I can’t look away from her.
“You’re not eating,” I say quietly, voice meant for her alone.
She shrugs, not breaking eye contact. “Not hungry.”
“Clara—”
She stands abruptly, chair scraping. “Don’t pretend you care. We both know what this is.”
She leaves the room, the sway of her hips and the sharpness of her words lingering behind.
Nikolai watches her go, then turns to me, expression unreadable. “You wanted a wife. You got a war.”
I almost smile, but it’s laced with frustration and something sharper. “She’s a fighter.”
He shakes his head. “She’ll either kill you or save you. Maybe both.”
He’s right. Every part of me is tangled up in her now—my need for control, my lust, my craving for something real. I can’t help myself. I’m possessive, territorial, in ways that scare even me. I want to break her walls, but I want her to break mine too.
For the rest of the day, I can’t focus on anything but her—her laughter echoing in an empty hall, the memory of her writhing beneath me, the way her glare cuts sharper than any blade.
Everyone else bows their head when I enter a room.
She looks me in the eye, and I know I’ll never have enough.
***
The afternoon is strangely quiet, the kind of quiet that makes the edges of my temper too sharp. I’m heading down the hall toward the conservatory when I hear voices—one of them hers, tight and clipped, the other low, mocking. A man’s voice.
The sound stops me cold.
“…don’t know why he bothers with you,” the guard mutters, tone dripping condescension. “Pretty face, sure, but you don’t belong here. You think you’re special? You’re not. He’ll get bored.”
My vision narrows.
I move before I think, before reason has a chance to intervene. I round the corner in silence, a shadow more than a man, and find Clara standing stiffly near the window while Mikhail—one of the newer guards—leans too close, smirking.
She doesn’t back away. She never does. If anything, her spine straightens further, chin lifting in quiet defiance.
Then she sees me.
Her eyes flicker, not with fear, but with something sharper—anger, embarrassment, pride refusing to bend. Mikhail follows her gaze and finally realizes he’s no longer alone.
The shift in his face is instant.
“Sir,” he stammers, straightening, “I was just—”
I don’t let him finish. I take a single step forward, and he instinctively takes one back. The hall goes silent except for the low hum of the overhead lights.
“That was a mistake,” I say, voice quiet. Too quiet. “A very big one.”
Clara watches me, jaw tight, and for a moment I don’t know if she’s grateful or furious. Maybe both. It doesn’t matter right now.
Mikhail swallows hard, shifting his weight. “Boss, I didn’t—I wasn’t—”
I move so quickly he flinches. My hand closes around the front of his vest, dragging him close enough for him to feel every ounce of my fury.
“You speak to her again,” I say, my voice a razor drawn across his throat, “and you won’t live long enough to regret it.”
