The next morning…
I surfacefrom unconsciousness like a diver breaking through the still waters of a lake at dawn, the pain is a barely distant whisper muted by morphine. The steady beep of monitors pulsates like a seductive heartbeat. I remain utterly still, disciplined in the art of silent inventory, my breaths measured, my senses heightened.
A presence looms in the quiet room, and then a voice, low and commanding, cuts through the air. "I know you’re awake."
My eyelids flutter. One opens, flooding with light. The other stays stubbornly shut. Through the haze, a silhouette sharpens into focus. A man I didn’t expect. He fills the space without trying. Over six feet, broad shoulders stretching the lines of a suit that looks expensive even in slight disarray. Dark hair cropped short, all discipline andintent. He’s nothing like the boy I tried to save from the mine, they don't even resemble each other. Most of all, because this man doesn’t look like he needs saving; he looks like he decides who gets to breathe. His eyes are steel-gray, sharp enough to cut, promising both pleasure and punishment without bothering to pretend they’re opposites. His jaw is carved, his mouth built for orders, not apologies.
Notleading—commanding.
Up close, his aura crackles. Predatory. Electric. Magnetic. The morphine-softened edges of my mind snap sharp, alarm bells ringing, and something else, darker and far less useful, coils low in my gut.
Focus, Oksana.
He steps closer. The air shifts. The wolf doesn’t bare his teeth. He doesn’t have to. This is not the boy in the mine. This is what the boy becomes when he survives. A thought hits me, unbidden and dangerous:If that was the puppy, this is the wolf."Talk."
I lift my voice, rough as gravel but steady. "Water."
He exhales, a mix of irritation and indulgence, then pours cool water into a paper cup, sliding it toward me with a practiced bend of his wrist. As he brings the straw to my lips, our gazes lock, sending a jolt of electricity through me. My cheeks flush, and I remind myself to breathe.
His pupils widen for a moment; he felt it too. But then his expression hardens into something lethal. "You pretended to be my wife. Why?"
I allow a half-smile, tasting blood and victory. "I thought it'd get me triaged faster."
His hand moves like a viper, straight to my throat, his fingers pressing just enough to make his point. Heat floods my body, drenching me. I like it rough. And I like men who know how to play.
"Try. Again." Each word drops like a bullet casing. Warning me. What he doesn't understand is that he's not warning but challenging me.
I swallow against his grip. "Why? Because your hospitals respond towifefaster than to a woman bleeding on the floor. Because your name opens doors."
His storm-gray eyes flash with murderous intent, sending another flood of pleasure through me. I like to take men to the brink of their self-control, like to see what they're capable of when the civilized skin is pulled back—yes, even mafia men have some kind of civilized skin.
"Don't be cute. It's not fitting. Who gave you that word?" His fingers tighten fractionally.
I flutter my good eye, "You think I'm cute?"
Our eyes lock in a battle of wills. He squeezes harder, making the edges of my vision swim as my oxygen supply is cut off. He's not giving an inch. It might be because he has no idea who I am, or it might be that even if he did,he wouldn't give a shit. I don't just respect that in a man; it turns me on. There aren't many men who can stand up to me, and most of the time, I don't know whether it is because of my name or Grigori's.
"No one," I lie around his merciless fingers, even as my body betrays me, arching slightly into his hold. He notices. Again, his pupils dilate in surprise, and for one moment, we recognize each other. Predator to huntress. The air charges.
He leans closer, his breath hot on my face. His hand remains at my throat, a collar of ownership and a threat. "Last chance."
The morphine can't dull the heat of his skin against mine. I meet his eyes, refusing to look away, wondering how far he will take this. How farIwill let him take this.
His grip only loosens when the monitor by my bedside suddenly starts to send out an alarm. My heart rate has gone down, as has my oxygen level. He squeezes one more time, then lets go and steps back, never breaking our eye contact.
A nurse rushes in and goes straight for the monitor. "Oh, good, it's coming back up. It happens sometimes after surgery; the heart rate will go up and down, and so will the oxygen. How are you feeling, sweetheart?"
I don't look at her when I answer. My eyes are locked on Stephano. "Maybe it’s the atmosphere in here."
He replies without blinking, "The atmosphere obeys me." It's a veiled warning;nobody will come to your rescue. Heisamusing. I haven't needed anybody to come tomyrescue since I turned sixteen—even then, I let Raf believe he saved me, but I hadn't needed him.
Not having a clue what's going on, the nurse adjusts the settings and chirps, "Well… your vitals are climbing again."
I can't help but grin, "They tend to when the operator interference stops."
Stephano growls, "I wouldn't rely on that."
Finally, the nurse seems to realize the tension between him and me. She fiddles with some of my cords, leaning in close to me. She whispers, "Blink if you need help. I'll have security here in a second."
