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CHAPTER SIX

Doran

The elevator descends in silence, her hand still in mine.

She hasn't pulled away—that's something.

The champagne she was drinking with the ladies has given her a soft glow, lowered the walls she usually keeps up.

Her pulse flutters against my fingers where they rest on her wrist, rapid like a trapped bird.

"You're staring," she says without looking at me.

"You're worth staring at."

She turns then, meeting my eyes in the mirrored wall. "Is that a line?"

"It's the truth."

The elevator opens before she can respond, releasing us into the hotel's marble lobby.

Late enough that most guests have retired, leaving only the night staff and a few stragglers.

A woman in an evening gown stumbles past on the arm of a man in a rumpled tuxedo, both laughing at some private joke.

Normal people living normal lives, unaware that an heir to the Bratva is walking past with his arranged bride.

I guide her toward the bar, aware of every point of contact between us.

Her skin is warm through the thin fabric of her shirt, and I can feel the slight tremor in her muscles—nervousness or anticipation, I’m not sure.

The bar is dimly lit, all dark wood and leather, designed for secrets and deals that can't happen in daylight.

The bartender recognizes me—of course he does.

I've been here enough times for business meetings that end in someone owing me favors or their life.

But tonight isn't about business.

"Your usual, Mr. Volkolv?"

"Yes. And for the lady..."

"Whiskey," Revna says, surprising me. "Neat."

I raise an eyebrow as we slide into a corner booth—my preferred spot with clear sightlines to all exits.

Something you’re trained when you’re this important.

"Were you expecting wine?" she asks, reading my expression. "Something more feminine?"

"I wasn't expecting anything. You're consistently unpredictable."

"Says the man who's been watching me for five years." But there's no venom in it tonight, just curiosity.

I think the alcohol has helped open her up a bit. "Why surveillance? Why not just... talk to me?"

The question I've been dreading and hoping for at the same time.

Our drinks arrive, giving me a moment to consider my answer.

The whiskey is good—aged eighteen years, smooth enough to sip but with enough burn to remind you it's there.

"I didn't know how," I admit, the alcohol burning away. "When I first saw you. You weren’t even a legal adult, telling your father to fuck off in front of a room full of killers. I'd never seen anything like it."

"So you decided to stalk me?"

"I decided to wait. But waiting turned into watching. Watching turned into..." I gesture vaguely at the space between us. "This."

"This being an arranged marriage you orchestrated?"

"This being the only way I knew to keep you.

" I take another drink, letting the whiskey courage wash through me. "And for the record, I didn’t orchestrate this marriage. That was something our fathers did. I’ll be brutally honest with you, I'm not good at normal, Revna.

I was raised to take what I want, eliminate obstacles, control every outcome I could.

No one ever taught me how to just... ask a girl out. "

She laughs—actually laughs—and the sound hits me hard.

It's not the polite laugh she gave my mother earlier, or the nervous one from the parking lot.

This is real, unguarded, beautiful.

"You bought someone a horse."

"Christ, Rhiannon really went all in with the embarrassing stories." I run a hand through my hair, a gesture that makes me feel young as hell. "I was sixteen. She mentioned liking horses once, in passing. I thought?—"

"You thought buying her an Arabian was a reasonable response?"

"I thought it would show I was paying attention. That I could provide." I meet her eyes, letting her see the truth of it. "Instead, it showed I was the weird kid with too much money and no concept of normal human interaction."

"What happened to her? The girl?"

"Rebecca Marsh. Transferred schools within a week. Probably still tells the story at parties." I signal for another round, needing the liquid courage. "My father was going to return the horse, but we ended up keeping it at the family stables. The Mackenzie side, we’re very into horses."

"Were you?"

"Maybe a little." The admission surprises us both. "I've never been good at the space between wanting and having. It's not how I was raised."

"But you're not normal people."

"No. And neither are you." I lean forward, drawn by some invisible force. "Which is why this might actually work out between us."

She's quiet for a moment, studying me like she's seeing me for the first time.

Maybe she is.

The Doran who buys horses and doesn't know how to talk to girls is different from the one who kills without question.

"You knew about Njal," she says suddenly. The name is a blade between ribs, but I don't flinch. "Watched me be with someone else for two years."

"Yes."

"How did that feel?"

The question deserves honesty. "Like watching someone else live the life I wanted."

The words come out raw, unfiltered. "Every time he touched you, every night you spent in his apartment, every morning he got to wake up beside you—it was torture."

"Then why didn't you stop it? You stopped thirteen others."

"Because you chose him to burn the time away with." I finish my drink, needing the burn. "The others were possibilities. He was your choice. There's a difference."

"Is there? Or did you just like watching?" There's an edge to her voice now, but also genuine curiosity.

"I hated every second of it," I admit. "But I watched because I couldn't look away. Because even seeing you happy with someone else was better than not seeing you at all."

"That's..." She pauses, searching for words. "Either romantic or deeply disturbing."

"Both," I agree. "Most things about me are."

"You're not what I expected," she says softly, and there's something in her voice that makes my chest tight.

"Neither are you."

We've moved closer without realizing it.

She's playing with the wolf charm on her keys, an unconscious gesture that draws my attention to her hands.

I know those hands—have watched them take notes in class, gesture when she talks, grip a coffee cup like a lifeline during finals.

But I don't know how they feel on my skin.

"What happens after?" she asks, breaking into my thoughts. "After the wedding, after I finish law school, after the duty is done?"

"What do you want to happen?"

She turns it back on me, lawyer-sharp, even tipsy. "What do you want, Doran? Really want, not what your father expects or what the business demands. What do you want?"

The question strips me bare.

No one's ever asked me that—not in a way that mattered.

My whole life has been about duty, legacy, taking over the empire my father built.

Personal wants were luxuries I couldn't afford.

"You," I say simply. "I want Sunday mornings without surveillance reports. I want to know what makes you laugh without having to read it in a file. I want to buy you things because you'll smile, not because I'm marking territory. I want..." I stop, already too exposed.

"What?"

"I want you to choose me. Not because of this arrangement or the alliance, but because you want to."

She's quiet for a long moment, processing this.

The bar is nearly empty now, just us and the ghosts of conversations that happen after midnight.

Somewhere in the background, jazz plays softly—something smooth and sultry that fits the mood.

"You scare me," she admits finally.

"I know."

"Not just the violence or the control. You scare me because I can see how easy it would be to lose myself in you. To become another possession in your collection."

"You could never be just a possession." I reach across the table, give her the choice to take my hand or not. She does. "You're too much yourself for that."

"Am I? Or is that just what you tell yourself to justify how much you’ve watched me?"

"Both," I admit again. "I'm not going to lie to you, Revna. I am possessive. I do want to own you. But I also want you to own me back. Equally. Completely."

The bar announces last call, the bartender's voice apologetic but firm.

We're both drunk enough that the edges of the world have gone soft, inhibitions dissolved in whiskey and truth.

Her lipstick is mostly gone, worn away by the glass, and there's a flush to her cheeks that makes me want to trace it with my fingertips.

"I should get you home," I say, though it's the last thing I want.

"I don't want to go home."

The words hang between us, loaded with what could possibly happen tonight.

"Revna—"

"I know what I'm saying." She meets my eyes, and there's heat there that has nothing to do with alcohol. "Do you?"

"You've been drinking."

"So have you." She slides out of the booth, steady, even though she has drunk quite a bit. "I'm making a choice, Doran. Don't insult me by pretending I'm not capable of it."

I stand, towering over her even in her heels. "If we do this?—"

"If we do this, it's because I want to. Not because of Njal or revenge or too much alcohol. Because I want to know who you are when you're not watching from a distance."

"You might not like what you find."

"I'll take that risk."

I pay the tab—overtipping as always, because money is nothing compared to discretion—and follow her to the elevator.

Every step feels like crossing a bridge that's already burning behind us.

There's no going back from this, no pretending it didn't happen.

She presses the button for the penthouse without asking which floor.

The ride up is charged with heat between us.

She hasn't let go of my hand, and I can feel her pulse racing where our wrists touch.

The elevator seems to take forever, each floor marking another step toward something irreversible.

"Still sure?" I ask as we near the top.

"Stop asking." She turns to face me fully. "I'm not some fragile flower you're corrupting. I'm making a choice. Respect it."