Page 12

I sit cross-legged on the floor of my room, my fingers running gently through the soft fur of the tiny kitten curled up in my lap. Its small body rises and falls with steady breaths, completely trusting, completely safe. The warmth of its fragile frame against me is comforting, grounding. It purrs faintly, a soft vibration against my palm, and for the first time in days, I feel something resembling peace.

A small smile tugs at my lips as I watch the kitten stretch, its tiny paws flexing before it settles deeper into my lap. He’s healing well, still a little tender when he walks, I think, but his energy is returning.

I whisper to it, nonsense words meant to soothe, though I suspect I’m the one seeking comfort.

This moment—this fragile, stolen piece of happiness—feels like a luxury I don’t deserve. The world outside this room is ruthless, filled with men who see me as nothing more than a pawn. But here, in this moment, with this tiny creature depending on me, I feel a sense of control, of purpose.

I close my eyes briefly, allowing myself to breathe, to forget everything beyond these walls. Peace never lasts. Not in this house.

The soft creak of the door hinges snaps me back to reality. I tense, my arms instinctively wrapping around the kitten as if I can shield it from whatever comes next. My pulse quickens, dread curling low in my stomach.

The door swings open fully, and a maid steps in, her expression blank. The moment shatters.

She stands there for a second, hesitant, before stepping inside. Draped over her arm is something shimmering and white. It catches the light from the small lamp on the bedside table, and for a moment, I don’t understand what I’m looking at.

Then she moves, carefully laying it across the bed. The fine silk pools like liquid over the sheets, delicate lace detailing catching in the dim light.

A wedding dress.

The small comfort I’d felt moments ago is ripped from me, leaving only a cold, sinking dread in its place. My hands tighten around the kitten, and I barely register the way it squirms at my sudden grip.

I swallow hard, forcing my voice to work. “What is this?” The question sounds weaker than I intended, edged with disbelief.

The maid doesn’t look up as she smooths out the fabric. “You’re to marry Mr. Sharov, so you will need a wedding dress.”

The words knock the breath from my lungs.

The room seems to tilt slightly, my vision tunneling on the gown in front of me. My heart pounds painfully against my ribs, nausea curling in my stomach. “I don’t want to,” I murmur, shaking my head as if denying it can somehow change my reality. “He can’t make me do this. I won’t—”

The maid finally looks at me then, her face stoic but not unkind. “Miss,” she says, her voice firm yet lacking cruelty. “You don’t understand the position you’re in.”

I stare at her, unable to process her words, unable to do anything but sit frozen as she continues. “Your life is in Mr. Sharov’s hands now. He holds all the power here. Refusing him would not just be foolish—it could be dangerous.”

Something in her tone unsettles me. Like she’s speaking from experience.

“You should count yourself lucky,” she adds, adjusting the veil with careful fingers. “He could have chosen a much harsher path for you.”

My stomach turns. My mind races, grasping for something, anything, to make sense of this. “He doesn’t need to do this,” I whisper, more to myself than to her. “There’s no reason.”

I know that’s a lie. There is a reason. One I don’t fully understand yet.

The Spades have always seen me as nothing more than an afterthought, a burden. I had no real place in my family beyond being an inconvenience they had to acknowledge in public. And now, at the end of it all, I’ve only managed to bring them further humiliation.

A pawn they discarded—now claimed by their enemy.

My throat tightens, but I refuse to cry. Not now. Not in front of her. Not when Mikhail has already taken so much from me.

The maid steps back, satisfied with her work. “Preparations will begin immediately,” she says simply, before turning toward the door.

I want to scream. To throw the dress across the room. To tear it apart seam by seam and set it on fire. But my body won’t move.

The maid hesitates before leaving, as if waiting for me to say something. When I don’t, she nods once and steps out, shutting the door behind her. The lock clicks.

I’m alone again, but this time, it feels different. The walls seem smaller, the air heavier. I stare at the dress, at the delicate embroidery along the bodice, at the carefully beaded train.

I wonder, not for the first time, if there’s any way out of this at all.

I sit on the bed, my arms wrapped tightly around myself, staring at the wedding dress draped across the mattress. It taunts me, the pristine fabric glowing under the dim light, as if mocking my fate.

The longer I sit, the more my emotions churn. Anger. Fear. Helplessness. I’ve been treated as an afterthought my entire life, and now—now, I’ve been claimed like a piece of property. No choice. No say.

Beneath the storm of my rage, something far more unsettling stirs.

Mikhail.

The way he looks at me—dark and unreadable, his gaze always laced with some unspoken threat. His presence is suffocating, commanding, inescapable.

Not to mention his body… God.

I press my thighs together instinctively, heat licking up my spine at the memory of his broad shoulders, the way his suit barely conceals the raw strength beneath. I hate myself for thinking it, but I wonder—what does he feel like? What would it be like to press my hands against his chest, to feel the ridges of muscle beneath my fingertips?

Would he be rough? Would he pin me down, whisper dark, filthy things against my skin?

I shiver. This isn’t right. I should be focusing on escape. On revenge.

Not on the way his deep, gravelly voice sends sparks down my spine. Not on how his mouth would feel—bruising and unrelenting against mine.

There’s also the horrible fact that despite everything—despite him being my captor, my enemy—I want him. The thought disgusts me, and yet, it thrills me in equal measure.

With that, the door swings open.

I jolt upright, breath catching in my throat as Mikhail strides in.

His presence is like a sudden storm—silent, looming, impossible to ignore. The moment his eyes land on the wedding dress, something in them flickers. Displeasure.

“The dress is beautiful,” he mutters, voice low and sharp.

I swallow hard. “The maid brought it to me.”

His jaw clenches. The air between us shifts, the tension thick enough to strangle. “You weren’t supposed to see the dress until you’ve had some time to settle into the idea. I wanted it to be a nice surprise.”

A chill runs through me at the way he says it. Cold. Controlled. Dangerous. As if all I need is time, and everything will be okay.

My stomach knots. “She—she didn’t mean anything by it.” The words tumble out before I can stop them. “She was just doing her job.”

His lips curl into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Now she won’t be doing it anymore.”

Dread coils in my gut.

I open my mouth to protest, but his attention shifts to the dress. His fingers brush the delicate fabric, his expression unreadable. For a moment, he’s quiet. Then—

“I should have been the one to show you.”

A shiver laces through me.

There’s something possessive in the way he says it, something dark and heavy. I know what he means. He wanted to see my face when I realized I was his.

My heart hammers. “Why are you doing this?”

His gaze snaps to mine. “Because you belong to me now.”

Before I can respond, he moves.

One second, I’m standing still, locked in place by the weight of his words. The next, he’s on me, his hand curling around my jaw as his mouth crashes against mine.

A startled gasp escapes me, but I don’t pull away. I should. I don’t. Instead, my fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, clinging.

He tastes like whiskey and sin, and the force of his kiss is overwhelming—hungry, demanding, owning.

His tongue slides against mine, and my knees buckle. I hate him. I want him. I don’t know where one feeling ends and the other begins.

All I know is that when he bites down on my lower lip, dragging a rough groan from deep in his throat, I melt.

He pulls back slightly, his breath hot against my swollen lips. “You’ll look beautiful in that dress,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing my jaw.

I don’t respond. I can’t. I’m too caught in the fire he’s just ignited.

His thumb presses against my jaw, tilting my face up to his. I barely have a second to catch my breath before his lips crash into mine again, harder this time, more deliberate. There’s nothing soft about the way he kisses me—it’s all hunger, dominance, control. His teeth graze my lower lip before he bites down, sharp enough that I whimper into his mouth.

I feel it instantly—the sting, the way my lip throbs in response. It’s too much. It’s not enough.

My fingers tighten in the fabric of his shirt, holding on to him, though I don’t know if I’m trying to push him away or pull him closer. My body betrays me, heat pooling low in my stomach, my pulse hammering at my throat. The worst part is, I know he notices.

Mikhail lets out a low, satisfied hum, his tongue flicking against the bruise he’s left behind. “You taste even sweeter when you’re desperate,” he murmurs, his voice thick with something dark, something taunting.

I hate how much those words affect me.

His hand slides lower, fingertips ghosting over my waist. He doesn’t push, doesn’t take more than the kiss, but he doesn’t have to. The way he’s looking at me, the way his lips linger over mine, the way his body hovers just close enough to remind me of his strength—it’s all enough to leave me trembling.

“Mikhail…,” I breathe, barely recognizing my own voice.

“Hmm?” He tilts his head, amusement flickering in his dark eyes. He’s enjoying this—enjoying me like this—and it infuriates me almost as much as it turns me on.

I swallow hard, trying to find the anger I know I should be feeling. But it’s buried beneath the undeniable attraction pulling me toward him. I don’t want to admit it—not to him, not even to myself—but part of me aches for his touch in a way that terrifies me.

He studies me for a moment, then smirks. “As much as I’d love to see how far that blush of yours goes,” he murmurs, his fingers tracing along my hip, “I think I’ll wait.”

I blink up at him, my breath coming too fast. “Wait?” My voice is hoarse, unsteady.

His smirk widens, something wicked gleaming in his eyes. “For our wedding night.”

My stomach flips, and this time, the anger does come. “You—” I bite my tongue before I can let loose whatever insult is sitting at the tip of it. My entire body is still burning from his touch, my mind a mess of emotions I can’t untangle, and he has the audacity to tease me?

I glare at him, but he only chuckles, clearly pleased with himself. He brushes his knuckles against my bruised lip, his gaze flickering between my eyes and my mouth. “Don’t pout, Julie. It’s cute, but I like it better when you’re begging.”

I should slap him.

I should shove him away.

Instead, I feel myself flush even hotter, my breath catching as his fingers linger against my skin.

His eyes darken, something dangerous and electric passing between us before he finally steps back. “You’ll be mine soon enough,” he says simply, like it’s an undeniable fact.

I wrap my arms around myself, as if that will do anything to put distance between us. “You’re disgusting.”

Mikhail only laughs. “You’re a liar,” he counters. His gaze flickers to the wedding dress draped across the bed, then back to me. “I’ll send someone to help you with preparations tomorrow. Try not to run this time.”

I open my mouth to snap at him, but he turns on his heel before I get the chance, leaving me standing there, breathless and infuriated. The door clicks shut behind him, and only then do I realize how weak my legs feel.

I sink onto the bed, pressing my fingers to my lips, feeling the lingering sting where he bit me.

What the hell am I doing?

I stare up at the ceiling, trying to steady my thoughts, but my body still hums from his touch, from the weight of his presence, from the way he looked at me. No one has ever made me feel like this—like I’m on the verge of something dangerous, something impossible to escape.

I should be fighting harder. I should be resisting.

The truth is, I don’t know how.

I don’t know when I fall asleep, but at some point, exhaustion wins. My body sinks into the mattress, my fingers still ghosting over my lips, as if trying to wipe away the memory of Mikhail’s touch. Sleep is restless, filled with hazy dreams I don’t want to acknowledge—flashes of dark eyes, rough hands, whispered taunts that send a shiver through me.

When I wake, it’s to the sound of soft footsteps and the rustling of fabric.

I blink against the morning light filtering through the barred window, groggy, disoriented. The kitten is curled up beside me, its tiny body warm against my side. For a brief second, I forget where I am.

Then, the voice of an unfamiliar woman brings me back to reality.

“It’s time to get ready.”

My heart lurches.

I sit up too quickly, a sharp ache spreading through my arm from where the stitches pull. A maid stands near the foot of the bed, different from the last one—older, more composed. Her posture is stiff, professional, and her expression is unreadable.

She gestures toward the vanity, where a fresh set of toiletries and makeup supplies have been laid out. Beside them, another dress—silk, elegant, obviously meant for pre-wedding preparations.

The air in the room feels heavier.

“All hands are on deck now,” she continues, smoothing out invisible wrinkles on her crisp uniform. “The tailor will be here soon to make final adjustments to your gown. We have little time to waste.”

I swallow hard, my stomach knotting at the realization.

This is happening.

No matter how much I want to deny it, no matter how much I try to convince myself there’s still a way out—Mikhail owns me now. Soon, the entire world will see it.