“We have to deal with the loose end,” another insists. “If they think she’s leverage, they’ll keep coming. Kill her now and we bury the problem.”
Everything inside me goes cold. My hands shake as I grip the doorframe, forcing myself not to gasp.
Then I hear him.
Lukyan’s voice is lower than usual, so cold it chills the air around it. “No one touches her.”
Silence. Then the sound of someone clearing their throat.
“Boss—”
“She stays,” Lukyan cuts in. “She’s mine now.”
The words slam into me. My heart stops, then starts again too fast, too loud. I press my fist against my mouth to keep from making a sound.
Mine now.
I should be terrified. I should run. Except my body refuses to move, as if rooted to the spot by disbelief, by something sharper than fear—something I don’t want to name.
One of his lieutenants hesitates. “If you claim her, the rivals won’t risk touching her. That’s true. Word’s already spreading. They’re asking why a man like you would keep a journalist alive at all.”
Lukyan doesn’t respond immediately. I hear the faint clink of glass. He’s poured himself a drink. Maybe vodka.
When he speaks again, his tone is softer, but no less dangerous. “The only way to make her untouchable,” he says, “is to make her my wife.”
My breath catches. The world tilts. My knees nearly buckle. I slap a hand against the wall to steady myself.
My ears ring. My chest tightens. I can’t tell if I’m going to scream or faint.
One of his men curses under his breath. “You can’t be serious.”
“I don’t care what you think,” Lukyan replies. “It’s the only way.”
The room goes silent. My pulse thunders.
Wife.
I back away, breath shaking, vision blurring around the edges. I force myself down the hall, each step unsteady, my mind a chaotic mess of disbelief, fear, and something burning hot beneath both.
He’d rather bind me to him than let me go. He’d rather claim me than risk losing me. He’d rather make me his than let anyone else touch me.
My heart pounds in my throat, furious and terrified.
My hands are cold and slick as I reach my room, but I can’t make myself stay. Not now. Not after hearing those words in his voice—she’s mine now, the only way is to make her my wife—echoing like thunder in my skull.
Before I know what I’m doing, I’m reaching for the door. I barely knock before I shove open the door to his office and let it slam against the wall.
He’s behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, a half-drained glass of vodka forgotten at his side. He looks up, unreadable, as if he was expecting me. He always seems to know when I’m coming.
“You can’t keep me here forever like a prisoner!” I shout, the words tearing out before I can think. My voice rings through the vast room, shaking with anger and something that feels like betrayal. “I’m not some thing you can lock away just because it’s convenient for you!”
He stands, moving with that cold, deliberate control he wears like armor. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t flinch. He looks me in the eye and says, “I can and I will, if it keeps you alive.”
It’s not a threat. It’s a promise, and somehow that makes it worse.
“Alive?” I demand, breathless. “You call this living? Locked in a gilded cage so your enemies know I’m yours?”
He doesn’t blink. “Yes.”
