I stand there on the steps, the heavy door swinging shut behind him. The soldiers hover nearby, silent, waiting.
My breath catches. For the first time in years, I don’t know what to say.
Chapter 8 – Lev
I storm into the foyer, boots echoing against the marble floor, my mind a storm of strategy and fury. Every step I take is measured, controlled—no one can see the chaos underneath. I hear the front door swing open behind me, the sharp click of heels slicing through the tension.
Sasha.
I turn, and the storm in her eyes hits me like a physical force. Rage, disbelief, betrayal—all of it burning across her face. “What kind of sick, twisted game is this, Lev?” Her voice is sharp, cutting, and somehow, it makes the air feel tighter.
I freeze for the barest second, meeting her glare. Her anger would terrify any man—any ordinary man. But I’ve faced worse. I’ve killed worse. Yet none of that prepared me for her.
“I’m tired of explaining things, Sasha,” I say, my voice low but firm. “You can make whatever decision you want. You are free to choose, but the options are limited. That’s the reality.”
I watch her fury flare, the set of her jaw, the fire in her eyes. It should irritate me. It should push me away. And yet…it doesn’t.
She’s still exactly as magnetic as she was in Milan, in New York—every sharp word, every flare of emotion, pulling at me in ways I’ve never felt before. My pulse quickens, heat crawling up my neck, settling low in my gut. She’s mine now, by law, by contract, by the twisted design of her father’s debt—but seeing her here, in my house, makes it impossibly real.
I clamp down on the possessive surge threatening to spill out. She has no idea what it does to me, the way she carries herself, the defiance that screams she will never bow. And it makes me want her more. Not like before, casually. No. This is a claiming, a marking of territory I can’t afford to deny.
Her glare sharpens as she realizes I’m not retreating. I don’t flinch. I don’t apologize. I let her rage simmer against me, letting it stoke the fire between us.
Because the truth is—I don’t want her to be just anyone’s. Not now. Not ever.
And that thought, that desire, is almost as dangerous as the world she’s been dragged into.
“Wow.” She drags a hand down her face, her frustration obvious.
I nod once, crisp. “You’ll have your own room for now,” I say, keeping my tone neutral, though the pull in my chest is raw. “The moment we say our vows, you move into my suite. Everything you own, from your apartment, will be brought here. You can buy whatever you want—anything. My money is yours. All of it.”
Her laugh is sharp, bitter. “I don’t care about your money,” she spits. “And you can go to hell.”
Lev ignores her spark and continues like she didn’t just curse at him. “As for your wedding dress, I’ll handle it. Everything will be ready before the vows.”
She folds her arms, chin tilted high. “Pick a black one,” she snaps. “To match the color of your heart.”
The corner of my mouth curves before I can stop it. Her defiance, her bite—it still cuts straight through me. I let out a low laugh, not soft, but sharp. “Black suits you,” I murmur. “But don’t fool yourself, Sasha. You have no idea how dark my heart really is.”
I push off the doorframe and take a step toward her, just enough for her to feel my presence, to smell the faint trace of smoke and leather that clings to me. “And don’t even think about running.” My voice drops, a quiet command. “Finding you would not be difficult. Not for me. Not for my men. You’d be back here before the ink dried on your escape plan.”
I turn away before I do something I’ll regret.
“Get some sleep,” I say over my shoulder. “You’ll need it.”
And then I leave her standing there, still spitting sparks, still mine even if she hasn’t accepted it yet.
I storm into my office and drop onto the leather chair, trying to force my focus onto the accounts sprawled across the desk. Numbers blur. Columns and totals mean nothing. Sasha. Her fire. Her defiance. It clogs my brain like smoke in a sealed room.
I shrug off my jacket, letting it fall to the chair. I loosen a button or two on my shirt, trying to free myself from the tension coiling in my chest. Still—nothing. My eyes skim the papers, my mind somewhere else entirely.
I rise, stiff-legged, and walk over to the sideboard. My hand hovers over the crystal bottle before I grip it, pouring a generous shot of vodka. The amber liquid catches the dim light of the office as I tilt the glass back, swallowing down heat that does nothing to touch the cold ache of her presence in my thoughts.
I set the glass down, tapping it once against the polished wood. I should be strategizing, planning, untangling debts and ledgers, but instead I replay her face, her voice, the sharpness of her tongue. And a feral part of me—one I usually lock away behind contracts and numbers—is alive, and it is furious.
She’s mine. And yet, she’s not. Not fully. And the very thought burns like acid across my chest.
I pour another.
