Page 15

I wake to the scent of something warm, something rich. It seeps into my senses before I even open my eyes, stirring me from sleep with a lazy awareness that is unusual for me.

Food. My eyes snap open.

I don’t need to check the time to know it’s later than I usually wake. The morning light filters through the heavy curtains, casting soft golden streaks across the room. My muscles are tight, my body weighted with the remnants of the previous night—of exhaustion, of whiskey, of her.

Julie. I run a hand down my face, exhaling slowly.

Last night was just sex, it doesn’t have to mean anything… but it does. She’s affecting me more than she should, and I hate it.

I push away the thought and swing my legs over the side of the bed, stretching my arms before standing. My movements are slow but deliberate as I make my way to the en suite, splashing cold water onto my face before dressing.

The scent of food only grows stronger as I step into the hallway.

I don’t need to ask who’s responsible.

By the time I reach the kitchen, I find her standing at the stove, her back to me, hair loosely pulled over one shoulder as she focuses on whatever it is she’s making.

A maid stands near the counter, watching her carefully, hands clasped in front of her like she’s preparing to intervene if necessary.

Julie doesn’t acknowledge me at first.

She’s too focused, too lost in her own world, whisking eggs with a quiet kind of determination that has nothing to do with pleasing me.

I lean against the doorway, watching. She moves differently here, without the stiff tension she usually carries.

This isn’t a performance. This is something real.

Finally, the maid speaks, her voice careful but insistent. “It’s tradition,” she says. “For the wife to cook breakfast for her husband on the first morning after the wedding.”

Julie hesitates. She stiffens just slightly, like she forgot for a moment where she is, who she’s doing this for.

Then, after a brief pause, she exhales and keeps going. Not for me. For herself.

Interesting.

I smirk as I step forward, watching as she sets the table. A breakfast quiche sits in the center, golden and warm, the scent tempting even to me.

I slide into my usual chair, stretching my arms over the back of it as I watch her carefully.

She avoids looking at me, but I don’t let that slide.

“So,” I say, my voice low and amused, “you’re being a good wife now?”

Julie finally meets my gaze, her blue eyes sharp, stubborn. “I’m not doing this for you,” she states, chin lifted slightly. “I enjoy cooking.”

Bold. My smirk widens.

I pick up my fork, cutting a piece of the quiche, tasting it. It’s good. Too good. Something about that only makes me more curious.

I take another bite, chewing slowly, watching Julie from the corner of my eye. She’s trying to act indifferent, keeping her posture stiff, her arms crossed like she couldn’t care less whether I enjoy the meal or not.

I can see through it. The slight tension in her jaw. The way her fingers twitch against the edge of the counter. She’s waiting.

I don’t give her the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, I set my fork down, wipe my mouth with a napkin, and murmur, “Not too bad.”

A simple phrase. Nonchalant. The way her expression falters—just for a fraction of a second—is enough to tell me it landed exactly how I expected it to.

She turns away before I can catch more, pretending to busy herself at the counter. I felt her hesitation. Saw the subtle flicker of disappointment before she masked it with indifference.

She wanted something more from me. The realization amuses me. I push my chair back, rising to my feet, straightening my sleeves with practiced ease. “I have work to do,” I say smoothly. “Enjoy your morning, wife.”

She stiffens at that word.

I let my smirk linger before leaving the room, my boots echoing against the marble floors.

I don’t turn back, but I don’t need to.

She’s thinking about it. About me.

She won’t admit it, but I know the effect I have on people. And Julie? She’s no different.

I head down the hall, fully prepared to put her out of my mind and focus on more pressing matters.

Then, just as I near my office, I hear the maid’s voice drifting from the kitchen.

“If he said not bad, that means he loved it.”

I slow my steps.

Julie’s voice follows, skeptical. “What?”

The maid chuckles. “He’s the pickiest eater I’ve ever seen. If he doesn’t like something, he won’t touch it. If he really enjoys something, he won’t say it outright. But if you get a ‘not bad’?” A pause. “That means he liked it.”

Silence. I don’t turn around. I don’t have to. I can feel the way Julie is standing there, processing what was just said.

I almost laugh. Of course, she’s thinking about it now. Wondering. Second-guessing. That’s exactly what I want.

I take a slow step back into the kitchen, just enough to catch the look on Julie’s face as she processes what the maid just told her.

She stands stiff, her hands gripping the edge of the counter, her lips slightly parted in what I suspect is frustration—or maybe something else. The warm morning light catches in her hair, making the strands glow like pale gold, her expression betraying her thoughts more than she realizes.

She wants to ignore what was just said, to brush it off. She can’t.

I smile.

The maid glances over her shoulder at me and immediately stiffens. She lowers her gaze and steps away from Julie, muttering something about needing to check on the laundry. I don’t stop her.

The moment she’s gone, Julie exhales and straightens, but her shoulders tense all over again when she realizes I haven’t left.

I step closer, slow, deliberate, my presence filling the space between us.

“You seemed interested in what she had to say,” I murmur, watching as her fingers tighten against the countertop.

She scoffs, feigning indifference. “Not particularly.”

“Lying, printsessa?”

She turns sharply, eyes narrowing. “I don’t care what you think about my cooking.”

I chuckle, stepping in just close enough to see the blush creeping up her neck. “Yet you seem very bothered by my reaction.”

Her jaw tightens, but her lips press together, struggling to hold back a retort. This is too easy.

I reach past her, my fingers brushing along the marble surface as I grab what’s left of the quiche, lifting a piece between my fingers. She watches, tense, as I take a careful bite, chewing thoughtfully.

Her eyes flicker to my lips for the briefest second before she forces herself to look away.

I swallow, dragging the moment out before finally speaking.

“Not bad.”

Her expression flickers, irritation flashing in her eyes before she exhales sharply. “You’re impossible.”

I tilt my head, studying her. “Yet you made me breakfast and everything.”

She glares. “It was for me.”

I smirk. “Of course it was.”

Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t move when I lean in, my hands resting on either side of her, caging her against the counter. She could push me away. She doesn’t.

“You know,” I murmur, my lips just barely grazing her ear, “I think you like taking care of me, printsessa.”

She shudders, her body betraying her.

“I think,” I continue, “you’re adjusting quite well to being my wife.”

Her breath is ragged, her chest rising and falling rapidly, but she doesn’t deny it. She can’t. The truth is, she is adjusting.

The defiance is still there, but she’s growing more comfortable, more attuned to the way things work here. A part of me—one I should ignore—likes seeing it.

I cup her jaw, tilting her face up to mine. Her lips part slightly, her body tensing as she waits—unsure if she should fight me or melt into the inevitable.

I make the choice for her. I press my lips against hers, slow but firm, coaxing rather than demanding. Julie doesn’t resist. She gasps softly against my mouth, but she doesn’t pull away. If anything, she leans in, responding just enough to tell me everything I need to know.

She wants this. She’s confused, but she wants.

The realization sends heat curling through my veins, my hand slipping to the small of her back, tugging her closer.

Her hands fist at my shirt, gripping the fabric like she doesn’t know whether to push me away or keep me there.

I deepen the kiss, biting down on her lower lip just enough to make her gasp again, her fingers twitching against my chest.

I feel the moment she gives in, the exact second she lets herself enjoy this. It’s intoxicating.

Just when I think I might take this further, I pull back, leaving her breathless and dazed.

She blinks up at me, her lips slightly swollen, her breathing uneven.

I brush my thumb along her jawline, smirking as I whisper, “Not bad.”

Her cheeks burn.

I step back, satisfied, my hands returning to my sides as I watch her struggle to compose herself. This is what I wanted.

Her body, her reactions, her growing confusion. The way her anger now comes second to the desire simmering just beneath the surface.

She swallows hard, turning away to busy herself with cleaning up, but I catch the way her fingers tremble slightly.

Yes. She’s adjusting. I like it far more than I should.

I watch as she fights for control, trying to regain the upper hand, but it’s already lost. The way she’s standing, her back straight but her breath uneven, the way she refuses to meet my gaze—she’s still reeling. Still affected.

I like knowing I did that to her.

I step in closer again, this time slower, deliberate. The tension between us thickens, electric and humming with something undeniable. I reach up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, letting my fingers graze against the soft skin of her cheek.

She shivers, but whether it’s from my touch or frustration, I can’t quite tell.

“I’ve been thinking,” I say, my voice smooth, measured.

Her eyes flick up to mine, wary. “That sounds dangerous.”

I chuckle, amused. “For you? Maybe.”

Her lips press together, like she wants to say something but stops herself. I let the moment stretch between us before continuing.

“You’ve been… adjusting,” I muse, trailing my fingers lightly along her jaw, just enough to make her nerves spike again. “So I’ve decided to relax your supervision somewhat.”

She tenses, skeptical. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” I say, “you’ll be allowed to roam the estate as you see fit. The grounds, the gardens. You can breathe a little.”

For a second, I see the flicker of relief in her eyes. Hope. I crush it just as quickly.

“You can’t leave the property,” I continue. “You won’t go anywhere beyond the gardens without me—or Ivan.”

The relief on her face vanishes, replaced by immediate frustration.

She steps back, arms crossing, that defiance of hers flaring up again. “So I’m still a prisoner. Just in a bigger cage.”

I arch a brow. “Don’t be dramatic.”

She scoffs. “Oh, forgive me, Mikhail, for thinking that having a few more square feet to walk around in doesn’t exactly count as freedom.”

I smirk. “It’s more than you had before.”

“It’s still nothing.”

I exhale through my nose, amusement flickering in my chest. I do enjoy this about her. How she pushes. How she challenges. She may not have power here, but she doesn’t let herself feel small.

It would be admirable if it weren’t so foolish.

“You’re not getting more than this,” I tell her plainly. “This is as much as I’m willing to give.”

Her jaw clenches. “If I argue?”

I step in close again, tilting my head, watching the way her breath hitches. “You won’t win.”

Her throat bobs, but she doesn’t back down. She lets out a slow, exasperated breath, rolling her eyes. “Of course. because Mikhail Sharov always has to win.”

I grin. “Now you’re getting it.”

She glares at me, but there’s something else behind it now. A heat neither of us wants to acknowledge, but neither of us can ignore.

She shakes her head, stepping away from me. “I don’t know why you still won’t let me have just an inch of freedom.”

I chuckle. “You’re my wife, but you’re still you.”

She exhales sharply, running a hand through her hair. “I should throw something at you.”

I smirk, tilting my head. “Go ahead. See what happens.”

She freezes, then scowls. “This is the worst.”

I grin. “I know.”

She turns on her heel, muttering something under her breath as she storms toward the door. I don’t stop her.

Just before she steps out, I call after her. “Julie.”

She pauses, her shoulders tense.

I lower my voice, letting it drop into something softer, something almost intimate. “I meant what I said,” I murmur. “Roam. Breathe. Take what I’ve given you.”

She turns her head just slightly, not enough to look at me, but enough to let me know she’s listening.

I smirk. “Don’t mistake it for freedom.”

She exhales, a shuddering breath, then walks out without another word.

I watch her go, her posture rigid, her fists clenched at her sides. Even with her back to me, I can feel her frustration, her barely restrained anger.

It amuses me.

Julie is learning. She’s adapting. She may still fight me, still push, but she’s beginning to understand her place here. While she may not admit it yet, she’s also beginning to accept it.

That knowledge settles deep in my chest, a quiet satisfaction curling there.

I take a slow breath, running a hand down my jaw as I turn back to my plate. The quiche sits there, cooling, forgotten in the aftermath of our exchange. I pick up my fork, take another bite, chewing thoughtfully.

Still good. I smirk to myself, shaking my head before setting the fork down again.

Julie Spade is a puzzle I didn’t expect to enjoy solving.