My face must reflect the darkness of my thoughts, the memory of blood and ash and the moment my childhood ended, because her steps falter when she sees my expression.
She stops. Studies me with those sharp eyes that see too much, analyze too quickly, miss nothing.
Then her mouth curves into what might be a smile if it weren't so deliberately cutting.
"Smile," she says, voice bright with manufactured cheer. "You'd look prettier. And it's free."
The audacity renders me momentarily speechless.
No one speaks to me like that. Not my brothers. Not business associates. Not the politicians I've bought or the enemies I've buried. Certainly not the woman I married three days ago in a transaction we both understood was strategic necessity.
She doesn't wait for a response. Just carries on as if she didn't just throw a verbal knife designed to wound.
"I've been thinking about curtains," she continues, moving deeper into my office without invitation. "Heavy velvet, probably. Dark red or maybe navy. Something to make this mausoleum feel less like you're cosplaying as a Victorian orphan. I'd like your opinion."
Each word is a needle under my skin. Precise. Intentional. Calculated to provoke.
I stand, smooth my jacket with deliberate care. "I have a meeting to attend."
"With a tailor, I hope." She tilts her head, gaze traveling over my suit with mock assessment. "Those shoulders could use some proper structure. Unless the 'haunted undertaker' look is intentional."
Now I know for certain.
She's doing this on purpose. Every provocation calculated to breach the walls I've spent decades building, to make me lose composure, to create leverage she can exploit.
All my suits are custom. Tailored in Milan by the same atelier my father used when we were still one of Russia's most powerful families, before the betrayal, before the blood. Each one costs more than most people make in a month, and they fit like they were designed by someone who understands that clothing is protection and presentation in equal measure.
"Actually," she continues, examining a book on my shelf with feigned interest, "it's a shame you have a meeting. I was going to invite you to lunch at Maison Lyra. We need to synchronize schedules for the public events you're required to attend as my devoted husband." She pauses, traces one finger along the book's spine. "You know, to accomplish your goal of infiltrating Chicago's elite. Your words, not mine."
Maison Lyra.
The place where I spent an hour and a half slowly starving while Victoria performed socialite with disturbing ease.
I'd rather attend a rival Bratva meeting unarmed.
"We can handle that later," I say, moving toward the door with measured steps.
But she's not finished. She steps into my path, deliberate, and confrontational, forcing me to acknowledge her presence, herproximity, the scent of sandalwood and vanilla that's invaded my office like an occupying army.
I stop. We're close enough that I can see the gold flecks in her dark eyes, can feel the heat radiating off her skin despite the space between us.
"Besides," I continue, keeping my voice level, clinical, "you can't leave the house without security. Zakhar hasn't assigned you a bodyguard yet."
Her expression shifts instantly. The playful provocation drains away, replaced by genuine fury that makes her eyes flash.
"Excuse me?"
"It's not safe for you to move around the city alone anymore.You're a Severyn now. That makes you a target for anyone who wants leverage against us."
"I didn't agree to this." Her voice drops into rage barely leashed, cold and sharp as a blade. "You're taking away my freedom. That wasn't part of the deal we negotiated."
"Your freedom isn't negotiable when it comes to your safety." I meet her glare with practiced calm, the kind that's ended arguments with men twice her size and three times as violent. "This isn't punishment. Your father made deals with dangerous people. We promised to keep you alive. Even if that means protecting you from your own recklessness."
"Recklessness—"
"You need security." Each word deliberate, final, absolute. "We're reviewing our personnel now. Selecting someone who can keep up with you without interfering more than necessary. Someone discreet."
She steps closer, invading my space now, refusing to be intimidated. Close enough that I can see the rapid pulse beating in her throat, can feel the fury radiating off her in waves.
