I hesitated, then met his gaze.
“Because twenty specially trained CIA operatives couldn’t take him down,” I said quietly. “I’m trying to understand how one man did.”
He studied me—long, searching—then turned away without another word and continued walking.
I followed.
He led me to a pair of massive double doors—larger than any I’d seen in the house—carved with an intricate double-headed eagle clutching thunderbolts. Power. Dominion. Warning.
He pushed them open.
The suite beyond was vast and imposing—dark wood, steel accents, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the ocean like a throne room backdrop.
The doors shut behind me.
The silence thickened.
“Undress.”
The single word sliced through the room like a blade.
My stomach dropped.
“E-Excuse me?” I whispered, blood roaring in my ears.
“You are my wife.” Ruslan said calmly, already removing his suit jacket with unhurried precision. “This marriage will be fulfilled.”
He looked at me then—really looked—like one inspects property.
“From tonight onward, you will present yourself to me every evening.”
A pause. Measured. Calculated.
“If I wish to see you, you stay. If I do not, you leave.”
His mouth curved slightly—not a smile. A warning.
“That,” he finished, “is the extent of your choice.”
Heat flooded my face—rage, humiliation, disbelief crashing together.
“I am not yours to use,” I said, voice low but steady, fingers tightening into fists at my sides. “And no—nothing you demand will make me consent.”
I held his gaze, unwavering.
“Not now. Not ever,” I added quietly. “Though you may have power, I have limits you will not cross.”
He paused.
Slowly, deliberately, he unbuttoned his shirt and let it slide from his shoulders.
My breath caught despite myself.
Shirtless, Ruslan Volkov was devastating—broad shoulders tapered into a sculpted chest that rose and fell with slow, controlled breaths, as if even his lungs obeyed discipline.
Every muscle was defined without excess—strength earned, not displayed.
The kind of body built through repetition and pain, not mirrors.
