His right hand releases my arm and comes up to my face. He cups my jaw gently, thumb brushing under my cheekbone in a slow stroke that sends a hot, unwelcome line of awareness down my spine.
Oh fuck.No. Not this. Not now.
My body leans into the touch before my brain can shout it down. Heat curls low in my stomach, mixed up with panic and shame.
“No one touches what is mine,” he says, voice low. “Not even fear.”
The wordminesinks deep. I hate that it works at all.
“I never agreed to be yours,” I say, somehow. My cheeck is wet and my eyes sting.Am I crying?
“You will,” he replies. “The contract is a formality.”
Arrogantdoesn’t even begin to cover it, but the confidence in his tone makes my heart clutch. There is no room for negotiation.
His thumb makes one last pass over my skin, then his fingers loosen and fall away. I miss the contact in the exact same moment I want to scrub it off. The confusion makes my head spin.
He steps back a fraction, still close enough that I feel his body heat.
“Better,” he says, studying my face. “Your breathing has settled.”
“I’m… trying,” I say.
“You are doing more than trying,” he answers. “You’re still standing.”
He turns away, walks to the desk, and pours amber liquid from a decanter into a crystal glass. The sound of the whiskey hitting glass is weirdly loud in the quiet.
He brings it back and sets it on the edge of the desk near me.
“Drink.”
I look from the glass to him.
“It will help,” he says simply.
Or kill me. At this point, it’s hard to tell which would be kinder. But my hands are still shaking, and my eyes burns with tears, and I need it. I lift the glass. The whiskey scorches its way down my throat, then spreads warmth out through my chest.
I set the empty glass down carefully so I don’t drop it.
He leans against the desk, hands clutching it at his sides, ankles crossed. Somehow he still manages to look like he’s in control of every molecule in the room.
“If we are going to be husband and wife,” he says, “you need to understand something now.”
The wordshusband and wifemake my stomach flip. I focus on his tie so I don’t start shaking again.
“All right,” I say.
“You have nothing to fear,” he says, “as long as you follow my rules.”
There it is. The line. The one my entire life is about to balance on.
I swallow. “And if I don’t?”
“Then Mishka’s safety becomes… uncertain. And I become less patient.”
My fingers curl into my palms so hard it hurts.
“Those are your choices, Anya,” he says. “Not yes or no. Not stay or go. Simply: how difficult you want me to make this while your brother keeps breathing.”
