneliness. I recognize it because it mirrors what echoes inside me.

Before she can protest, I lift her easily, one arm beneath her knees, the other supporting her back. For a moment, she tenses against me, and I prepare for another fight. Instead, she exhales slowly, her body softening just slightly against mine.

The unexpected surrender catches me off guard.

I set her down on the bed, careful to keep my touch impersonal. Professional. "Stay here. I'll clean it up."

"You don't have to?—"

"I know I don't have to." The words come out harsher than intended. I soften my tone. "Just... stay put."

In the bathroom, I find a hand towel and return to collect the larger pieces of glass. Kira watches me from the edge of the bed, her gaze heavy on my back.

"You're not what I expected," she says finally, breaking the silence between us.

I don't look up from my task. "What did you expect? A monster?"

"Yes." The honesty in her answer makes me pause. "My father said you were dangerous. That you've killed men with your bare hands."

My jaw tightens. I resume collecting glass shards. "Your father should be more careful about the stories he tells."

"Is it true?"

I meet her eyes then, not bothering to mask the darkness I know she'll see there. "Yes."

To my surprise, she doesn't flinch. "Would you kill me, too?"

"No." The word escapes before I can think better of it. Truth is a liability in my world, yet here I am, offering it to her like a gift. "You're my wife."

"On paper," she reminds me, throwing my own words back at me. Her lips curve into something not quite a smile. "For protection and profit, not?—"

"I remember what I said." I cut her off, gathering the last of the glass. The perfume clings to my skin, feminine and foreign. It will linger on my hands long after I leave this room. "That doesn't mean I'd harm you."

When I stand, she's watching me with those clear blue eyes that seem to strip away layers I've spent years building. I turn away, uncomfortable with the scrutiny.

"Why did you agree to this?" she asks. "To marry me?"

I dispose of the glass in the bathroom wastebasket, taking my time before answering. "Your father made an offer. I accepted."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're getting tonight." I wash my hands, watching her perfume swirl down the drain in pale amber ribbons. When I return, she's still sitting exactly where I left her, legs tucked beneath her on the bed.

"You should sleep," I tell her. "It's been a long day."

She glances at the bed, then back at me, uncertainty flickering across her face. "I don't have anything to sleep in. My things..."

"Check the dresser," I say, nodding toward the mahogany chest against the wall. "I had the housekeeper, Elena, purchase some necessities."

Kira slides off the bed and crosses to the dresser, pulling open the top drawer. Her fingers trail over silk and cotton, her expression unreadable. She selects something and retreats to the bathroom without another word.

I should leave. Return to my room, to my vodka, to the solitude I've grown accustomed to. Instead, I find myself standing at the window, gazing out at the Brooklyn skyline beyond the bulletproof glass. The night presses against the panes like an unwelcome visitor, dark and insistent.

The bathroom door opens. Kira emerges wearing a simple white nightgown that falls to her knees. The material is modest enough, but the sight of her in it tightens something in my chest.

"Will I be allowed to leave?" she asks suddenly. "This house, I mean."

I turn from the window. "Not alone."

"So I am a prisoner."

"You're protected," I correct her. "There's a difference."