Fine. Windows.
I grab fistfuls of my ridiculous skirt and drag far too much silk across a Persian rug so thick my heels sink into it. The windows are tall and heavy and—yeah, bulletproof glass. Sensors. Guards outside.
My throat burns. Mishka is out there somewhere in the world—
No. Stop. Don’t go there or you’ll collapse.
My eyes land on the nearest chair.
It is antique. Heavy.
I still try.
I bend my knees, grab the armrests, and pull with both hands. The damn thing doesn’t lift.
“Come on,” I hiss. “Just—move.”
I drag it—drag it—across the floor toward the window. Sweat trickles down my spine. My arms shake. I get it halfway across the rug, and one leg sinks deep enough into the fibers that I almost topple over.
I lift the chair again.
I swing it toward the window—
—and the door opens.
Roman fills the doorway. Rolled sleeves. Tie loosened. No jacket. His eyes sweep the room and find me in half a second.
Me.
Sweaty.
Teary.
Holding a chair above my head like a deranged Victorian ghost bride.
“Put it down, solnyshko.”
His voice is low and calm and way too collected for a man watching his new wife try to commit property damage.
That’s what breaks me.
I don’t put it down gently. My arms give out, and the chair drops—half falling, half throwing—crashing sideways into the rug with a heavy thud. One brass fitting pops off and rolls across the floor.
Roman doesn’t flinch. He leans one shoulder against the doorframe, watching me like I’m a puzzle he’s already solved.
“Better?” he asks.
I just move.
I go at him with both hands, hitting him. The corset steals my breath, the dress wraps around my legs, and I still swing. My palms slam into his chest. His arm. His shoulder. My fists hit hard muscles, and nothing moves.
He lets me do it.
That is the worst part. He stands there, immovable, like I’m nothing, instead of a furious woman hitting him with everything I have left. His face stays unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes track every part of me. My shaking hands. My heaving chest. The tears are spilling over.
“I hate you,” I gasp. “You bought me. You used my brother. You locked me in here like I’m—like I’m—”
His hand snaps out and catches both my wrists.
