Page 9

I press my forearm against the man’s throat, pinning him to the metal chair with my weight.

“Talk,” I demand, ignoring the sweat trickling down my back. We’re in a dingy basement that smells of mildew and old bloodstains. My men stand at a distance, silent spectators to this grim work. The single bulb overhead casts harsh shadows on my prisoner’s battered face.

He coughs and sucks in a ragged breath when I ease just a fraction. Blood trickles from a split in his lip, and I can see he’s already close to breaking. But close isn’t good enough. I need him to spill whatever secrets he’s hiding. My hand tightens on the handle of the pliers I’m holding. He’s one of Pavel’s friends, or so he claimed when we caught him trying to flee the country right after we found Pavel’s body. Suspicious timing.

I jab the pliers into the fresh cut on his shoulder, ignoring his muffled groan. “Answer my questions. Who orchestrated Pavel’s murder? Why were you running?”

He spits blood onto the floor. “I don’t… know anything,” he rasps.

“Wrong answer.” I motion to one of my men, who hands me a short length of chain. I loop it around the chair’s back, securing our captive more tightly. He thrashes, but it’s useless. My men have done their job, leaving him with nowhere to go. “We found you with a suitcase full of false identification documents trying to hightail it out of here. You expect me to believe you’re innocent?”

His breath stutters. “I only wanted to—to escape what’s coming. I didn’t… kill anyone. I swear.”

I lock eyes with him. “You were Pavel’s friend, or so you said. If you truly cared about him, you’d want justice, not a plane ticket out.”

He cringes. “I—I owe money. To men who’ll kill me if I don’t pay. You have to understand—”

My patience thins. I grab a fistful of his hair, forcing him to look up. “Listen carefully. Pavel died on my watch. I want the name of whoever arranged his murder. I’m told you have intel—something about a Rossi contact who pulled strings. Spill it, or I’ll make this hurt more than you can imagine.”

His eyes flick around the room, perhaps hoping for mercy in someone’s gaze. None of my men meet his desperate stare. We’re past the point of sympathy. He tries to clamp his mouth shut, so I yank out a finger clamp from my toolkit and pry open his jaw. A pitiful gasp leaves his lips, and I press the clamp on his tongue for a second, just enough to remind him who’s in control.

He whimpers. “Stop—please—I’ll talk.”

I release his jaw, letting him gasp for air. “Then talk.”

He sucks in a tremulous breath. “They… They said the Rossis wanted to expand. That they saw an opening with Pavel gone. I—I don’t know who gave the order.”

“Names,” I bark. “The name of whoever hired you to run messages or coordinate a hit.”

He grimaces, and his eyelids flutter as though he’s about to lose consciousness. “It wasn’t me who arranged anything. There’s a man—Davide—he’s the one who came to me. Paid me to keep quiet about Pavel’s route that day.”

Davide. The name rings a bell: a low-tier Rossi enforcer, rumored to be climbing the ranks. “You took money to betray your friend?” My stomach churns with disgust. “Worth it?”

He chokes, and tears mix with the blood on his face. “I didn’t mean for him to die! I thought… I thought maybe they’d just scare him off, not kill him.”

“Pavel trusted you. You fed him to the wolves for cash. You expect me to believe you feel remorse now?”

He struggles for words. Before he can speak, his eyes roll back, and a ragged cough jerks through him. Blood dribbles from the corner of his mouth. My men shift in place as I grab him by the collar, shaking him. “You’re not done yet. Tell me everything about Davide. Where does he operate? Who’s backing him?”

He wheezes. “Warehouse… near the docks. He—he meets men there. Talks about… shipments. I swear that’s all I know.”

I slam my fist against the arm of his chair.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—I never thought—” His words falter as his voice is reduced to a wet rasp. Then he exhales, and his body goes limp. The spark in his eyes dims as death settles over him.

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, releasing him. My men stare, waiting for orders. “Get rid of the body. Make sure no trace leads back to us.” They spring into action, untying the corpse and hauling it away. I run a hand over my face, repressing the anger simmering inside. We only got limited intel before he croaked—a lead on Davide and the Rossis, but nothing that fully explains who’s behind Pavel’s murder.

By the time I exit the basement. The sun has dipped low, and my phone vibrates with a text from Maksim. He’s off dealing with his own vices, no doubt. The message simply says: Any update? I ignore it. I’ll fill him in later. Right now, I need a shower and some quiet to mull over what I learned.

***

Driving back to my estate takes longer than usual. Traffic in the city’s center is thick, and every red light feels like it takes an hour on its own. By the time I pull through the gates, night has fallen completely, and a bone-deep weariness clings to me. My clothes bear smudges of dried blood, and I can’t decide if I’m too tired or too keyed up to care.

One of the housekeepers hurries over as I step out of my SUV with an anxious look in her eyes. “Mr. Barkov, welcome home.”

I nod and toss my keys to the valet. “Where’s Seraphina? Any trouble with her today?”

She glances at my shirt, gawking at the dark stains before she averts her gaze. “Your wife… She’s in the garden, Sir.”

That’s surprising. After last night’s fiasco at dinner, I assumed she’d hole up in her room again. “She is?”

“Yes,” the housekeeper confirms. “She asked for a watering can. Something about wanting to help with the plants. She’s been out there a while.”

I wave the housekeeper off. “Thanks.” She scurries inside, and I’m left standing in the driveway, debating whether to freshen up first or go to her. Curiosity nudges me toward the garden.

I walk around the side of the estate, following the path that leads to a cluster of neatly trimmed hedges and vibrant flowers. I half expect to find her scowling or plotting some new way to defy me. Instead, I stop short when I see her kneeling near a patch of blossoms with a watering can in hand.

She’s wearing a simple purple sundress, and her midnight hair is pinned back. There’s a softness about her posture that catches me off guard.

As I move closer, I notice she’s admiring a butterfly perched on one of the flowers. A faint smile curves her lips, like she’s briefly forgotten her fury. The image stirs something in my chest, a tug of guilt maybe, or longing.

I recall how she looked in my arms, panting and trembling on our wedding night. How quickly her defiance melted into raw desire. That memory hits me square in the gut, reminding me of her innocence that night—the tightness I felt around my fingers, the wet warmth that drove me insane. I know what a virgin feels like, and I’m certain she had never been touched like that before.

It took a measure of willpower I didn’t know I had to stop, to keep from taking her fully. A virgin, married off to me for an alliance. I’ve bedded plenty of women, but I’m not the type to claim a virgin by force. I won’t touch her unless she willingly spreads her legs. An odd sense of chivalry, I guess. Or maybe it’s because I don’t want to break her spirit if she’s truly never known a man. I’d rather she come to me on her own accord, no matter how long that might take.

I clear my throat. She startles before glancing over her shoulder. For a moment, there’s no scowl, no immediate glint of anger in her eyes. She lowers the watering can and rises to her feet, brushing off her skirt.

“Grigor,” she greets me in a subdued tone.

It’s the first time she’s spoken my name without venom. “Hey.” I notice a subtle shift in her gaze when she spots the bloodstain on my shirt. It’s not massive, but it’s noticeable.

She bites her lip, hesitant. “Long day?”

I weigh my words. Normally, I’d give a dismissive grunt, but I’d rather not call back the spite if I can help it. Instead, I shrug and answer, “Yeah.”

Her attention drifts to the crimson blot before she sets the watering can aside. “That’s… Is that…?”

I follow her line of sight. “Nothing you need to worry about,” The last thing I want is to share details of my interrogation, especially since I barely trust her. She’s my wife, but that means nothing yet.

She steps forward, drawing her brows together in either concern or revulsion. Maybe both. “You’re bleeding?”

I shake my head. “Not my blood.”

“Oh.” The silence stretches between us. The butterfly that held her attention earlier flutters off, leaving only the faint chirp of insects. She doesn’t press, and I’m oddly grateful.

She exhales before looking again at the flowers. “I figured these needed some care. Your gardeners do their job, but I like tending to them myself.” Her tone is almost… gentle.

I tilt my head, studying her features. “You’re… calmer tonight,” I remark, half expecting a snide retort.

She lifts a shoulder. “I’m exhausted, Grigor. I’ve spent the day replaying everything that’s happened. I can’t be angry every minute.” A hint of vulnerability edges her words, and it sinks under my skin.

A breeze lifts strands of her hair, and she tucks them behind her ear as her eyes slide away from my gaze. My mind drifts back to the memory of her arching under my touch, how she clenched around my fingers, how she tasted of need and frustration. If I let that memory linger, I’ll be tempted to drag her into the nearest corner and show her exactly how I can make her come apart again. But I rein it in. She’s had enough forced contact from me lately.

Trying to redirect my thoughts, I gesture at the watering can. “So… you like gardening?”

She pauses, as if uncertain how to respond. “I guess. It’s relaxing.” Then she crosses her arms, as if protecting that small revelation. Her eyes drift down to my shirt again. “Did something happen out there? You’ve got blood. That can’t be good.”

“I handle a lot of things. Some of them get messy. That’s my job.”

She studies me, probably weighing whether to push for details. Her posture stiffens, like she remembers we’re not exactly confidants. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

I keep my face impassive. “No.”

Disappointment crosses her features. “Fine. I don’t really care anyway.” A lie, perhaps. But I don’t call her out on it. She turns back to the flowers, picking up the watering can once more. The conversation seems over, but a part of me wants it to continue.

I cast a quick glance toward the mansion. My day was long and brutal, and I know I should shower, change clothes, and maybe regroup with my brothers. Yet something about Seraphina’s quiet presence in this garden holds me there. I can’t recall the last time she wasn’t snapping at me.

I step beside her, studying the array of blossoms. Their petals glow under the estate’s exterior lights. She notices my proximity but doesn’t move away. That’s progress, I suppose. My chest tightens with a confusing mix of relief and desire, recalling what I discovered about her innocence. If she knew how much it affected me—that knowledge of her being a virgin—she might use it against me or throw it in my face. I keep it buried, a secret plan to wait until she’s ready to give herself willingly. Because, make no mistake, I intend to claim every inch of her, but on my terms and hers.

She finishes watering, then sets the can on a low stone ledge. “I’m done.” Her voice is small, tired.

I clear my throat. “You should go inside. It’s late.”

She nods, not protesting for once. As we walk back, the distance between us is barely an arm’s length, but it might as well be a canyon. I want to extend a hand, but I resist. She’d probably recoil.

We reach a side entrance, and she opens the door, stepping in. I follow with tension prickling at the base of my neck. She stops in the corridor, turning to face me. “Look… about dinner last night—”

A pang of guilt shoots through me, recalling how I slung her over my shoulder. “It was necessary.”

Her eyes blaze for a second. “Necessary to degrade me in front of your family?”

I suppress a wince. “You refused to come down. I had no choice. My brothers needed to meet you. They won’t respect a wife who hides away.”

She lifts her chin. “They wouldn’t respect a woman, period, from what I’ve seen.”

I open my mouth to argue but realize she’s not wrong, at least about some of them. “They respect strength. And you showed plenty by talking back to me. They noticed.”

She snorts. “Glad to know my attitude is an asset to someone.” The comment drips sarcasm, but it lacks the lethal edge I’ve grown accustomed to. It feels more like a momentary truce.

Neither of us speaks for a beat. Her gaze flicks to the red stains on my shirt again, and for an instant, I see the worry in her eyes. She wants to ask again. I can almost hear the question forming on her lips. But she doesn’t voice it. Instead, she exhales and looks away.

“I’m heading to shower.”

She brushes a strand of hair off her forehead. “Yeah. Okay.”

I nod and step around her, heading toward the stairs. My pulse thuds at the back of my skull as an odd sense of regret nags at me. I suspect she might have more to say, but she’s letting it go, probably because she doesn’t trust me any more than I trust her.

As I climb the steps, I replay the day’s events in my mind: the torture session, the meager scraps of info about Davide, and the man’s death before I could squeeze out any real information that might lead us to the true mastermind behind Pavel’s murder. Then I recall the sight of Seraphina kneeling in the garden, quietly caring for flowers that belong to a household she claims to despise. The dissonance unsettles me.

She hates me, hates our arrangement, yet she waters flowers in my garden.

At the top of the stairs, I glance back to see if she followed, but she’s gone, probably off to her room. For a fleeting moment, I wonder if she’s replaying last night’s heat in her head as much as I am. The memory of her gasping on my fingers, soaking them, her body so tight—it sends a rush of desire through me. But I lock it down. I vow not to touch her again until she’s ready. It might take weeks or months or never.

But it doesn’t matter. Not even in the slightest. I should focus on bigger threats like Davide and the Rossis, not on seducing my unwilling wife.