Chapter 6 – Niko
By the time the brunch is done and the last glass of champagne has been cleared, I lead Noelle back through the estate’s halls, my hand resting lightly against her back. The world feels unnervingly steady, as if everything I’ve ever known has shifted half a degree and is still settling into place.
I’m married.
I have a wife.
The words circle like crows in my head, sharp and unreal. I keep my face smooth, every thought and flicker of doubt locked behind the mask I’ve worn for years. She doesn’t need to see the chaos stirring beneath it. No one does.
We step into the suite, the heavy door closing behind us with a final, quiet thud. For a moment, neither of us speaks. The room is large, drenched in soft afternoon light, and the silence stretches until it feels alive. I gesture toward the lounge.
“Sit.” My voice comes out calm, clipped, like I planned this moment down to the second.
She obeys, lowering herself onto the couch with quiet grace. The skirt of her wedding dress spills around her like liquid ivory, the lace catching on the light. I take the chair opposite, the distance deliberate, necessary.
And then I make the mistake of looking at her again.
She’s beautiful. Painfully so. The kind of beautiful that makes a man’s chest tighten until it hurts to breathe. The crown of flowers in her hair, the faint flush on her cheeks, the way her eyes—sharp, wary, unyielding—still manage to soften the room.
My wife.
I school my features into indifference, but inside, the realization claws at me.
I almost can’t believe it.
She clears her throat and meets my eyes. That fire is there again—the same one that drew me to her. If only she knew how much it turns me on.
“I’m tired,” she murmurs, her voice low but firm. “I’d like to go in and rest.”
“Soon.” I nod once, as if this is already settled. “I just need to set some rules.”
Her eyes flash, sharp and suspicious. “Rules?”
“Yeah.” I lift one shoulder in a careless shrug, though every word I’m about to say is anything but casual. “You don’t step outside the estate without an escort. Two soldiers minimum. You don’t invite anyone in unless they’ve been cleared—security checks, background, the works. I won’t risk you becoming a liability.”
Her lips part, outrage flickering across her face, but I keep going.
“And the clinic?” I lean back, studying her, waiting for her reaction. “You can quit. You don’t need to work anymore. You don’t need to make money anymore. That’s my job now—to provide for you. That’s what a husband does.”
The wordhusbandtastes strange on my tongue. Strange, but final. Oddly enough, I like it.
Noelle lets out a humorless chuckle, the sound scraping against my chest like broken glass. “You didn’t marry me to own me,” she says, eyes burning into mine. “You married me to shut me up. To put a neat little bow on the Anton case. So stop acting like this is anything more than that.”
She rises before I can respond, her skirts brushing against my leg as she moves away. My hand shoots out, fingers closing around her wrist.
She jerks free, the defiance in her spine unmistakable as she keeps walking.
I push back from the table, the chair legs screeching against the floor, and cross the space in two strides. My hand finds her before she reaches the door. I spin her, pressing her against the wall, my palm sliding up to cradle her throat. Not choking. Just holding. Containing. Claiming.
Her breath catches. Mine does too. Our faces are mere inches apart, heat radiating in the thin air between us.
I can feel the pulse hammering beneath my fingers, and for a dangerous moment, I can’t tell if it’s hers or mine.
My voice is low, rough, meant for her alone. “I married you because you belong to me. And when someone touches what’s mine, I bury them.”
Her eyes widen, defiance sparking hotter than ever. I tighten my hold just enough to remind her who she’s dealing with. “It’s your duty to listen. To follow my rules. Do exactly as I say, and things will stay beautiful. But if you don’t”—I lean closer, letting my breath brush her lips—“it won’t look good for you.”
Her laugh is sharp, bitter. “Fuck off, Niko.”
