But looking at the tension in their shoulders, the way they're braced for mockery or pity or whatever cruelty they expect from me, I make a different choice.
I decide to protect them instead.
"Finally," I say, letting my voice ring with aristocratic irritation as I stride into the gym like I own it. "Zakhar, I've been looking everywhere for you."
His expression shifts from guarded to wary. "Why?"
"Because you still haven't arranged for my security person." I cross the gym floor, letting my frustration show in every step, real irritation mixed with performance. "It's been four days. Four. How hard is it to assign someone to chauffeur me around?"
"I'm working on it." His voice is flat, giving nothing away.
"Work faster." I stop directly in front of him, have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes because he towers over. "If you don't have someone sorted soon, you'll be the one escorting me everywhere I need to go."
His jaw tightens. A muscle jumps beneath stubbled skin. "That won't be necessary."
"Pilates." I poke his chest with one finger, solid muscle beneath slick skin, still warm from exertion. My fingertip registers heat, the steady drum of his heartbeat. "Brunch." Another poke, harder this time. "Nails." Another. "Spa. Hairdresser.Shopping." Each word punctuated with my finger against his sternum, feeling his heartbeat accelerate beneath my touch, feeling my own pulse answer in kind.
His hand shoots out. Catches my wrist. Holds it against his chest so I can feel the thunder of his pulse, rapid, uneven, betraying the control he's trying to maintain.
"I would rather," he says, voice low and dangerous, each word deliberate, "have someone do paper cuts between my fingers and squeeze lemon juice into the wounds than drive you to those places."
We're close. Too close.
His chest rises and falls beneath my trapped hand. I feel each breath, each heartbeat, each micro-movement of muscle beneath hot skin. His breath mixes with mine. His grip on my wrist is firm but not painful, his thumb pressed against my racing pulse like he's taking my measure, reading my response in real time.
I can smell his clean sweat, masculine and uniquely him, that makes my head spin and my knees forget their structural purpose.
The air between us crackles. Electric. Charged with awareness I can't deny and shouldn't want.
His green eyes drop to my mouth. Linger there for one heartbeat, two, three. Then snap back up to meet mine, and what I see in them makes heat coil low in my spine.
Want. Raw and barely restrained.
I watch his throat work as he swallows. See his jaw clench. Feel his fingers tighten fractionally on my wrist before he releases me like I burned him.
He steps back. Puts safe distance between us with the deliberate precision of someone retreating from a threat they don't trust themselves around.
"I have things to do," he says, voice rougher than before, scraped raw. "Excuse me."
He moves past me toward the door, and I turn to watch him go. Can't help it. My wrist still tingles where he touched me, my pulse coming too fast, my body humming with awareness I refuse to examine too closely.
The door closes behind him with a soft click that sounds like finality.
I exhale. Try to steady myself. Try to remember why I walked in here in the first place, what I was hoping to accomplish beyond this restless need to move, to fight, to feel something I can control.
Then I feel warmth at my shoulder. Presence without sound.
Alexei has moved without noise, positioned himself close enough that I can feel his body heat, smell the salt-sweet scent of his skin.
"Careful,kotyonok," he murmurs, his voice a purr against my ear that raises goosebumps down my neck, my arms. "You keep poking the bear like that, one of these days he's going to bite."
10
VICTORIA
The office beneath Maison Lyra hums with quiet competence. Filtered light turns everything soft-edged, but the mood is sharp. Laptops click. Papers rustle. Four women sit around the conference table like accountants of vengeance, plotting salvation in spreadsheets and shipping manifests.
I lean forward, finger tapping once against polished wood. The only sign I'm not as calm as I sound.
