The thought is so shocking, so wrong, that I jerk my head to the side, breaking eye contact. "I want to see my family. I want to know they're safe."
"They are. I told you?—"
"You told me what I needed to hear to keep me from fighting you in the church. How do I know it's true? How do I know my sister is alive? My parents?"
Something shifts in his expression, a flash of what might be sympathy. "I'll have my men verify their location and send you proof. But you're not leaving this estate until I know who attacked that church and why."
"And if I try?"
His hand comes up to cup my jaw, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone in a gesture that's almost tender. Almost. "Then my men will stop you. And I'll be very disappointed."
The way he says "disappointed" makes it sound like a threat and a promise all at once.
We stare at each other, the air between us charged with tension—fear and anger and something else I refuse to acknowledge. His body is still pressed against mine, and I'm acutely aware of every point of contact, every place where his heat seeps into my skin.
Then, abruptly, he releases me and steps back.
The sudden absence of his body leaves me feeling strangely cold. I slump against the wall, my legs shaking, as he bends to retrieve my gun from the floor. He checks the chamber with practiced efficiency, then pockets it.
"Get some rest," he says, his voice back to that controlled, emotionless tone. "Someone will bring you dinner."
He turns toward the door, and I should be relieved. I should be grateful he's leaving. Instead, I feel oddly bereft.
"Wait," I call out, hating the desperate edge in my voice. "Who attacked the church? Do you know?"
Dimitri pauses with his hand on the doorknob. He doesn't turn around. "Not yet. But I will. And when I do, they'll wish they'd never been born."
The cold certainty in his voice sends a chill down my spine.
He opens the door, and I think he's going to leave without another word. But then he stops, his broad shoulders filling the doorframe, and looks back at me over his shoulder.
"This is your life now, Alina," he says quietly. "At least for the foreseeable future. You can fight it, make yourself miserable, and exhaust yourself trying to escape. Or you can accept it and make the best of the situation. Your choice."
Then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click.
I hear the lock engage.
I slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the floor, my torn wedding dress pooling around me, surrounded by shattered glass from the mirror. My wrist throbs where he twisted it. My body still tingles where he touched me.
And despite everything—despite the fear and the anger and the absolute insanity of this situation—I can't stop thinking about the heat in his eyes when he looked at me.
Can't stop thinking about how his body felt pressed against mine.
Can't stop thinking about what might have happened if I hadn't turned my head.
I bury my face in my hands and try not to cry.
This is my life now.
God help me.
4
DIMITRI
The lock clicks into place behind me, sealing Alina inside the bedroom. I stand there for a moment, my hand still on the doorknob, listening to the silence on the other side. No crying. No screaming. Just quiet. I don't know if that makes her smart or dangerous.
My jaw clenches as I turn away, heading down the corridor toward the main staircase. The house feels too empty, too quiet after the chaos of the church. Usually, there would be voices echoing through these halls—my men laughing, arguing, conducting business. Now there's just the sound of my footsteps on marble and the distant murmur of Alexei's voice somewhere below.
