“But, I—”
“You are twenty-two. This is likely your first real relationship.” He waves a hand dismissively. “I won’t have my wife storming out because I left the toilet seat up, or left clothes on the floor.”
“I wouldn’t leave over that.”
“But I don’t know that, do I?”
My jaw clenches. “You don’t trust me?”
He doesn’t answer. He just arches a brow, letting the silence stretch until the irony lands.
Reflexively, I cross my arms. “Fine. Anything else?”
“When I ask a question, I expect the truth.”
“I will always give you the truth.” He doesn't blink. “When I can. In my world, silence is sometimes safety. But I will never lie to you.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. “And what is your world? Exactly?”
“It’s complicated.”
He moves toward me. Fluid. Silent. He stops two feet away, and I have to tilt my head back to hold his gaze. The space between us feels charged, heavy.
“My family is not in the mafia,” he says, his voice dropping to a low rumble. “We are not a syndicate. ‘Bratva’ is a word outsiders use for things they don’t understand. We are a family with… interests. We enforce our own contracts. We handle our own problems.”
“Handle them how?” The whisper scrapes my throat.
“Efficiently. Quietly. Permanently.”
My blood runs cold. I don’t need a diagram. People who cross the Aslanovs don’t get served with lawsuits. They get erased. “You said you have enemies.” I force the words out.
“Every powerful family has rivals. But they are not your concern.” He steps closer, invading my space. “No one will ever touch you. I gave you my word. That is absolute.”
The certainty in his voice should be comforting. Instead, it feels like the door of a cage locking into place. A gold-plated, velvet-lined cage. “And my role?” I ask. “Besides caring for Galina?”
“You will be my wife. You will be an Aslanov. You attend functions. You host dinners. You smile and look at me like I hung the moon.”
“Pretending.”
“There will be no pretending in my bed, Aria.”
The air leaves the room.
He takes the final step. I’m trapped between the solid wood of the door and the heat radiating off him. He lifts a hand, knuckles grazing my cheek. His skin is rough, warm. My lungs seize. All I can smell is him—soap, scotch, and danger.
“I haven’t said yes,” I stammer.
“Haven’t you?”
His gaze drops to my stomach, where my hand is still tucked. He takes my wrist. His grip is firm—not painful, but inescapable. He pulls my hand free, uncurling my fingers one by one.
The diamond flares under the overhead light. He’s right. I put it on. I kept it on. My shoulders slump. The fight drains out of my legs. “Yes.” The whisper hangs in the silence.
A muscle feathers in his jaw. He doesn't gloat. He lifts my hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the ring. His eyes never leave mine. It’s not romantic. It’s feudal. A king branding his acquisition.
“Good.” His voice is gravel.
The next seven days are a blur of motion.
