"I don't want to feel this," she says quietly. "Whatever this is. You bought me. You lied to me for four months, then disappeared for two years, and now I'm supposed to—what? Fall into your arms because you're the only option I have?"
"No." The word comes out rough. "That's not what I want."
"Then what do you want?"
I can't answer that. The truth is too much—too raw, too dangerous. Wanting her is one thing. Deserving her is another entirely.
"Go to bed, Bianca," I say instead. "Get some sleep."
She stares at me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she turns and climbs the stairs without looking back.
I watch her go—the rigid set of her shoulders, the way her hand grips the banister, the deliberate steadiness of her steps.She's angry. Confused. Fighting something she doesn't want to feel.
That makes two of us.
I stand alone in the hallway, the ghost of her skin still burning on my fingertips, and force myself to breathe.
I'm in trouble. Real trouble. The kind that doesn't come from enemies or threats, but from wanting something I'm not sure I can ever have.
She doesn't want this. Doesn't want me. She's here because she has no choice, and any connection between us is built on a foundation of coercion and lies.
I need to remember that. Need to keep my distance, protect her from Sergei, and then let her go back to the life she actually wants.
Even if letting her go might be the hardest thing I've ever done.
I turn away from the stairs and head back toward my office. There's work to be done—an extraction to plan, an enemy to destroy, a war to prepare for.
I've survived bullets and blades and seventeen years of blood. I've built an empire on violence and control and the absolute certainty that feeling nothing is the only way to stay alive.
But watching her walk away from me just now—that hurt more than any wound I've ever taken.
And I don't know what to do with that.
Chapter 13 - Bianca
I close my bedroom door and lean against it, my heart pounding.
His touch still burns on my jaw. The ghost of his fingertips, tracing a line from my ear to my chin. The way his eyes darkened when I didn't pull away.
I didn't pull away.
That's the part that terrifies me. He touched me, and instead of stepping back, instead of reminding him of all the reasons this is wrong, I stood there like I was waiting for more. Like some pathetic part of me wanted more.
I push off the door and start pacing, my bare feet silent on the thick carpet. The fire in the hearth has died down to embers, but my skin feels feverish. Restless. Like something is crawling under the surface, trying to get out.
I need to think. I need to make sense of this.
Facts. I need facts.
Fact one: Misha Kashkin lied to me for four months. Pretended to be someone he wasn't, let me fall for a fiction, then disappeared without explanation.
Fact two: He watched me for two years without my knowledge or consent. Had people following me, reporting on my movements, my habits, my life. That's not protection. That's obsession.
Fact three: He bought me at an auction. Paid five million dollars for my body like I was a painting or a racehorse. Whatever his reasons, that's what happened.
Fact four: He's killed people. He told me that himself, without flinching, without apology.
The list should be enough. Should be more than enough to kill whatever stupid, inconvenient attraction keeps flaring up every time he's near me.
