The words hit me like cold water. I freeze. Just like I always do.
“I—I’m sorry—I just wanted to make you breakfast…”
My throat tightens. I grasp for the English, but panic pushes the wrong language through my lips.
«? ???????, ??? ????? ??????? ??? ??????????… ????? ?? ?? ????????? ???? ??????? ? ????.»
I hope I can make you happy so you won’t send me back to my father.
As soon as the words slip out in Russian, shame floods me. I look down.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper in English, head bowing instinctively. “It won’t happen again.”
His footsteps thunder across the floor. I brace myself. But instead of anger, instead of coldness— His hand touches my chin. Gently. So gently that it startles me, the unexpected warmth of his skin against mine stopping my breath completely.
“Elena.” His voice is lower now. Rough, steady, completely devoid of the sharp command of a moment ago. “I’m sorry I snapped.” My eyes snap up, startled by the apology. Apologies were only for the weak. He shakes his head once, releasing a slow, weary sigh. “I had a bad call this morning. It has nothing to do with you. And I’m… not used to a woman being in my house.”
I swallow hard, feeling the sting of tears. “I didn’t mean to—”
“You don’t need to explain.” His thumb brushes lightly against my chin before he lets go. His gaze is intense, piercing, forcing me to hold his stare. “You’re a Moretti now. Morettis are strong. We don’t bow our heads to anyone.”
He pauses, allowing the meaning of the words to sink in, his expression unyielding.
Then, softer—a profound, almost tender undertone in his voice—
“Not even to their stupid husbands.”
Heat prickles behind my eyes. No one has ever spoken to me like that.
“I don’t… know how to be strong,” I confess, voice barely there. “I was never taught.”
His gaze holds mine, unblinking, unwavering. “Then I’ll teach you,” he says. Simple. Certain. Like a promise he intends to keep. And for the first time since I arrived in this house, something deep inside me stirs—not obedience, not fear, but something warm and fragile and new.
Chapter 6
The kitchen is quieter now, but I can still hear her voice echoing in my head.
«? ???????, ??? ????? ??????? ??? ??????????… ????? ?? ?? ????????? ???? ??????? ? ????.»
I hope I can make you happy so you won’t send me back to my father.
When those words slipped out of her trembling mouth, something inside me snapped—not at her, but at the thought of her believing that was even possible. And I almost barked again. Not from anger…but from the sharp, unexpected punch of emotion I couldn’t hide quickly enough. I know some Russian. Not much. Just enough to understand alliances, negotiations, threats. That’s what I told myself when I started learning months ago—that I needed it for The Family. For diplomacy. But I’m a liar.
I learned it for her. For mywife.
I run a hand over my jaw as she moves around the kitchen, quietly placing food in front of me like she’s unsure she’s allowed to breathe in this house. Her hands shake when she pours the juice. Her eyes stay fixed on the floor. Her shoulders hunch like she’s apologizing for taking up space. And I hate it. I hate what they did to her. I hate that I almost fed into it this morning. I watch her sit down across from me, back straight, eyes lowered, as if waiting for instructions she expects me to give.
I clear my throat. “Eat.”
She does—small bites, quick and careful, like someone who’s been trained to finish before anyone can reprimand her. I need to pull her out of this shell. But how the hell do you fix something that’s been carved into a person since childhood? I try the obvious approach first.
“What do you like to do, Elena?”
Her fork stops mid-air. She blinks. Opens her mouth. Closes it again.
“I…” She swallows. “I don’t know.”
“How do you not know what you like?”
