Page 22 of Crystal Wrath (Rostov Bratva #1)

The calmness in his tone only fuels my frustration. How can he be so controlled when everything in my world has been turned upside down? How can he stand there looking perfectly composed while I feel like I'm coming apart at the seams?

My jaw tightens as I struggle to find words that don't sound petulant. “What's in the west wing?”

His eyes shift just for a second. The reaction is so brief I almost miss it, but there's something there. A crack in the perfect facade. “Rooms that don't concern you.”

That tells me everything and nothing. The non-answer is more revealing than any detailed explanation would have been. Whatever he keeps in that part of the house matters to him.

I nod once, sharp and short, and turn away from his penetrating stare. “Fine. Anything else, Warden?”

His mouth twitches like he might smile, but he doesn't. The expression disappears so quickly I wonder if I imagined it. “Dinner is at eight. Don't be late.”

Then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft but definitive click. The sound seems to echo in the sudden silence, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the oppressive grandeur that surrounds me.

An hour passes in silence. I shower in a bathroom that's larger than most bedrooms, with marble everywhere and fixtures that cost more than my car.

The water pressure is perfect, the temperature is exactly right, and there are more towels than one person could possibly use.

Expensive toiletries line the shelves, brands I recognize from magazine advertisements but have never been able to afford.

Everything smells like lavender and money.

I change into a simple gray dress that I find hanging in the walk-in closet, along with an entire wardrobe in exactly my size.

The fabric is softer than anything I own, likely cashmere or another material I'm unfamiliar with.

It hugs my body more closely than I'm used to, emphasizing curves I usually try to downplay with looser clothing.

The hemline falls just above my knees, professional but with an edge of sensuality.

How does he know my measurements? When did he have time to arrange all this? The questions multiply, but I have no answers.

I stare out at the bay as the sun begins its descent, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that would be breathtaking under different circumstances.

The view is stunning, framed by perfectly manicured gardens that transition seamlessly into a natural landscape.

Exotic birds call from hidden perches, their voices the only sounds that penetrate the silence.

Palm trees sway gently in the evening breeze, their fronds creating shifting patterns of shadow and light.

It's a beautiful view. And yet, every corner is a reminder that this world is not mine. Not the high-thread-count sheets. Not the gleaming fixtures. Not the artwork that belongs in museums. And definitely not the man who owns it all.

But he intrigues me. And that's the problem.

When I emerge at exactly 7:58, he is already waiting in the dining room.

The space has undergone a transformation since I last glimpsed it.

The chandelier above the table glows with warm light, spilling golden illumination over walls lined with oil paintings.

The long table is set for two, and the silverware is aligned with surgical precision.

Every piece gleams under the light, and I can tell without touching them that they're real silver, heavy, and substantial.

A bottle of red wine breathes on the sideboard, and two crystal glasses glint beside our plates like captured stars.

Renat stands as I enter, the movement fluid and automatic.

He's changed into a midnight-blue dress shirt that molds to him like a second skin.

The collar is unbuttoned just enough to be intentional, revealing a triangle of skin at his throat and hinting at a tattoo.

The combination should look severe, but instead, it emphasizes his masculine beauty in ways that make my breath catch.

“You're punctual,” he observes, his voice carrying that same controlled tone that gives nothing away.

“You told me not to be late.”

His lips twitch again, not quite a smile, before he gestures toward the chair beside him, angled just enough that I’ll be close yet still facing him directly. “Sit.”

I do, but not because he told me to. Because I want answers.

The chair is perfectly comfortable and sized to support my frame without being too large or too small. Another detail that suggests careful planning.

Dinner arrives moments later, not by a server, but on covered trays left discreetly outside the door, like room service for royalty.

The arrangements suggest the staff know how to remain invisible, providing service without intrusion.

Renat uncovers grilled sea bass that flakes perfectly under the silver serving utensil, truffle risotto that fills the air with earthy richness, and asparagus wrapped in prosciutto so thin it's nearly transparent.

The aroma is decadent, rich with herbs, wine, and expensive ingredients that I can identify by scent alone.

I haven't eaten all day, but the tension between us tightens my stomach into knots.

Every movement he makes is controlled and precise, from the way he removes the silver covers to how he arranges the serving pieces.

There is something mesmerizing about watching him perform these simple tasks with such intense focus.

“You have a chef,” I murmur, trying to break the silence. “Of course you do.”

“Of course I do,” he echoes, his tone suggesting that the idea of not having personal staff is foreign to him. He fills our glasses with the wine, something expensive judging by the care with which he handles the bottle and raises his toward me in a gesture that seems formal and intimate.

“To survival.”

I clink mine against his, the crystal humming between us with a pure, clear note that lingers in the air. “To truth.”

He drinks. I don't.

I'm watching him too closely, studying the way his throat moves as he swallows, the slight furrow of his brow as he processes my toast. He's thinking about something. Or calculating. There's always something happening behind those dark eyes that I can't see or understand.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask softly. “Tell me the truth.”

He meets my eyes, his gaze steady and unwavering. “You already know the answer.”

“Do I?”

He leans forward slightly, setting his glass aside with deliberate care.

The movement brings him closer, and I catch another hint of his cologne mixed with something warmer, more personal.

“You're stubborn. Brave. You dug into things that weren't meant to be uncovered. You got too close. And now, the most dangerous man in Miami wants you dead.”

“And you're not dangerous?”

His gaze sharpens, and for a moment, I see something predatory shimmer behind his controlled exterior. “I never claimed I wasn't.”

There's a pause of silence as the implication sinks in.

The candlelight flickers between us, painting his features in soft gold and hard shadow.

He looks beautiful and lethal. A man who could break me open with a single touch or destroy me with a single word.

The combination is intoxicating and terrifying in equal measures.

“Who is allowed in the west wing?” I murmur, testing the waters.

His expression doesn't change, but I sense a subtle shift in his posture. “Just me.”

“It's locked.”

“Yes.”

I set my fork down slowly, the silver ringing softly against the fine china. “What's in there?”

“Things that matter to me,” he replies, sipping his wine with deliberate casualness. “Things I don't share.”

That stings more than it should. The casual dismissal, the way he shuts down my curiosity without explanation. “You trust me enough to bring me here but not enough to let me know what's behind one door?”

He lifts an eyebrow, the expression questioning yet mocking. “You're alive, aren't you?”

“That's not the same as trust.”

“No,” he admits quietly, his voice dropping to a tone I haven't heard before. “It's not.”

I stare at him, searching for cracks in the armor. But there are none. Just a fortress built of secrets and power and a past I'm only beginning to understand. Every answer he gives me leads to more questions. Every revelation only deepens the mystery of who he really is.

“Why do you care what happens to me?” I ask, the question escaping before I can stop it.

His eyes drop to my mouth, lingering there for a heartbeat, then back up to meet my gaze. “Because I do.”

That should be enough. But it's not.

The non-answer frustrates me more than outright lies would. At least lies would give me something to work with, something to unravel. This careful neutrality, this refusal to reveal anything real about himself, makes me feel like I'm shadowboxing with smoke.

I rise from my seat, the movement sharp and decisive. The chair scrapes slightly against the polished floor. “Goodnight, Renat.”

I turn without waiting for permission or approval, my heart pounding louder than the click of my shoes across the floor. Behind me, he doesn't call my name. He doesn't stop me. Doesn't protest my abrupt departure.

But I feel his gaze burning into my back long after I've left the room, following me down the hallway like a physical touch. And I know this game between us is far from over.