But the thought doesn’t satisfy me the way it should. Instead, that uncomfortable tightness is back in my chest—the same one that’s been there since I saw her at the ceremony and watched her walk down that aisle looking scared and beautiful and so goddamn young.
I force myself up and start dressing. My hands are steadier than I expect as I pull on my pants and button my shirt. It’s muscle memory, automatic movements that require no thought.
I don’t look at her, because if I do—if I see her flushed and thoroughly fucked in the bed, her hair spread across the pillows—I might do something unforgivably weak.
Like go back to her.
“Are you leaving?”
Her voice is small and uncertain and it makes me pause with my hand on my shirt, half-dressed.
I should say yes and walk out without explanation or apology. It needs to be made crystal clear that this was a transaction and nothing more.
Instead, I hear myself say coldly, “I told you. Once was enough to make it binding.”
I know these words are cruel, but it’s meant to hurt and create distance between us. She needs to be reminded of what this really is.
A business arrangement. A hostage situation. Revenge.
Nothing more. I willneverbe the husband she wants.
When I reach the door, I force myself not to look back even though something in me desperately wants to. My hand grips the doorknob hard enough that my knuckles go white.
Then I’m through it and pulling it closed behind me, and I can finally breathe again.
I end up in my office with a bottle of scotch that was supposed to last the month.
It’s one thirty in the morning. The house is silent except for the occasional creak of old wood settling and the sound of my security team making their rounds outside. I should sleep, or atleast try to rest before the mountain of business waiting for me tomorrow.
Instead, I pour another glass and stare at the dark window, seeing my own reflection staring back.
I can still smell her on me. Despite the distance, her scent clings to my skin. It’s flowers, maybe, or vanilla. Whatever perfume or shampoo she uses, it’s fucking maddening.
I should shower and wash away every trace of her.
But I don’t move.
My mind keeps replaying moments I should forget. The way she trembled under my hands. The little gasp she made when I touched her. The sound of my name on her lips—not scared, not angry, but breathless and desperate and wanting.
“Dimitri.”
The memory sends desire right to my dick that I viciously suppress. This is exactly what I shouldn’t be thinking about. What I can’t afford to think about.
She’s anAshford.VincentAshford’s daughter. Her uncle pulled the trigger that killed my brother. Her family is responsible for Alexei’s death, and no amount of chemistry or physical response changes that fundamental fact.
I drain my glass and pour another, welcoming the burn.
This is temporary insanity, physical attraction muddying clear thinking. It means nothing. Tomorrow, I’ll be back in control and I’ll remember why she’s here and what she represents.
Tomorrow, I’ll?—
My phone buzzes. A text from Roman.
All quiet. Wedding went as planned. Both families dispersed without incident.
Right. The wedding. The marriage. The treaty that’s supposed to prevent a war.
I’m married now. To Vera Ashford. No—VeraVolkov. My wife.
