His mouth curves in something close to a smile, but his eyes stay cold. “I think you wanted me as much as I wanted you. Hate doesn’t erase that.”
I roll to my side, turning my back to him, clutching the sheet tight around me. “Whatever you say.”
The words are steady, but my voice cracks just enough to betray me. He doesn’t press. He lets the silence settle again, though I know he doesn’t believe me. Worse, I don’t believe myself either.
Time crawls. Neither of us sleeps. He gets up eventually, moving quietly around the room, pulling his clothes back on and slipping into the en suite. I keep my eyes closed, pretending to be asleep, but I feel every shift, every movement.
When the door clicks softly behind him, I finally exhale, the tension spilling out of me all at once. I curl tighter into myself, sheets twisted around my body, shame burning hotter than the afterglow.
My skin still tingles where his hands touched me. My lips still ache from his kisses. My body still aches for more.
I know I’m lying.
Eventually the en suite door creaks open, soft light spilling briefly across the floor before he kills it. My pulse quickens, though I keep my eyes closed and face turned toward the wall. The mattress dips under his weight as he climbs back in, movements quiet, deliberate.
Heat radiates from him immediately, his scent—soap, smoke—curling into the sheets. A moment later his arm slides across my waist, heavy, possessive. My body stiffens, every nerve on edge, but I don’t move.
I keep my breathing even, steady, feigning the rhythm of sleep. His chest presses to my back, his breath grazing my hair,slow and measured. He must know I’m awake. Or maybe he doesn’t care.
The weight of his arm tightens slightly, pulling me closer until there’s no space left between us. My heart thunders, my body betraying me with a rush of warmth low in my stomach.
I lie frozen, torn between yanking his hand away and sinking into the heat of him. In the end I do nothing. I let him hold me, silent, eyes shut tight, pretending.
Pretending I don’t want this. Pretending it means nothing. Pretending I can still hate him.
Chapter Twenty - Alexei
The men sit around the table, smoke curling toward the ceiling, glasses of vodka sweating on the wood. It’s the same as every Council meeting—sharp words, harsher threats, the smell of fear hidden beneath expensive cologne. Only this time, it isn’t the same. This time, she’s here.
Vivienne walks into the room beside me, chin lifted, every line of her body daring them to question it. She wears black instead of white, sleek and sharp, her hair pinned high. The ring glitters on her hand like a weapon.
The murmur of voices stills the second they see her. A few men straighten in their chairs, others exchange glances. One clears his throat. “This isn’t—”
I cut him down with a look. “She stays.”
The silence that follows is thick, uneasy. Still, none of them argue. None of them dare.
She takes the seat at my right, crossing her legs, folding her hands in her lap. Calm. Composed. I know her well enough now to see the tension in her shoulders, but no one else does. To them she looks untouchable. Mine.
The meeting continues, though eyes flick to her often, suspicion sharp in their gazes. I speak, I direct, I end arguments before they ignite. All the while, I feel her presence at my side like a second heartbeat.
When it’s over, I dismiss the men and walk her out. The door shuts behind us, muffling the scrape of chairs and low murmurs.
“You didn’t tell me you’d do that,” she says, voice edged.
“I don’t need to tell you.”
Her glare flashes, but she doesn’t push. She knows as well as I do the weight of what just happened.
It changes everything.
No longer can I treat her like a prisoner. That line was crossed the second I claimed her before the Council. Now, with her sitting in a seat no woman has sat before, there’s no going back.
I bring her into the library the next morning, stacks of ledgers and reports spread across the table. She stands there, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, suspicion radiating.
“You have two choices,” I tell her. “Keep sulking in your room, or put yourself to use.”
Her mouth parts, ready to spit something sharp, but I cut her off. “Either way, you’re here. You can rot, or you can work.”
