I stepped into the shower and turned it as hot as it would go.
The water hit my skin in a relentless downpour. I scrubbed my face, my neck, my hands—washed away makeup, sweat, the memory of Dmitri’s touch. I stayed there until my skin burned, until steam clouded the glass and tears slipped free, indistinguishable from the water.
I hated that my body still betrayed me.
That his voice still crawled under my skin.
That his nearness lit something reckless and alive inside me.
That at the altar, when he’d whispered cruelty into my ear, my pulse had jumped instead of recoiling.
I hated myself most of all for that.
I stepped out of the bathroom, steam billowing behind me like a veil, and froze.
Dmitri was there.
Leaning against the far wall, arms crossed over his broad chest, one ankle hooked over the other in that deceptively casual pose he used when he was anything but relaxed.
The charcoal shirt he wore was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing corded forearms I remembered far too well.
The bedside lamp threw him into chiaroscuro—sharp cheekbones, silver threading his temples like a quiet admission of time’s victories over him.
His eyes were fixed on me.
Not with desire. Not with that old, dangerous warmth that used to unravel me.
This was worse.
This was the look of a man staring at something he thought he’d buried—something that had clawed its way back to the surface and was now breathing in front of him.
My heart stuttered.
I tightened my grip on the towel instinctively, suddenly hyperaware of how little it covered, how the damp fabric clung to my skin, tracing curves I no longer apologized for.
“Hey,” I said, sharper than intended, heat flooding my face. “You don’t just walk into people’s rooms.”
For a beat, he didn’t move.
Then he pushed off the wall with deliberate slowness, unfolding his six-foot-four frame like a predator rising from rest. His footsteps were silent against the marble, each one measured, controlled—until he stopped close enough that I could feel his heat, smell the faint trace of smoke and cedar and something darker that had always been uniquely Dmitri.
“Except,” he said, voice low and rough, “you’re not people.”
My spine stiffened.
“You’re my wife now.”
The word hit like a brand.
“For three months,” I snapped, lifting my chin, refusing to let him see how violently my pulse had begun to race.
Something dangerous flickered behind his eyes—anger, yes, but threaded through with something far less controlled.
“Don’t,” he said quietly. “Say that again.”
“Why?” I challenged. “Afraid it’ll remind you this is temporary?”
His jaw tightened. A muscle ticked in his cheek.
