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CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Revna

I wake to the feeling of being watched.

Not the creepy, invasive kind—though I should probably be concerned that I can now differentiate types of watching.

Sunlight streams through the honeymoon suite's floor-to-ceiling windows, painting golden stripes across Egyptian cotton sheets that probably cost more than my monthly rent.

Former rent, because I'm married now.

Doran sits propped against the headboard, coffee in hand, studying me with those intense eyes.

He's shirtless, sheet pooled at his waist, looking like every dangerous fantasy I've ever had.

"Morning," I mumble into the pillow.

"Afternoon, actually." He sets his coffee on the nightstand. "You slept like the dead."

"Wonder why." I stretch, feeling deliciously sore in all the right places. "Someone kept me up half the night."

"Someone's wife was very demanding."

The word 'wife' sends a thrill I didn’t expect through me. "How long have you been awake?"

"A few hours." He traces patterns on my bare shoulder. "Couldn't sleep. Too much to think about."

"Like?"

"Like the fact that you're actually here. That yesterday wasn't a dream." His hand stills. "That you chose this."

I sit up, holding the sheet to my chest even though he's seen my body a million times already. "Did you think I wouldn't?"

"After the mall? After Bembe?" He shrugs. "I wasn't certain of anything."

"But you were so confident?—"

"I'm good at pretending." He pulls me against him. "But watching you walk down that aisle, knowing you could have run... Rev, I've never been more terrified in my life."

"The great Doran Volkolv, terrified?"

"Only of losing you."

We sit in silence, me tucked against his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

It's oddly domestic for two people whose relationship started with borderline stalking and arranged marriage.

"We need to talk," I say eventually. "Actually talk, not just fuck our problems away."

"I know." He kisses the top of my head. "Breakfast first? The hotel sent up enough food for an army."

Twenty minutes later, we're on the suite's private balcony, wrapped in plush robes and working through an obscene spread of food.

The city sprawls below us, but we're high enough that it feels removed from reality.

"So," I say, spreading jam on a croissant. "Ground rules."

"Straight to business?"

"Would you prefer small talk about the weather?"

"Fair point." He leans back in his chair. "What kind of ground rules?"

"First, no more surveillance on me. I'm your wife, not your asset."

"Done."

I blink. "Just like that?"

"I trust you to tell me if you're in danger. And you'll have security when needed, but no more tracking your every move." He sips his coffee. "Next?"

"Major decisions get made together. Both of us, equal vote."

"Agreed."

"I'm serious, Doran. No more inviting cartel leaders to our events, no more deciding who's a threat without consulting me?—"

"I said agreed." He reaches across the table, takes my hand. "I heard you, Rev. Partners, not possessions."

"Why do I feel like there's a 'but' coming?"

"No 'but.' Just an 'and.'" He squeezes my fingers. "And you have to actually let me protect you when there's real danger. No running off to prove a point when someone's threatening to kill you."

"That's fair." I study our joined hands—his scarred from violence, mine still soft from a life that's been relatively protected. "What about living arrangements?"

"About that." He looks almost nervous. "I've already given the hotel notice on the penthouse."

"You what?"

"It never felt like home. Too cold, too isolated." He pulls out his phone. "I've scheduled three house viewings for when we get back."

"You scheduled—" I stop, reminding myself he's trying. "What kind of houses?"

He turns the phone toward me. "This one's my favorite. Six bedrooms, five baths, modern design but warm. About 9,000 square feet."

"That's huge."

"Plenty of room for Dalla." He swipes to show more photos. "See? The east wing could be entirely hers. Private entrance, her own kitchen if she wants. Close enough that you're together but separate enough that we're not tripping over each other."

I stare at him. "You planned for my sister to live with us?"

"Where you go, she goes. I told you I understood that." He sets the phone down. "Rev, I know I've fucked up a lot, but I do listen. Sometimes."

"I... thank you." My throat feels tight. "That means more than you know."

"She's your person. I get that." He refills both our coffee cups. "Speaking of Dalla, my mother wants to talk to her about that internship."

"The fashion thing?"

"Mum's been in the business for thirty years. If Dalla's serious about switching careers, she could learn from the best." He pauses. "But only if she wants. No pressure."

"Since when do Volkolvs not pressure people?"

"Since I married a woman who threatens to leave when I do." His smile is rueful. "I'm trying to be better."

"I see that."

We eat in silence for a while.

The sun climbs higher, warming the balcony.

It feels surreal, sitting here having breakfast with my husband like we're a normal couple.

"There's something else," Doran says eventually. "Something I need to tell you about yesterday."

I set down my coffee. "What kind of something?"

"During the reception, I saw someone. Someone who shouldn't have been there."

"Who?"

He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture I'm learning means he's agitated. "My brother."

"I didn’t even know you had a brother."

"Olyvar." His jaw tightens. "He was supposed to be in Ireland. Has been for the last three years."

"Why didn't anyone mention him?"

"Because we don't speak. Haven't since..." He trails off.

"Since?"

"Since he tried to kill me."

I nearly choke on my croissant. "I'm sorry, what ?"

"Family drama." He says it like it's normal. "Olyvar thought he should be the heir. Took exception to me being groomed for leadership. Decided the easiest solution was killing me."

"And he was at our wedding?"

"Apparently."

"Why didn't you tell me yesterday?"

"Because it was our wedding day. You looked happy. I wasn't going to ruin that with my homicidal brother." He reaches for my hand again. "But I should have. Partners means sharing the threats too."

"Yeah, it does." I squeeze his fingers. "So what do we do?"

"We be careful. Olyvar doesn't do anything without a plan. If he's here, he wants something."

"Maybe he just wanted to see his brother get married?"

Doran's laugh is bitter. "Olyvar doesn't do sentimental bullshite. He's here for a reason, and it won't be good."

"Tell me about him."

"He's twenty-eight. Smart, charming when he wants to be. Looks like me but prettier—takes after Mum more." He stares out at the city. "We were close as kids. He was my shadow, wanted to do everything I did. Then Dad started grooming me for leadership and something... broke in him."

"Jealousy?"

"More than that. Betrayal, maybe. He thought we'd run things together, brothers against the world." His voice goes flat. "Instead, he got to watch me train while he was sidelined."

"That doesn't justify attempted murder."

"No, but in our world, it's almost predictable." He turns back to me. "The attempt was three years ago. Poison in my whiskey—classic, really. Would have worked if Mikhail hadn't noticed something off about the seal."

"Jesus."

"Mum was devastated. Dad wanted him dead. I convinced them that exile was enough." He laughs humorlessly. "Soft of me, really. Should have let Dad handle it."

"He's your brother."

"He's a threat." Doran's mask slips back into place. "And now he's here, which means I need to figure out why."

"We," I correct. "We need to figure out why. Partners, remember?"

His expression softens. "Right. We."

My phone buzzes.

Dalla, because of course she's checking on me:

You alive? Or did the Bratva prince murder you with his dick?

I show Doran the text.

He nearly spits out his coffee laughing. "Your sister has such a way with words."

I type back:

Alive. Barely. Tell you everything later.

Within seconds I have a response:

You better. Mom's driving me crazy with her bets on when she thinks you guys will have kids.

I laugh and type back my response:

It's been ONE DAY

Dalla’s quick, as always:

Tell that to her. She's already knitting baby booties.

"Speaking of Dalla," I say, setting the phone aside. "Tell me more about these houses."

He lights up, swiping through photos again. "The modern one is in Riverside. Gated community but not obnoxiously so. Good schools nearby."

"Schools?"

"For the future." He glances at me. "No pressure. Just... planning ahead."

"Kids." The word feels heavy. "We haven't talked about kids."

"Do you want them?"

"Eventually. Maybe. Do you?"

"With you? Yes." He says it simply, like it's obvious. "But not until you're ready. Not until you finish law school and establish your career."

"You've thought about this."

"I've thought about everything when it comes to you." He shows me another house. "This one's more traditional. Brick, big yard. Your mom would love the kitchen."

"You're already planning for my mom to visit?"

"She's your mother. Of course she'll visit." He seems genuinely puzzled by my surprise. "Rev, I'm not trying to isolate you. I want to build a life with you, and that includes your family."

"Even my father? Who threatened to feed you to gators at one point in the past?"

"Especially him. Man's got to respect the threat. It was creative."

I laugh. "You're ridiculous."

"But you married me anyway."

"Against my better judgment."

"Story of our lives." He sets the phone down, pulls me onto his lap. "No regrets?"

"Ask me in a year."

"Deal." He kisses me, slow and deep. "Want to go back to bed? We have nowhere to be."

"Actually..." I pull back. "I want to go out. See the city. Be normal for once."

"Normal." He considers this. "I can do normal."

An hour later, we're walking through downtown like any other couple.

Well, except for Mikhail trailing us at a discreet distance.