Page 43 of The Russian's Revenge Bride

“I’ll handle Eleanor,” I said.

“Will you?” Rafael’s voice carried a note of challenge. “Because from what I’ve seen, you’ve been handling her by avoiding her. That’s not going to work anymore.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means your wife is trying to build something with you, and you’re too scared to let her. But scared or not, she’s in this now. She’s a target because of who she married, and she deserves to know what she’s facing.”

The words hit too close to home, and I felt my temper flare. “Don’t lecture me about my marriage.”

“Someone needs to. You’re so busy protecting her from your world that you’re not preparing her to survive in it.”

“She shouldn’t have to survive in it. She should be designing pretty dresses and living her safe little life.”

“But she’s not,” Cassandra interjected quietly. “She’s here. She’s one of us now, whether you want to admit it or not.”

The truth of it settled in my chest like a stone. Eleanor wasn’t the innocent I’d kidnapped anymore. She’d adapted, evolved, and found her place in the chaos I’d dragged her into. She’d married me knowing what I was, knowing what it would cost her.

And I’d been treating her like she was still that terrified girl in the basement instead of the woman who’d looked me in the eye and promised to make my life hell.

“Meeting’s over,” I said, suddenly needing them all gone. “Get me those surveillance reports by morning.”

They filed out without argument, leaving me alone with the weight of blood and betrayal and the impossible complexity of loving someone in a world built on violence.

I pulled out my phone and scrolled through the security feeds until I found Eleanor’s room. She was sitting up in bed, needle in hand, working on something with the kind of focused intensity that meant she was upset. Her hair fell in waves around her shoulders, and even in the grainy black and white feed, she looked beautiful.

She looked like everything I wanted and couldn’t have.

The fabric she was working with was white. Wedding dress white. The irony wasn’t lost on me. Here I was, watching my wife sew her dreams into silk and lace while I planned for war.

My phone buzzed with a text from Rafael:Stop watching her through cameras and go talk to her. Like a husband.

I wanted to ignore it, to stay in my office where emotions were simpler and the only thing that mattered was strategy and survival. But the image of Eleanor sitting alone, working by lamplight while I hid behind surveillance feeds, made something crack in my chest.

I’d spent so many years building walls, creating distance between myself and anyone who might matter. It had kept me safe, kept me focused, kept me alive in a world where attachment was weakness and love was a liability.

But it had also kept me alone.

The stairs were silent under my feet as I made my way to the second floor. Eleanor’s door was cracked open, spilling warm light into the hallway. I could hear the soft sound of her humming, something low and melancholy that made my throat tight.

I stood there for a moment, watching her work. Her movements were precise, practiced, the needle moving through fabric with the same deadly efficiency I brought to violence. There was something beautiful about it, something pure in the way she created instead of destroyed.

She looked up as if sensing my presence, and our eyes met across the room. She didn’t smile, didn’t invite me in, just watched me with those hazel eyes that saw too much.

“Can’t sleep?” she asked.

“Work.”

“Always work.” She went back to her stitching, but I could see the tension in her shoulders, the careful way she was holding herself. “Let me guess. Something happened, and now you’re going to tell me I need more security. More restrictions. More reasons why I can’t leave this beautiful prison you’ve built for me.”

The accuracy of her guess hit me like a slap. “Eleanor….”

“Don’t. Just don’t.” She set down her needle and looked at me with something that might have been disappointment. “Whatever it is, whatever new threat you’ve discovered, just tell me what the new rules are and let me adjust accordingly.”

“Two of my men are dead.”

The words came out harsher than I’d intended, but I was tired of pretending, tired of protecting her from truths she was going to have to live with regardless.

Her hands stilled on the fabric. “How?”