Page 141 of His Forced Bride

"Smart man."

He presses kisses to the side of my neck, and I lean into them.

"He had his moments."

I mix the batter while Yuri heats the pan, and for a few precious minutes, we exist as nothing more than a couple making breakfast together.

He tells me about the books he was reading before Dominic and Batya were killed—military history.

And I describe the design collection I was working on before everything fell apart, evening gowns inspired by winter landscapes that will probably never see production.

If those designs are even still in my office or what's left of it.

"You could start over," he says as I pour batter into the pan.

"After this is finished with your mother. Build something new."

"Would you let me?"

"You're not my prisoner, Inessa. You're my wife. The measures I've taken to protect you won't always exist. Only as long as the threat exists."

His touch is tender as he pulls away to fill two mugs with coffee as the machine finishes brewing.

He leans on the counter and scrolls his phone while I finish cooking and plating our breakfast as I imagine what life could really be like with Yuri as my husband.

He's incredible when it comes to making my body feel sexual pleasure, but what does a man his age know about caring for a woman so young?

I wonder if he would end up treating me like a child.

Something about it doesn’t feel right, but when I look at him while we eat, all I can see is a man who deeply cares about my wellbeing.

Perhaps he loves me, even though he won't admit it.

This is what normal could feel between us—him sitting opposite me for breakfast and dinner, coming home and telling me about his day.

Me sharing my designs and hosting dinner parties for him and his guests.

I could see us being happy—if happiness is ever achievable when your heart is grieving so desperately.

The illusion shatters when his phone rings.

Yuri's entire demeanor changes the moment he sees the caller ID.

The relaxed man who'd been enjoying his pancakes disappears, replaced by the cold strategist I know so well.

He answers with a curt greeting and listens as whoever's on the other end delivers their report.

I watch his jaw tighten, see the way his free hand curls into a fist on the table.

Whatever he's hearing isn't good news.

"When?" he finally asks.

I'm sitting on the edge of my seat as I strain to hear his caller's voice.

His eyes find mine across the table, and I see apology there mixed with rage.

"No. Don't move yet. I'll handle this personally."