Page 16

The drive home feels longer than usual, the rhythmic hum of the engine doing little to quiet my thoughts. Work had been the usual chaos—negotiations, threats, deals to finalize—but through it all, my mind kept circling back to her.

Hannah.

This marriage was never meant to mean anything. It was a necessity, a solution to a problem I didn’t ask for but refused to ignore. Yet, every day since we exchanged vows, I’ve felt… different.

I think of her too often, more than I care to admit. Her sharp tongue, the fire in her eyes, the way she softens when she thinks no one’s watching. She’s stubborn, infuriating, and utterly captivating.

I want to see her face the moment I walk through the door. I want her in my bed every night, tangled in my sheets, her body pressed against mine.

The thought irritates me, makes me grip the steering wheel tighter. She’s not supposed to affect me like this.

When I pull into the driveway, something feels off. The mansion looms as it always does, its grand facade untouched, but the tension in the air is palpable.

One of my men jogs up to meet me as I step out of the car, his face drawn with urgency.

“Sir,” he says, his voice low. “We’ve got an intruder in the house.”

The words hit like a blow, my body immediately tensing. “Where?”

“The west wing,” he answers. “Second-floor study. We’re containing the area.”

I don’t wait for more. Shoving past him, I make my way inside, my boots pounding against the polished floors as I head toward the commotion. Adrenaline courses through me, sharpening my focus.

When I reach the study, two more guards stand by the door, their weapons drawn. One looks at me, his expression cautious. “Sir, we—”

I don’t let him finish. I push the door open with enough force to send it slamming against the wall, the noise reverberating through the room.

The intruder is there, lurking in the shadows, his figure partially obscured by the dim light. In his hand, the glint of steel—a knife, raised and ready.

The air is thick with tension, every muscle in my body coiled like a spring as I step further into the room. The man’s eyes meet mine, dark and wild, a predator cornered but still dangerous. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t flinch, his knife steady in his grip.

I take another step, my gun raised, my aim trained on his center mass. “You’ve made a mistake,” I say, my voice cold and steady.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he lunges.

The movement is quick, but not quick enough. I sidestep, pivoting sharply as his blade slices through the air inches from my side. My elbow drives into his ribs with force, the impact sending him stumbling back.

The knife gleams again as he recovers, his stance shifting as he prepares to attack once more. He’s trained, I realize. Not a desperate thief, but someone sent here with a purpose.

My jaw tightens.

“You came into the wrong house,” I growl, my voice low and venomous.

He snarls, charging again, and this time I meet him head-on. My hand grabs his wrist, twisting sharply until the knife clatters to the floor. His other hand comes up, a fist aiming for my jaw, but I block it with ease, my grip tightening on his arm until I hear the pop of a dislocated shoulder.

He cries out, his voice raw, but I don’t stop. My knee drives into his stomach, doubling him over, and I follow it with a brutal strike to the back of his head.

He goes down, hitting the floor hard, but he’s still moving, his hands scrambling for the knife.

Not a chance.

I kick it across the room, the blade skidding out of reach, and grab him by the collar, hauling him to his knees. Blood drips from a cut on his temple, his breath coming in ragged gasps, but his defiance remains.

“Who sent you?” I demand, my voice sharp and unrelenting.

He spits at my feet, his lips curling into a bloody sneer. “You think you’re untouchable, Sharov?” he snarls.

My fist collides with his jaw before he can say another word, the impact snapping his head back.

“You’ll tell me who sent you,” I say, my tone deathly calm.

“I’d rather die,” he spits, his voice defiant even through the pain.

“So be it.”

I release him, letting him crumple to the floor, and reach for my gun. The weight of it in my hand is familiar, comforting, as I take aim once more.

“Wait!” a voice cries out, and my focus shifts instantly.

Hannah.

She’s in the corner, pale and trembling, her wide eyes locked on the scene before her. A kitchen knife is clutched tightly in her hands, her knuckles white from the force of her grip.

“Stay there,” I bark, my tone sharper than I intend.

The intruder takes advantage of my momentary distraction, lunging for me with surprising speed. I pivot, narrowly avoiding his grasp, and fire.

The shot echoes through the room, the bullet finding its mark with precision. The man collapses, his body hitting the floor with a sickening thud, and the knife he’d been reaching for spins out of reach.

Silence falls, thick and suffocating, broken only by the sound of my heavy breathing.

I turn immediately, my gaze locking on Hannah. She’s frozen in place, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her eyes fixed on the lifeless body sprawled on the floor.

“Hannah,” I say, my voice softer now as I take a cautious step toward her.

She doesn’t respond, her grip on the knife tightening.

“Hannah,” I repeat, crouching down in front of her. “It’s over.”

Her gaze finally shifts to mine, her eyes glassy with shock. “He… he was going to kill me,” she whispers, her voice trembling.

“He didn’t,” I reply firmly. “Because I stopped him.”

Her breathing is shallow, her knuckles still white around the handle of the knife. I reach out slowly, careful not to startle her.

“Give me the knife,” I say gently. “You don’t need it anymore.”

For a moment, she doesn’t move, her grip unyielding. Then, slowly, her fingers loosen, and the blade slips from her hands to clatter against the floor.

“Are you hurt?” I ask, scanning her for any signs of injury.

She shakes her head, but the fear in her eyes doesn’t fade.

I exhale quietly, relief washing over me despite the lingering tension in my chest. Someone dared to come into my home, to threaten her.

My wife.

The thought sends a surge of fury through me, and I glance back at the fallen intruder, my jaw clenching. This was a warning, a message meant to unsettle me. But they made a mistake targeting her.

They’ll learn what happens when someone tries to harm what’s mine.

“Hannah,” I say, my voice softer as I turn back to her.

Her gaze is locked on the body again, her shoulders trembling. I reach out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. The touch seems to ground her, her wide eyes flicking back to mine.

“You’re safe now,” I tell her, the words carrying more weight than I expect. “I promise.”

Hannah blinks, her wide, terrified gaze shifting from the lifeless body on the floor to me. Her breathing is uneven, her lips parted as though she wants to say something but can’t quite form the words.

I crouch lower, my eyes locked on hers.

Her eyes flicker to the blade as though she’s only just remembered she’s holding it. Her grip loosens slightly, but she hesitates. For a moment, I think she’ll cling to it like a lifeline. Then her fingers slowly unfurl, letting the knife slip free.

I take it gently, setting it aside on the floor. Her hands fall limply into her lap, the tension bleeding out of her like air escaping a punctured balloon.

“Hey,” I say again, quieter this time, my voice carrying a steadiness I hope she feels.

She doesn’t respond, her body frozen, her breathing still shallow. Her gaze drops to her hands, trembling against her thighs.

Seeing her like this—a woman so full of fire now reduced to this trembling, vulnerable state—stirs something deep in me.

Something I don’t recognize.

Something I don’t want to recognize.

Without thinking, I reach out, my hand resting on her shoulder. Her body flinches slightly at the contact, but she doesn’t pull away.

“You’re safe now,” I say, the words quiet but resolute. “It’s over.”

She doesn’t answer, but her eyes lift slowly to meet mine. There’s fear there, yes, but also confusion.

I squeeze her shoulder lightly, grounding her, letting her feel my steady presence. For a moment, I consider pulling her closer, holding her until that fear subsides. I imagine wrapping my arms around her, letting her feel something more than the cold, detached protection I’ve offered so far.

I hold back.

Instead, my hand lingers on her shoulder, firm but impersonal, before I let it fall.

“We need to get you out of here,” I say, straightening to my full height. My tone is more commanding now, an anchor for both of us. “Come on.”

She stares at me for a beat longer, her brows furrowing slightly. Then she nods, her movements stiff and mechanical as she stands. I guide her toward the doorway, keeping my body close to hers, shielding her from the grisly scene behind us.

As we step into the hallway, the tension in her frame remains, her steps hesitant and unsure.

“You didn’t have to kill him,” she says suddenly, her voice breaking the silence.

My jaw tightens, but I don’t stop walking. “Yes, I did,” I reply, my tone firm. “He was a threat.”

“To me,” she whispers, her voice trembling.

“To both of us,” I correct, glancing down at her. “This wasn’t random, Hannah. That man wasn’t here by accident.”

Her lips press into a thin line, and she doesn’t argue.

When we reach the sitting room, I guide her to the couch, motioning for her to sit. She does, her movements slow and reluctant.

I stand before her, my arms crossed, scanning her for any signs of injury. I step closer, crouching in front of her again.

“Hannah, listen to me,” I say, my voice low but firm. “I know this is overwhelming, but you’re safe now. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Her eyes lift to mine, and for a moment, there’s something raw and unguarded in her expression. “Why do you care?” she whispers.

The question catches me off guard, but I don’t let it show. “Because you’re my wife,” I answer simply. “Because you’re carrying my child.”

She flinches slightly at the reminder, her hand brushing against her stomach almost instinctively.

“This is what it means to be with me, Hannah,” I continue, my tone softening slightly. “I protect what’s mine. Always.”

Her lips part, as though she wants to respond, but no words come. Instead, she nods faintly, her shoulders sagging as the adrenaline begins to fade.

I rise to my feet, glancing toward the hallway where the body still lies. My men will deal with it—clean up the mess, remove the evidence. But the lingering threat… that’s something I’ll handle myself.

For now, though, my focus is on her.

“You should rest,” I say, my voice gentler now. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

She hesitates, her gaze flicking to mine, then nods again.

As I turn to leave, she calls out softly, “Makar.”

I pause, glancing back over my shoulder.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

The gratitude in her eyes is tentative, uncertain, but it stirs something in me nonetheless.

I nod once, saying nothing as I walk away.

The threat is gone, but the war is far from over. More than ever, I’m certain of one thing: I’ll destroy anyone who dares to come near her again.