Page 11

The door clicks shut behind me, and for a moment, I can’t move.

The bedroom is quiet. Too quiet. A still, predatory silence that presses into my skin like ice. Every instinct I have screams that I shouldn’t be here—that this is a den, not a sanctuary. Andrei’s room. His space. His rules.

My steps falter as I move deeper into the chamber. The air is thick, suffocating. Heavy with leather and cologne and something darker—something that smells like power and heat and the ghosts of things I don’t want to name.

The furnishings are dark and rich. Wood so polished it gleams. Shadows stretch along the walls, soft and consuming.

A fire crackles in the hearth, the only warmth in a room built like a cage.

I catch my reflection in the mirror above the fireplace—white gown, pale skin, eyes wide and too green. I look like a ghost.

Then I see the bed.

It’s massive, draped in black sheets and framed in cold iron. It’s the centerpiece of the room, the only thing that truly matters here. And I can’t look away from it.

My stomach twists. Everything in me recoils, panic fluttering against my ribs like a bird trapped in wire. This is real. The ceremony. The ring still snug around my finger. The vows. My silence.

I am alone. With him.

My father—my father is somewhere behind a locked door. Bleeding. Starving. Paying a price for sins I never saw, never imagined. I should hate him. Part of me does, but I would’ve given anything to keep him from the wreckage he became today.

The floor creaks behind me. I flinch.

The door groans open, and Andrei steps inside.

His presence fills the room. He doesn’t speak at first, just watches me from the doorway, his eyes gleaming in the firelight, his expression unreadable.

I try to keep my breath even, my hands still. But I feel it—that instinctual shiver running down my spine, every nerve tightening as his gaze drags over me.

He smirks. “Scared?” he murmurs.

I say nothing.

He moves toward me, slow and deliberate, each step a calculated promise. His suit jacket is gone. He’s unbuttoned the top of his shirt. The tie is gone too. He looks… casual. Relaxed.

Like he’s waited for it.

I back away without meaning to, one step, then another, until the backs of my knees hit the edge of the bed.

He stops just in front of me, eyes locked on mine.

Then he reaches out.

His fingers grip my chin, tilting my face up to his. The pressure is firm, not cruel. But it’s a reminder—I’m his now. Bound by a name I never asked for. Caged in silk and ceremony.

“Don’t look away,” he says, voice low.

I try not to, but the way he looks at me—hungry, possessive, like I’m something he intends to consume—makes my insides twist. My breath hitches. My shoulders tense.

He sees it all. Drinks in the fear I try to bury.

“I thought you’d scream,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing across my cheek. “Beg. Fight.”

I force my voice out. “Would it matter?”

“No.” His hand falls away. “It would’ve been entertaining.”

I hate how calm he is. How in control. Like this is just another move on a chessboard he’s already won. He doesn’t need to force me—not physically. Not tonight. Because he knows the fear is enough.

He steps back, unhurried, and pours himself a drink from the bar near the window. The sound of the liquid hitting crystal is sharp in the silence. He doesn’t offer me any.

I stand there, fists clenched at my sides, still in my gown. Still frozen.

He watches me over the rim of his glass.

“You stood up there today,” he says, swirling the amber liquid. “Lied to them all. Lied to me. Said you were happy.”

I lift my chin. “You wanted a performance.”

He takes a sip, then shrugs. “You gave one. Almost convincing.”

I can’t tell if he’s mocking me or admiring me. Maybe both.

He sets the glass down and moves toward me again, slower this time, circling like a predator waiting for the right angle to strike.

I don’t move. I can’t.

“Why did you do it?” he asks, his voice quieter now. “Why protect him?”

I stare straight ahead. “Someone had to.”

He hums, like my answer pleases him. Or maybe it just amuses him. He reaches out again. This time, his fingers graze my collarbone, light as a whisper.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, and for a moment, it almost sounds sincere.

His touch lingers at the edge of my collarbone, warm and steady, and I hold my breath like that might somehow stop time from unraveling further.

His fingers skim upward, over the hollow of my throat, to the soft curve of my jaw.

Every part of me is wound tight, nerves singing, skin burning beneath silk and lace.

He’s studying me like I’m a map he’s memorized but still enjoys tracing.

When his hand slips lower—across my arm, to my waist—I flinch. It’s not violent. It’s not hurried. It’s deliberate. Possessive. Like he’s reminding me, not only of what’s changed, but of what’s to come.

My voice escapes before I can catch it. “I’ve never… had sex before.”

The words are barely audible, but they land like thunder between us.

Every line of his body goes rigid. His hand halts at my hip, fingers twitching slightly, and then he pulls back just enough to meet my eyes fully. His gaze darkens—less with shock, more with something else. Something greedy. Triumphant. Almost reverent.

His smile spreads slowly. “That’s good. Better, even,” he murmurs, his voice low, thick with satisfaction.

I hate the way my body reacts. The flush in my cheeks. The stutter of my heart. The way my lips part involuntarily beneath his stare.

His thumb brushes my lower lip, slow and deliberate, like he’s already imagining all the ways he’ll teach me to obey, to yield, to crave.

“You’ve been untouched,” he says, more to himself than to me. “All this time… as if you’ve been holding out for me.”

I should slap him. Scream. Fight.

I can’t move. Not because I’m frozen with fear—but because something in me refuses to give him the satisfaction of running.

He leans in close. So close his breath brushes my ear.

“But not tonight.”

My stomach twists.

His hand slips away from my waist, trailing over my hip, then gone entirely. I’m left standing there, aching with tension, heat curling low in my belly. The air between us sizzles with something more dangerous than violence—anticipation.

“Why?” I whisper, before I can stop myself.

He smiles again, a devil’s grin. “Waiting makes it more delicious.”

He turns away like it costs him nothing. Unbothered. Confident.

He could have taken whatever he wanted. Could’ve ripped the rest of the silk from my body and ruined me right then and there.

I stand alone in the center of the room, skin flushed, chest heaving. My heart slams against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. I can still feel his thumb on my lip, his breath on my ear, the cruel patience in his eyes.

I felt it too. Not just the fear. Not just the dread.

Something lower. Warmer. A tension that refuses to settle.

My skin still tingles from his touch, and every inch of me aches with the unspent energy of something that never fully ignited.

It terrifies me how much I noticed him. How my body didn’t recoil when it should have.

I cross the room slowly, each step feeling heavier than the last, and sit on the edge of the massive bed. The sheets are smooth beneath my fingertips. The room smells like him—amber and smoke and spice. I press my thighs together, ashamed of the heat still lingering between them.

My hands tremble.

I hate this. I hate that he’s gotten into my head so quickly, so easily. But part of me knows that’s the danger of restraint—it leaves more room for imagination. And he knows exactly what he’s doing.

I sit on the edge of the bed, the silence stretching taut around me.

The fire still burns low in the hearth, casting shadows across the dark wood and iron that frame the room.

The heat of his touch hasn’t faded. My skin still tingles where he held me, where his breath had brushed my neck, where his thumb had dragged over my lower lip like a promise.

Andrei crosses the room in slow, even steps. He doesn’t speak. He stops in front of me.

I lift my gaze, heart hammering as our eyes meet. He says nothing. Just watches me like he’s still memorizing something I don’t know I’m showing.

Then he bends.

His hand finds my jaw again, thumb stroking beneath my chin, lifting it gently. His other hand rests on my thigh, warm and firm through the silk. I inhale sharply.

His mouth finds mine.

It’s not soft. It’s not brutal either. It’s deliberate—measured. Like he’s savoring it. Testing the way I respond. His lips part mine with quiet certainty, and my body betrays me. My mouth opens. My pulse stutters. I lean into him before I realize I’ve moved.

The kiss deepens, his palm sliding along my cheek, into my hair, and the faintest groan rumbles in his chest—low and satisfied. The sound slides through me like molten glass.

My legs shift. My breath catches. Heat spirals low and sharp inside me, and I hate how easily it comes. How easy it is to want in the face of everything I should fear.

He pulls back slowly, his lips lingering against mine for a second longer, and when our eyes meet again, something in his has changed. It’s darker now. Possessive. But not wild.

Controlled.

Andrei studies me for another moment, then straightens. “Get some sleep,” he says, voice low, smooth.

I blink. “You’re leaving?”

“For a little while.” He turns, reaching for his jacket draped over the arm of a nearby chair. “Dima and I have things to discuss.”

Something tightens in my chest. I don’t know why. Maybe I thought he’d stay. That he’d at least sit beside me longer. That he’d press his hand over the racing beat in my chest and feel what he’s done to me.

“You’re just going to leave me here,” I say, trying to keep my voice even.

He glances over his shoulder, that smirk playing again at the corners of his mouth. “Yes.”

My jaw clenches. “That’s it?”

“No,” he says, moving toward the door. “I’ll be back tonight.” He opens it, then pauses. Looks at me again. “When I return,” he adds, his voice like silk over something sharp, “we’ll share the bed.”

I sit straighter, pulse jolting. “What? You said—”

“No sex,” he says. “Not tonight.”

My breath stutters.

“I won’t sleep alone anymore,” he continues. “Neither will you, but sleep is all I demand.”

He steps out, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

Just like that, I’m left in the firelight again—flushed, breathless, aching, and alone.