Page 16

She’s everywhere.

In the quiet between conversations, in the space between gunshots. In the back of my mind when I’m supposed to be focusing on strategy, threats, numbers. I’ll be mid-sentence, issuing orders, when I remember the way she bites her lip when she’s thinking—or how she fiddles with the ring I put on her finger like it might burn her.

She doesn’t know I watch her, but I do. More than I should.

I notice the way she lingers near windows, her fingers twitching against the sill as if she could claw her way out through the glass. I see the tension in her jaw when she walks past locked doors. Her shoulders always a little too tight, her gaze always searching for exits. That defiance she used to wear like armor hasn’t vanished. It’s just quieter now. Turned inward.

She touches the ring absently, without thinking, but always with that same flicker of unrest. As if she wants to tear it off but doesn’t dare. As if some part of her knows—despite everything—it’s the only thing keeping her alive.

It should make me furious.

It fascinates me.

The way she survives. The way she keeps herself intact even when everything around her says she shouldn’t. There’s something feral in her strength. Something unbreakable.

And I want her. Not just to control her. Not just to own her. I want to know what it feels like to be wanted back by something that refuses to be tamed.

I return late. The air outside stinks of smoke and blood, my knuckles still raw from cracking across bone. Business tonight was… messy. An example had to be made. I didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate—violence is easy. Always has been.

Instead of heading to my office, where I usually drown the aftermath in silence and vodka, I take a different turn.

Her hallway.

I don’t even realize I’ve changed direction until I’m already outside her door, heart beating slower than usual, like my body’s bracing for something quieter. Something harder to fight.

The door isn’t locked, in fact it’s slightly ajar.

I push it open with two fingers, just enough to see inside.

There she is, asleep on the couch.

The room is dim, lit only by the soft amber glow of a lamp. She’s curled under a blanket, small and still, her face turned toward the back cushions. One arm dangles slightly, fingers brushing the floor. Her hair spills over her shoulder in a messy tangle, her lips parted just barely. She looks peaceful—but not safe.

Even now, there’s a crease between her brows, faint but telling. Even in sleep, she doesn’t let go.

I step inside without thinking, the door closing softly behind me. My boots make no sound on the rug.

I stand over her for a long time, watching her chest rise and fall in slow, steady rhythm. Her lashes flicker against her cheeks, caught in a dream she probably won’t remember. I wonder if it’s the kind that makes her heart race—or the kind that leaves her waking in a cold sweat.

I should leave.

I’ve told myself that a hundred times since bringing her here. That this thing—this pull between us—is nothing but proximity, circumstance, possession. That I need her obedient, not close.

None of it explains the tightness in my chest when I look at her now.

I crouch slowly, blood still drying along the edge of my knuckles. I should be wiping it off. Instead, I’m reaching out, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

She stirs, lips twitching, brows pinching tighter. I pause, hand hovering above her skin like I’ve crossed into something sacred. Something I don’t deserve to touch.

What the fuck is this?

She’s a problem. A liability. A wildcard I never intended to keep.

I rise again, slowly, and just watch her.

If she wakes, I’ll say I came to check the lock. That I was just making sure she was okay.

The truth is simpler.

I needed to see her breathe, because the blood on my hands tonight didn’t rattle me; but the thought of losing her does.

She stirs beneath the blanket, slow and quiet, like her mind is still trying to catch up to her body. Her lashes flutter, and then her eyes open—sharp green flashing in the dim light.

She sees me.

I don’t move, not at first.

There’s a beat of silence between us. A single moment where everything holds still—the tension, the air, the last bit of sleep still clinging to her.

Then I see it.

That flicker. Fear. It’s gone almost as fast as it came, buried beneath something else. Strength. Defiance.

Even now, she meets my eyes like she wants to peel them apart. There’s accusation in her gaze. Fury, confusion. The question she won’t ask: Why are you watching me like this?

Her body tenses, just slightly, a shift beneath the blanket like she’s coiling inward—but she doesn’t recoil. Doesn’t run. She just waits, breath hitched, as I sink down beside her.

The couch dips under my weight. The cushion between us barely exists.

She sits up slowly, dragging the blanket higher over her chest as if it’s armor, even though she’s still clothed. Still safe.

I don’t speak. Neither does she.

The silence between us is electric—thick with everything unsaid, heavy with what we both pretend not to want.

I watch the way her throat moves when she swallows. The way her hands curl into the edge of the blanket. The way her gaze never flinches.

“You don’t sleep easy,” I say quietly.

She lifts her chin. “Whose fault is that?”

That sharp tongue again. It would’ve annoyed me once. Now it twists something low in my stomach.

I reach out before I think better of it. My fingers graze along the line of her jaw, tracing the smooth curve up to her cheekbone. Her skin is warm—soft, still slightly flushed from sleep. She sucks in a breath but doesn’t move away.

I let my hand trail down, fingers skimming the slender line of her throat.

I feel it, the pulse there. Rapid. Fragile. Alive.

I don’t press. I just touch.

Just enough to feel it hammering beneath her skin. Just enough to remind myself that she’s real . That she’s here. That I could close my hand and take her apart—or that I could open it, and let her burn me from the inside out.

I tell myself it’s about control. Dominance. A quiet warning.

The truth is uglier. Messier. Dangerous in ways I can’t admit, even to myself.

I need to feel her.

I pull my hand back slowly, watching the way her breath shakes just slightly when I do. Her lips part like she might speak—but I beat her to it.

“You’ll never belong to anyone else,” I say, voice low and rough, the words slipping out like smoke. “No matter how far you run. No matter who helps you. You’re mine now.”

Her eyes widen—just a fraction—but it’s enough.

She hates me for saying it.

Yet, something in her reacts . Her pupils darken. Her jaw clenches. Her fingers dig into the blanket like she’s holding herself together.

I don’t wait for a response.

I stand and turn away, blood still drying in the cracks of my knuckles, heart beating too loud in my ears.

The scent of her clings to me—soap, warmth, that faint, addictive trace of skin that I can’t forget. It sticks to my clothes, follows me out into the hall, down the stairs, into the quiet rot of the night.

Even after I leave her, she’s still there.

A ghost I can’t shake.

***

Two days.

Forty-eight hours of silence between us, of restraint barely held together by obligation, by business, by the thin excuse of duty. I’ve spent every moment of it trying to pretend I’m in control. That nothing’s changed. That I’m still the man I was before she looked me in the eye and didn’t flinch. Before she touched my face with shaking hands and still didn’t pull away. Before she fell asleep in my house like she had any right to haunt it the way she does.

I’ve thrown myself into work with brutal efficiency. I’ve dealt with shipment issues on the docks. Broken the wrist of a rat who thought he could cut product from our supply. Arranged a cleanup for the mess left behind after the Romanian deal turned sideways.

Except, she’s still there, in my thoughts, under my skin.

A quiet presence in every room I enter, even if she’s not in it. I’ll be mid-conversation and my mind will wander—to the way her fingers curl when she sleeps, to the mark I left on her collarbone that still hasn’t faded. To the way she touches the ring on her finger like it’s some kind of curse. Like she doesn’t realize it’s the only reason she’s still breathing.

By the second night, I find myself walking past her door without meaning to. Standing outside it like a fucking idiot. Listening for movement. A breath. Anything.

I don’t go in. Not that time.

God , I want to.

The temptation to see her—to touch her again—is starting to feel less like desire and more like addiction. I’ve never allowed myself to be addicted to anything.

Not drink. Not drugs. Not people. Until now. Until her.

“You’re quiet.”

Boris’s voice cuts through the silence of my office like a knife as soon as I enter. He’s slouched in one of the armchairs near the window, a half-empty glass of vodka dangling from his fingers. His posture is casual, but his eyes are sharp, assessing.

“I’m working,” I say without looking up.

He scoffs. “No, you’re not.”

I lift my gaze, slow. “You want to say something, say it.”

He takes a long sip before answering. “You’ve been distracted since you brought her here.”

I lean back in my chair, steepling my fingers. “My business is running just fine.”

“For now.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You worried about me, Boris?”

“I’m worried about what happens when the rest of the Bratva starts thinking you’re going soft.”

I exhale through my nose, the beginnings of a smirk tugging at my mouth. “Soft?”

“You’re not the same,” he presses. “You hesitate now. You let her stay. You gave her a ring.”

“That was strategy.”

“Was it?”

“Yes,” I snap, sharper than intended. “She saw too much. Knows too much. The safest way to keep her alive—and keep us protected—is to make her untouchable. No one crosses the boss’s fiancée.”

“You could’ve put a bullet in her head and been done with it.”

“I could have,” I say, voice low. “I didn’t.”

“Why’s that?”

I don’t answer.

I don’t have one that doesn’t sound like madness.

He pushes off the chair and stands. “You want to marry her.”

It’s not a question.

I stare down the rim of my glass before I lift it and drink.

“She doesn’t want this,” I say, finally.

“Doesn’t matter. You’re not the kind of man who waits for consent.”

That makes something in me bristle. Not because it’s untrue—but because she’s different.

“I don’t want her if she hates me,” I admit, quietly. “Not like this.”

Boris tilts his head. “Didn’t stop you before.”

“It’s not the same.” I meet his gaze fully now. “I’ve been soft with her . That doesn’t mean I’ve gone soft with everything else. Business hasn’t slipped. My enemies still fear me. My men still follow orders. I’m not unraveling.”

“Yet.”

I rise from my chair, slowly. “You think I don’t know how this looks? That I haven’t weighed the consequences?”

He shrugs. “I think you’ve already made your decision. You’re just stalling. Trying to convince yourself it’s still logical.”

I pace toward the window, letting the cold glass press against my knuckles. Outside, the garden is shadowed in dusk. The guards make their rounds along the stone wall. Beyond it, the city pulses like a living thing. She’s somewhere inside this house. I know exactly where. I could be there in under a minute.

I could be in her again in under two.

Yet I’m here, stuck between the man I was and the one I’m becoming, wondering if there’s a way to want her without losing everything I’ve built.

“You should leave,” I tell him, voice quieter now.

Boris watches me for a long moment. Then he nods once, finishing his drink and setting the glass down with a heavy clink. “She’s not just a complication, Kolya. She’s a mirror. Be careful what you see in her.”

When he’s gone, I remain by the window.

The thought of her, curled up on that couch again… it undoes me. I remember the sound of her breath in the quiet. The way her eyes looked when they opened and found me there. Not pleading. Not weeping. Just burning .

I knew then—I still know now—I want to keep that fire.

I want to marry her.

The part of me that built an empire from fear and ash is still asking: what kind of king keeps a queen who might one day slit his throat in the dark?

No more stalling.

It’s been two days, and I’m done pretending I don’t need to see her.

She doesn’t see me coming.

Minutes later, I round the corner on the second floor just in time to catch the tail end of her silhouette gliding past the open archway—bare feet, soft cotton dress, hair pulled into some loose, practical twist that leaves the back of her neck exposed.

My hands curl into fists at my sides.

She’s been allowed limited freedom within the mansion for the past few days. I gave the order myself, even if I pretended it came from someone else. No more locks. No more guards breathing down her neck. Let her roam a little. Let her feel the illusion of choice.

She’s not used to the quiet yet. She moves like she’s still waiting to be cornered. Still ready to run.

A little fear keeps her sharp, but it’s the defiance she wears that keeps me coming back for more.

I follow her, silent as a ghost on the plush carpets. She slows as she reaches the end of the hall, trailing her fingers along the edge of a side table like she’s thinking about grabbing something and throwing it at the first person who startles her.

She doesn’t turn when she speaks. “I know you’re there.”

That voice—low, clipped, steady despite the tension that coils visibly in her shoulders. Always ready to strike, even when she’s standing half naked in one of my T-shirts, looking like sin carved into silk.

I close the last few feet between us in two steps.

She turns, and I press her to the wall.

The breath catches in her throat—not fear. Not surprise. Something else. The hitched exhale of a woman who’s been waiting for this.

Her back meets the wallpapered paneling with a soft thud. My hand finds her hip, the other braced beside her head. I box her in completely, and she tilts her chin up with the kind of defiance that only makes me want to ruin her more.

“You shouldn’t be walking the halls alone,” I murmur, leaning in close.

“Why?” she says, eyes narrowed. “Afraid someone might treat me the way you did?”

The jab lands. Sharp. Cutting. But I only smile.

“Afraid someone might try,” I say. “I’d have to kill them for it.”

Her gaze flickers to my mouth for half a second—then back up.

“You’re so dramatic,” she hisses. “Is that your thing? Scare everyone into obedience?”

“No,” I say softly. “Only you.”

I lean in.

She turns her face like she might dodge the kiss—but I catch her jaw in my hand, guiding her back. Her skin is warm beneath my palm, her pulse fluttering at the base of her throat. When our mouths meet, it’s not gentle.

It’s punishment. It’s possession.

She gasps into it, a sound caught between protest and need, and I take the opportunity—sliding my tongue past her lips, deepening the kiss until her nails dig into my arms. She tastes like defiance and desperation, like someone who doesn’t know whether to slap me or wrap her legs around my waist.

I want both.

I drag her hips forward, press her fully into me. She lets out a breathless moan that she clearly regrets the second it escapes.

“Shut up,” she snaps, trying to twist away.

I pin her harder. “Make me.”

Her eyes flash, mouth open, breath shallow. Our faces are inches apart now, both of us breathing like we’ve run miles to get here. The hallway is dim, empty, silent. This moment—this pressure—it vibrates between us like a wire pulled taut.

“You hate this,” I say, voice rough, “but you want it.”

“You’re delusional.”

“Say it again,” I whisper, dragging my mouth along her jaw. “Say you don’t want me.”

Her silence is a weapon.

I let it cut me open.

I kiss her again—slower this time, deeper. My hand slides beneath the hem of the oversized shirt she’s wearing, grazing bare skin. Her breath stutters. Her head tilts just slightly. Her legs shift, parting an inch before she catches herself.

That’s when I stop. If I don’t, I’ll fuck her right here in the hallway. I want more than that. I want her begging.

I step back.

Her face is flushed, lips swollen, breathing ragged. She’s furious. With herself. With me. With whatever it is we’re building between these moments of fire and silence.

“I thought you were busy,” she snaps, adjusting the shirt like it offers any kind of defense.

“I was.”

“Then go back to whatever gutter you crawled out of.”

I smirk. “You missed me.”

“Like a rash.”

I take a slow step back, giving her the space she doesn’t really want.

“Go to bed, Elise,” I say. “Before I change my mind about pulling back.”

She doesn’t move. Just glares at me with fire in her blood.

I see the way her thighs press together, and smirk.

She stays against the wall after I’ve stepped away, like she’s still feeling the ghost of my hands on her. Like part of her is waiting to see if I’ll come back.

I don’t. I watch her.

I watch the rise and fall of her chest, the redness on her throat where my mouth lingered, the way her fingers fidget at the edge of the shirt like she doesn’t know whether to cover herself or dare me to try again. That fire in her—it’s still there, still burning beneath the surface, but it’s twisted now. Tangled with something she can’t quite name.

Desire. Confusion. Rage.

It suits her.

“I should kill you,” she mutters finally, voice low, sharp, but lacking conviction.

I grin. “Then who would kiss you like that?”

Her eyes narrow. “You think this means something?”

“I know it does.”

She pushes off the wall, chin lifted, feet bare but steps steady. She walks past me like she’s won something, like she’s choosing to walk away and not fleeing from the heat still lingering on her skin.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she calls over her shoulder.

I watch the sway of her hips, the defiance in every step.

“I don’t need to,” I murmur, too quiet for her to hear. “You’re already mine.”

Even if she hates me for it—especially because she hates me for it—I know the truth.

She’ll run. She’ll fight. She’ll always burn hotter when she’s near me.

I’ll always chase the flame.