Ivan spins around. "Jesus, Igor, take it ea—" The words die in his throat.
I step through the woodchips and sawdust. My eyes zero in on Aria. She is standing against the desk, gripping the mahogany edge so hard her knuckles are white. She is shaking—a fine, violent tremor running through her frame—but she is standing.
Silent. Composed. Breaking, but refusing to shatter.
I cross the room, ignoring Ivan. He doesn't exist. I reach her, checking the violence in my hands, forcing my fingers to be gentle as I cup her face.
"Are you alright?" My voice is rough, strangled by rage.
She nods once. A sharp, jerky movement. She swallows hard, forcing air into her lungs, and meets my gaze. I pull her away from the desk and into my arms. I wrap my coat around her shoulders, shielding her, burying her face in my chest. She clutches my shirt, her fingers digging in, holding on for dear life. But there are no tears.
Then, I turn to Ivan. His joking demeanor is gone. The blood has drained from his face. He’s stepped on a landmine, and the realization dawns in his eyes.
"Igor, I—" he starts.
"Get. The. Fuck. Out."
The command is quiet. Absolute.
"It’s a tradition. A joke."
"Did she look like she was laughing?" My voice drops an octave. "I said, get the fuck out. Go back to your home, or I will shoot you where you stand. In fact I might shoot you anyway. You put your hands on my woman. My fucking woman. Youscared her. And you thought taking her from me was something to play with."
My hand itches, jumping to the gun beneath my jacket. It’s never far from me, but I’ve never considered using it on my brother before. Aria puts a hand on my chest. An angel soothing a devil… saving him.
Ivan swallows. He looks at me, then his eyes flick to the woman standing rigid in my arms. He nods once, curtly, and walks out of the room. Illya follows him. The front door closes.
Silence returns.
I lead her out of the study. Not stopping until we’re back in the master suite—our sanctuary. I guide her to the plush armchair by the window and pour a finger of brandy.
My heavy frame, built for breaking things, crouches on the floor before her. A king on his knees.
"Here. Drink."
Her hands are shaking. I cover them with mine, steadying the glass as she sips.
"It's just brandy," I soothe. "It will help."
She swallows the fire. The rigid set of her shoulders eases a fraction. She looks at me, really looks at me. Her eyes search my face and land on the rage I haven't fully extinguished.
"He won't touch you again," I say. It’s not a promise. It’s a. "I got you. It’s another wedding vow.
“You broke the door.”
“It stood between us. Remember this. If someone takes you from me, I’m coming for you. Nothing will stand in my way. The next man, if any is that dumb, dies. Brother or not.”
Her hazel eyes hold mine so long, I shift from foot to foot. Finally, she sets the glass down. Her breathing slows. I look at her, and a tumbler clicks into place in my chest. I married her because I wanted her. Because I was obsessed with her body, her face. Because Galina insisted I needed a wife, and Aria was theonly one I could tolerate. I thought I was choosing a convenient bedwarmer. A nurse to keep the peace.
I was wrong.
Most people think strength is noise. They think it’s shouting, fighting, and throwing punches like my brothers. But I know what real strength is. Real strength is silence. It is standing in the middle of a nightmare, terror clawing at your throat, and refusing to make a sound. It is enduring the fire without letting it burn you down. That look in her eyes downstairs. The terror was there, yes. But underneath it was steel. She isn't Galina’s choice anymore. She isn't a business arrangement. She is mine. I lean forward, resting my forehead against hers.
"I know," she whispers, before pulling me close. Her hummingbird lips flutter beneath mine in the first kiss she’s ever initiated. She pulls back, and I let her withdraw only to better see her face, and then I take everything she offers.
Aria
Hestayscrouched,hishands on my knees for so long that the tremor fade from my limbs. The rough denim of my jeans is a barrier between his skin and mine, and I see the fight in his eyes. The urge to slide his hands higher, to claim me again. But he holds back. He’s giving me space to breathe, and the restraint is a comfort all its own.
