Page 36 of The Russian's Revenge Bride

“Do you? Because the way you’re looking at her suggests this isn’t just business anymore.”

I didn’t respond because he was right, and we both knew it.

The ride home was quiet, both of us exhausted from hours of performance. Eleanor stared out the window at the city lights, her expression unreadable.

“That went well,” I said.

“Did it? Because I felt like a fucking zoo animal on display.”

The words came out sharp, angry, and I felt my own temper flare in response.

“You knew what tonight was about.”

“I knew it was about making your point. I didn’t know it was about turning me into your trophy wife for public consumption.”

We were in the foyer now, the front door closing behind us with a solid thud. Eleanor kicked off her heels and turned to face me, her eyes blazing with fury.

“You don’t get to control my image and call it protection, Maxim. You don’t get to parade me around like some fucking prize you won.”

“That’s not what I was doing.”

“Bullshit. You kissed my hand like you were marking territory. Introduced me like I was your property. What’s next? Are you going to have me tattooed with your name?”

My control snapped like a rubber band pulled too tight.

“You want to know what tonight was about?” I stepped closer, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet my eyes. “It was about making sure no one could ever doubt that you chose this. That you chose me.”

“I didn’t choose you. I was blackmailed into marrying you.”

“Then why are you still here?”

The question hung between us like a loaded gun. Because she could have run by now, could have found a way out if she’d really wanted one. But she was still here, still wearing my ring, still looking at me like I was something worth fighting with.

“Because….” She started to speak, then stopped, frustration clear on her face.

“Because what, Eleanor?”

“Because I’m apparently a fucking masochist who’s attracted to dangerous men who think they own me.”

Something primitive and possessive roared to life in my chest. “Maybe I do own you.”

“The hell you do.”

She shoved at my chest, and I caught her wrists, pulling her against me. The air between us crackled with tension and unresolved desire, two people circling each other like predators.

“You’re mine,” I said, my voice rough with want. “You wear my name, sleep in my house, fight with me like you have every right to be here.”

“That doesn’t make me your property.”

“Doesn’t it?”

Our mouths crashed together with the force of all our pent-up anger and desire. This wasn’t like our previous kisses, careful and controlled. This was desperate, hungry, the kind of kiss that burned bridges and started wars.

Eleanor’s hands fisted in my jacket, pulling me closer even as she bit my lower lip hard enough to draw blood. I lifted her onto the marble table in the foyer, my hands tangling in her hair as I kissed her neck, her collarbone, every inch of skin I could reach.

She pulled at my jacket, and I let her strip it off me, my hands already working at the zipper of her dress. The expensive silk pooled around her waist, revealing skin that seemed to glow in the dim light.

“Maxim.” My name on her lips was part prayer, part curse.