Then he pulled back.
No explanation. No words.
He turned his head away as though the last heartbeat had never existed.
The silence was brutal.
Heat rushed to my cheeks—humiliation first, then anger, then something sharp and fragile that felt dangerously close to rejection. Before pride could stop me, I yanked the duvet up and over my head, curling inward, hiding like a wounded thing.
The mattress shifted.
Fabric rustled.
I peeked out just in time to see him rise, broad back rigid with tension, every line of his body screaming restraint. He crossed the room in long strides, hand already reaching for the door.
“Where are you going?” The question escaped me before I could stop it.
He paused at the threshold and glanced back over his shoulder, one dark brow lifting.
“I would have thought,” he said mildly, “that you didn’t care.”
I pushed myself upright, the duvet slipping to my waist, pulse pounding. “You’re my husband,” I said, forcing steadiness into my voice. “For the next three months, at least. It’s only natural I act like a wife.”
His eyes flicked to my bare shoulders, the exposed line of my throat.
“Where,” I added softly, dangerously, “is my husband going in the middle of the night?”
His gaze flicked pointedly to the unmistakable bulge straining against the black fabric of his sweatpants. “As you can see,” he murmured, voice low and rough with dark amusement, “I’m hard. I need something to... cool me down.”
A hot spike of jealousy flared in my chest, sharp and unwelcome. My pulse thundered. “And what exactly would that be?”
His eyes drifted toward the door on the left—Seraphina’s room. The implication hung heavy, poisonous in the dim light.
“You said you don’t want sex in this marriage,” he added with a shrug, as if the idea were the most logical, innocent thing in the world. “I don’t see the harm in seeking it elsewhere. With someone who might actually welcome it.”
I froze. My stomach twisted, part anger, part disbelief, part that unwelcome heat I hated myself for. “With your mistress?” I snapped, voice sharp, words tasting like bitter acid. “The woman you can barely stand to look at? Please. I’m not naive, Dmitri, but even you wouldn’t sink that low.”
He tilted his head, smirk curling his lips like a knife drawn slowly across silk. “I guess we’ll find out.”
Before I could respond, before I could even process the audacity, he opened the door and stepped into the hallway, the soft click of it closing behind him echoing like a challenge.
My heart slammed against my ribs. Fury propelled me out of bed. I didn’t pause for shoes, didn’t bother with a robe. Sweaterand jeans were enough armor as I stormed after him, my bare feet skimming over the cool marble, goosebumps prickling my skin.
To my relief—and my mounting curiosity—he didn’t turn left toward Seraphina’s room. Instead, his long strides carried him in the opposite direction, each footfall silent, purposeful.
I followed, careful yet clumsy, trying to match his pace without tripping. He would know I was there. A man like Dmitri, trained in shadows and survival, always knew when someone followed him. That knowledge made the heat in my chest flare even brighter.
He led me through narrow, dimly lit corridors I hadn’t noticed before, the walls lined with rich mahogany panels and faint traces of old oil paint.
A side door appeared, slightly ajar, leading out into a wing of the estate I hadn’t realized existed. The night air hit me cool and sharp as I stepped outside, carrying the scent of chlorine and wet stone.
Ahead, a private pool gleamed beneath the moon, glass walls revealing the gardens below and the faint shimmer of Lake Como far off. Moonlight danced on the water, casting silver ribbons that mirrored the tension coiling tight in my chest.
Without hesitation, he reached the pool’s edge and stripped off his sweatpants in one fluid motion. Naked. Unapologetic. Exquisite.
I ducked instinctively behind a potted fern, my heart hammering so hard I thought he might hear it. But even there, hidden, I couldn’t tear my eyes away. Moonlight traced the hard lines of his shoulders, the taper of his waist, the firm curve of his ass. I hated that my body responded, hated the traitorous warmth coiling low in my belly, hated the pull of desire that had nothing to do with reason or morality.
Then he dove.
