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“I do.”

The words leave my lips in a breathless whisper, barely audible over the roaring in my ears. My throat is tight, my stomach twisted into a series of painful knots.

I don’t know how I manage to keep my legs from giving out beneath me. The weight of the moment is suffocating, pressing against my chest, making it impossible to breathe properly.

Mikhail stands beside me, his presence overwhelming, his posture unwavering. He’s terrifyingly calm, as if this is just another transaction for him. Another deal sealed. His dark eyes remain fixed on mine, piercing straight through me, leaving no room for escape.

The officiant’s voice is distant, drowned beneath the deafening silence that seems to exist only for me. I barely register the words before he turns to Mikhail.

“Do you, Mikhail Sharov, take Julie Spade to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

The response is instant, unwavering. “I do.”

His voice is deep, firm. There is no hesitation, no uncertainty. He says the words with the same confidence he carries in every aspect of his life. The confidence of a man who has always taken what he wants.

I force myself to swallow, trying to loosen the tightness in my throat, but the dread only grows as the officiant speaks again.

“You may now kiss the bride.”

I don’t have time to prepare myself.

Mikhail moves, and the air between us shifts. His large hands reach for my waist, firm but not forceful, pulling me just enough that our bodies nearly touch. I barely have time to process before his lips brush against mine.

It’s gentle. The complete opposite of everything I expected.

For a moment, just a fraction of a second, the world around me disappears. The fear, the tension, the weight of this nightmare—it all fades. His lips are warm, his touch secure.

It doesn’t feel violent or possessive. It feels… calming.

The realization sends a new wave of panic through me, sharp and unsettling. I shouldn’t feel this way. Not about him.

Before I can process it, Mikhail pulls back. He lingers close enough that I can still feel the warmth of his breath against my skin.

I open my eyes slowly, hesitantly. His gaze is locked on mine, unreadable but intense. For the first time since this ordeal began, he doesn’t look like a man claiming ownership.

He looks like a man who just married me.

The room erupts in applause. Cheers, clinking glasses, murmurs of congratulations. It all feels distant, like I’m watching the moment happen to someone else.

Mikhail straightens, his hand sliding down to capture mine. His grip is firm, possessive. A silent reminder of the reality I now live in.

I am no longer Julie Spade. I am Julie Sharov. His wife. There is no escaping it.

The applause rings through the lavish ballroom, glasses clinking together in a celebratory toast, voices rising in cheers. People smile, laugh, and clap as if this is a joyous occasion, as if this union is something to be proud of.

All I feel is dread.

Mikhail’s grip on my hand is firm, grounding, in a way that only reminds me of how little control I have. I should be shaking, but I stand frozen, my face stretched into a hollow expression that likely passes as a nervous bride’s daze.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. My family isn’t here. Not my father, not my sister, not even Elise. No one from my world came.

This isn’t my world anymore.

I swallow hard, forcing myself to keep my chin high, to look composed even when my insides twist with unease. My wedding dress, as beautiful and extravagant as it is, feels heavy, suffocating. The fabric clings to my skin, trapping me in a role I never agreed to play.

Around me, Mikhail’s people are celebrating, their voices filling the room with warmth I will never belong to. I don’t know these men and women. I don’t recognize the faces smiling in approval, the ones offering their congratulations.

I search the crowd for something familiar, something to anchor me. There’s nothing.

My stomach knots painfully. I think of Elise—how she’d probably be lecturing me right now, telling me to stay strong, to fight back in whatever way I can.

I think of Sophia.

She’s never been affectionate, never been the kind of sister to hold my hand and whisper reassurances. At least she was something. A presence. A reminder that I wasn’t entirely alone in the Spade family.

And now? I have no one. Except for the man beside me.

I don’t dare glance up at him, but his presence is overwhelming. He stands tall, composed, his grip on my hand still unyielding, like he’s reminding me—this is real. You are mine.

The weight of it presses against my chest, suffocating me more than the tightest corset ever could.

A voice cuts through the noise, deep and confident.

“To the bride and groom!”

The guests echo the sentiment, lifting their glasses, their eyes shining with approval. The champagne sparkles under the golden chandeliers, a glittering facade of elegance that masks the ugliness of what this really is.

A transaction. A power move. A marriage built not on love, but on revenge.

I force a small smile, nodding at the sea of strangers raising their glasses in my honor. My fingers curl slightly against Mikhail’s palm, but he doesn’t let go.

He never lets go. I wonder if he can sense the way my body is trembling just beneath the surface. I wonder if he likes it.

***

The journey back to the estate is a blur.

I barely register the whispers of congratulations as I’m led out of the reception, barely notice the way Mikhail keeps a possessive hand on the small of my back as we move through the crowd. The luxury car waiting outside is sleek and black, its presence an unspoken command.

My new life. My new prison.

I sink into the leather seat, staring out of the window, watching the city lights blur past as we leave behind the grandeur of the wedding. No one speaks. I don’t dare to. Mikhail sits beside me, composed, unreadable. I don’t look at him. I can’t.

The silence stretches, suffocating, until the car finally slows, pulling through the iron gates of the estate.

The house—no, my home now—is just as imposing as before. Cold, extravagant, the very essence of power wrapped in luxury.

I’m escorted inside, past watchful guards and stoic staff, and led up a grand staircase. At some point, someone—one of the maids, maybe—murmurs something about my room, and then I’m standing in front of a massive door, pushed open to reveal an elegant yet unfamiliar space.

My new room.

I step inside slowly, taking in the massive bed, the plush carpets, the dim lighting casting warm glows against the deep wood furnishings. It’s beautiful, but it isn’t mine. Nothing in here feels like me.

I feel Mikhail’s presence at my back. I don’t turn.

“This is where you’ll stay,” he says simply.

His voice is calm, controlled, and yet there’s something in it that makes my spine stiffen.

I don’t answer. I just nod, moving toward the bed with heavy steps. My limbs ache with exhaustion, my mind clouded with too many emotions to name. The moment my fingers brush against the silky sheets, I decide—I can’t do this tonight.

So I slip off my shoes, carefully pull the covers back, and ease myself onto the mattress. I don’t even bother changing.

I close my eyes, but I don’t sleep. I hear him leave, the door clicking shut behind him, and I exhale slowly, waiting.

Time stretches on. The house is eerily silent, save for the occasional creak of the floorboards, the distant hum of voices downstairs. I curl tighter into myself, my body rigid despite the soft bed beneath me.

Then—footsteps. Slow. Controlled. I hold my breath.

The door opens. I feel his presence before I see him, the air shifting, the weight of it settling over the room.

I keep my eyes closed, my breathing measured, feigning sleep.

It doesn’t fool him. I feel the mattress dip, the heat of his body presses closer.

My breath catches as a hand brushes against my arm—light, teasing, deliberate. My lashes flutter, and before I can stop myself, I open my eyes.

Mikhail is above me. His face is close, too close, his dark eyes locked on to mine with an intensity that makes my stomach twist. My heart pounds, my entire body buzzing with something I can’t name.

Not fear. Something else.

His lips curve into a slow, knowing smirk. His gaze roams over me, taking in my tousled hair, the way my dress is wrinkled from lying on the bed. His fingers trail along the curve of my arm, barely touching, just enough to send a shiver down my spine.

Then he asks, voice low, controlled—too controlled, “Are you a virgin?”

Heat floods my face. My throat dries. I can’t speak, but I don’t have to. I nod.

His smirk deepens, slow and deliberate, his eyes darkening with something unreadable. Something dangerous.

“Of course you are.”

His fingers brush my jaw, tilting my chin up just slightly, forcing me to hold his gaze. The way he looks at me—it’s not cruel. It’s not mocking. It’s possession. He doesn’t touch me further. He doesn’t push.

The weight of his presence is enough to make my body feel like it’s no longer mine.

Mikhail leans in closer, his lips brushing just barely against my ear, the warmth of his breath sending a shiver down my spine. My body is frozen, my mind screaming at me to move, to push him away, to do something—anything—but I can’t.

His voice is a low rasp, filled with dark amusement, laced with something undeniably dangerous. “You’re mine now, and I plan to enjoy every second of taking that innocence from you.”

A gasp catches in my throat. Heat floods my body, traitorous and uncontrollable, a reaction I hate myself for.

I should recoil. I should slap him, spit in his face, do something. My body betrays me, every nerve locked on to him, waiting for what comes next.

I wait for him to kiss me again, for his hands to roam lower, for this moment to spiral into something I can’t stop. My pulse pounds, my breath unsteady.

Then he pulls back. Just enough to watch my reaction. Just enough to let the moment hang between us, heavy with unspoken intent. His smirk is sharp, knowing.

My chest rises and falls too quickly, my breath uneven, my lips parted as I stare at him in disbelief. He’s playing with me. He knows what he’s doing, and worst of all—he’s enjoying it.

He lets a beat of silence stretch between us before speaking again, his tone still low, still possessive. “Not yet.”

His fingers brush my jaw one last time before he stands, straightening as if he hadn’t just whispered those words against my skin, hadn’t left me breathless and disoriented.

I don’t move. I can’t move.

I feel like I should be relieved. He’s giving me time. He’s not taking me tonight. He’s waiting. Deep down, in the part of myself I don’t want to acknowledge, I feel something else entirely.

Disappointment.

I lie there, my heart hammering against my ribs, my breathing uneven as Mikhail turns over, shifting in the bed beside me. His movements are smooth, unhurried, as if none of this has affected him at all. His breathing evens out, slow and steady, as if he’s already fallen into sleep.

Meanwhile, I can’t seem to catch a single breath.

Heat coils deep in my stomach, shameful and undeniable. I shouldn’t feel like this. I shouldn’t. But the memory of his voice, the possessiveness in his tone, lingers inside me like an echo I can’t shake.

“You’re mine now, and I plan to enjoy every second of taking that innocence from you.”

The words play over and over in my head, sending another ripple of warmth down my spine. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing it away, but it doesn’t work. My skin feels too hot, the silk sheets against my body an unbearable tease, like a whisper of something more.

I need to cool down.

I slip out of bed as quietly as I can, tiptoeing toward the en suite. The room is dark, but a soft glow from the nightlight illuminates the marble counters, the gold fixtures gleaming under the faint light. The air is cool, a welcome contrast to the heat radiating from my skin.

I twist the faucet, letting the cold water run before cupping my hands beneath the stream. The moment I splash it onto my face, I let out a breath, the shock of it momentarily easing the pressure building inside me.

I grip the edges of the counter, staring at my reflection in the mirror.

My face is flushed, my lips slightly swollen from where he bit down earlier. My hair is a mess, strands falling loose over my shoulders, my nightgown slipping slightly, exposing the delicate curve of my collarbone.

I look… different.

Not like the girl I was before I was forced into this marriage.

Not like a Spade. I look like a woman wanting something. A woman who knows exactly what she’s aching for.

I close my eyes, my breathing uneven. God, what is wrong with me?

I tell myself it’s normal. That it’s just a reaction, a biological response to someone so infuriatingly dominant, to someone who has taken every ounce of power from me and left me with nothing but my own traitorous thoughts.

Knowing that doesn’t change the way my thighs clench together. It doesn’t change the way my body feels too awake, too aware.

I shake my head and reach for a towel, patting my face dry before shutting off the water. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself before slipping back into the bedroom.

The bed feels impossibly big when I slide beneath the covers, the distance between Mikhail and me both a relief and a frustration.

I turn onto my side, facing away from him, determined to will myself into sleep.

Just as I begin to drift, his voice murmurs low in the quiet.

Something in Russian.

His tone is husky, thick with sleep, but there’s no mistaking the meaning of what he says. Even without knowing the language, I feel it.

My cheeks warm instantly, my breath hitching as I process the weight of his words.

I don’t dare turn around.

I don’t want to know if he’s dreaming of me. Or if, even in sleep, he’s still thinking about what he plans to do to me.

***

I wake slowly, my body warm, pressed into something solid. Heavy.

It takes me a moment to realize what it is. Mikhail.

His weight pins me beneath him, his arm slung possessively around my waist, his breath even and deep against my hair. The scent of him lingers—masculine, dark, expensive.

My heart pounds as I try to shift, to wiggle free, but the movement only presses me deeper into the mattress.

Mikhail stirs, a low, sleepy sound escaping him before his grip tightens. His body shifts, his thigh sliding between mine, keeping me caged beneath him.

I still, my pulse hammering.

He’s too close. The heat of him seeps into my skin, and I become painfully aware of every point of contact—the hard press of his chest against mine, the rough scrape of stubble against my temple.

Then, just as I think I might be able to slip out, his eyes flutter open. Dark. Intense. They lock on to mine, and a slow, wicked smirk tugs at his lips.

Before I can say a word, he kisses me. Rough. Deep. A firm press of his mouth that steals the air from my lungs.

His tongue slides against mine without hesitation, claiming, teasing, owning. I gasp against him, my fingers gripping his arms as he tilts my head back, deepening the kiss.

Heat pools low in my stomach, a rush of sensation that’s almost too much.

Mikhail straddles me, shifting so that I’m completely beneath him.

One hand grips my jaw, holding me still as his lips trail from my mouth to my neck, pressing against my pulse. Then, his fingers find the hem of my sleep shirt.

I shiver as he drags the fabric up, slow, deliberate. He lifts it over my head, tossing it aside, and his hand dives for my breast, skimming over the pert nipple.

The cool air kisses my skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his gaze as he takes me in, his hands smoothing over my bare sides.

I should feel embarrassed. I should feel afraid.

I don’t. I want this. I want him.

Still, I force myself to ask, my voice breathless, shaky, “Why didn’t you take me last night?”

His dark eyes flicker, something unreadable passing through them. Then, he leans in, his lips grazing my ear as he answers, his voice low and rough. “Because I wasn’t sure if you wanted it.” A pause. Then, “Now I know you do.”

He grinds down on me, and I feel something hard against my pelvis. I shiver, back arching without even meaning it. Fuck, he feels big. Huge, even. It’s enough to make my mouth water.

Mikhail’s lips press against mine again, harder this time, his teeth catching my lower lip and giving it a sharp nip. I gasp into his mouth, and he takes advantage of the opening, deepening the kiss with gentle, focused strokes of his tongue. The weight of him keeps me pinned, his body a solid heat pressing into mine, making it impossible to think of anything but him.

His hands roam my sides, strong and possessive, fingers tracing the curve of my waist as he presses himself closer. Every shift of his body, every careful movement, sends sparks of anticipation thrumming through me.

He undresses the rest of me carefully, fingers hooked around the waistband of my sleep shorts. They join the growing pile of discarded clothing, my naked body bare for him. I flush darker, a needy whine escaping me as his fingers trace my entrance.

“Ready?” he asks, and I gasp in approval.

He undresses, and slides into me easily. He’s thick, and I haven’t been properly prepared—is that even a thing? Even so, I’m already so soaked that I feel only pleasure, as his throbbing cock fills me up.

I arch beneath him, my breath hitching when his fingers skim just beneath my ribs, teasing, learning. His dominance isn’t just in his strength, in the way he holds me beneath him effortlessly—it’s in how he takes his time, how he forces me to feel every touch, every kiss, until I’m left trembling with need.

He works me slowly, but with a building momentum that makes me heady with desire. My pussy clenches around him, and my thighs do the same; holding him to me as we rock together.

He pulls back just enough to smirk down at me, his thumb brushing against my swollen lips. “You like this, don’t you?” His voice is thick, edged with something dark and knowing.

I swallow, my cheeks burning, but I can’t deny it. Not when my body gives me away so easily.

His smirk deepens, his fingers trailing lower, teasing. “Say it.”

I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of saying the words aloud, but when he dips his head to my neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there, I shudder.

“I love it,” I whisper, barely audible.

Mikhail’s fingers trace deliberate patterns over my skin as he thrusts into me, each touch sending shivers down my spine. His dominance is undeniable, but there’s a softness to it now, a measured control that makes my head spin. His hands roam with purpose, mapping my body like he’s claiming it, yet his lips press gently against my neck, coaxing rather than demanding.

I let out a shaky breath as he pumps into me, his dark eyes locking on to mine, full of heat and something deeper—something possessive. He strokes the side of my face, his thumb brushing against my lips before tilting my chin up to meet his next kiss. It’s slower now, less urgent but no less intense. He takes his time, savoring, ensuring I feel every press of his mouth, every shift of his body against mine.

The whole time, his rhythm doesn’t falter. I can feel him throbbing inside of me, his cock stretching me wide; it fills me with a need I can’t describe. It’s even better when he traces a hand down my body, cupping the soft mound of my pelvis, fingers digging into the tender flesh.

I arch into him without thinking, needing more, craving the sensation of his touch. He rewards me with a deep, approving hum, his grip tightening just slightly around my waist. “You’re learning,” he murmurs, a smirk curving his lips against my skin.

My breath catches as he moves lower, his kisses trailing down my collarbone, over the curve of my shoulder. Every nerve in my body is alive, my senses overwhelmed by him, by the way he knows exactly how to unravel me. His touch is firm but patient, teasing but never uncertain. He’s in control—of himself, of me, of everything in this moment.

His hands slide down my arms, pinning them gently above my head. Not restricting, just reminding me who’s in charge.

“You belong to me now,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my skin. “Every inch of you.”

I barely manage to nod, my mind lost in the haze of sensation. Maybe it’s those words that do it, but I reach a crescendo, my head tipping back as I call his name. I might say something else too, but the orgasm washes over me in one big wave, and I can’t even hear myself over the thrum of my pulse.

My whole body tenses, a gasp leaving my lips as I come undone.

I don’t expect him to be so quick, but he comes too; a hot flood filling me up, making my eyes roll back. His cock throbs as he gushes into me, his come spilling from my hole and between our joined bodies.

For a long moment, neither of us move. Or speak. Or think.

Then, Mikhail chuckles, pleased, and finally releases my wrists, his fingers stroking back down my sides before he shifts, lowering himself to my side. He’s still close, but when he slides his cock out of me, I feel hollow where it used to be.

His voice is quieter now, deeper, almost smug. “How was your first time?”

I try to answer, but I’m too exhausted, too thrilled, and all I manage is a soft exhale as my body sinks into the bed.

Mikhail smirks, satisfied. “I’ll take that as a positive response.”

He pulls the sheets over us, his body still warm beside mine, and for the first time, I don’t think about escaping.