And then I see his neck.
Oh my God. His neck.
Bruises wrap it like a map of violence—purple, black, blue. Finger marks memorialized on his skin. He keeps rubbing them and wincing.
"Time to sail, printsessa."
His voice is off, like talking itself is punishment.
"What happened to your neck?"
"Your fucking boyfriend happened." Each word is sharp. "That's what."
Warm and impossible hope stir up in my chest. The stupid, dangerous kind.
The meeting.
Dmitri faced Ivan. And judging by his neck, judging by the rage still simmering in him, it went badly.
Which means Ivan knows. Hehasto know something. Otherwise, why try to strangle Dmitri?
Ivan's out there. Looking. Fighting.
Did he smell the perfume?
"I said, let's go."
He grabs my arm, fingers digging in hard. Harder than yesterday. Harder than necessary.
I pull back and look at him.
He's furious. The polished predator from yesterday is gone; what's left is pure rage.
"He almost fucking killed me yesterday," he spits. "Hands around my throat, squeezed until I saw stars. Made me realize something."
He yanks me toward the door. My arm screams. My bare feet skid on the floor.
"I’ve been too soft with you. Too… accommodating. Treating you like a guest when you're inventory. Property. A problem that needs fixing."
"He'll finish the job—" I force the words out, voice thin. "Ivan will kill you."
"So fucking what?" He stops and faces me, cold as a blade. "Either way, you'll be on a boat in hours. Moscow by the week's end. Then some oligarch's private collection—where Ivan Petrov can't touch you."
"He'll have your head before we even set sail."
Wrong thing to say.
Dmitri's free hand shoots out and grabs my jaw. He squeezes hard enough that I feel bones shift. So hard enough that tears spring to my eyes involuntarily.
His face is inches from mine. I can smell vodka, anger, and maybe—underneath all of it—fear.
"You cost me respect," he says. "My men saw him strangle me in that warehouse. Saw me gasping on the ground like a dying fish. Powerless. While he demanded to know where you were."
His grip tightens.
"Humiliation requires payment, printsessa. Compensation."
"Then kill me," I manage, muffled. My jaw protests in his hold. "Just… get it over with."
