He looks… casual. Butcasualin a way that suggests he could still murder someone and not spill a drop of blood on the brushed cotton.
I blink. My brain stalls.
Reboots.
Nope. Still hot.
I look up at him. He’s exactly a head taller than I am—maybe more—and somehow, from this close, he looks younger. Less ice king, more disheveled demigod. More approachable.
Which is a damn lie because the expression he’s wearing could freeze hell.
His jaw is set, eyes unreadable, but that vein in his neck— Yeah. That one’s doing some talking.
“Your conversation with my daughter was interesting,” he says without preamble, voice quiet enough that I have to lean slightly forward to catch it.
I match his stance, arms crossed. “Were you eavesdropping, or does this place come with built-in wiretaps?”
“Both.” He doesn’t even blink. “This is my house. Everything that happens here, I know about.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It’s efficient.”
We stand there, locked in some absurd standoff, neither moving. I can smell his cologne from here—something expensive and woody that makes me think of forest floors and whiskey.
“Are you going to lecture me about how I spoke to your daughter?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe. “Or how I handled your terrified maid?”
Something flickers across his face—interest, maybe. Or annoyance. With him, they look remarkably similar.
“Walk with me,” he says instead of answering.
Not a request. Not quite a command, either. Something in between that makes my spine straighten despite myself.
“Where to? The dungeon? The interrogation room? The place where you dispose of wives who talk back?”
His mouth twitches. Almost a smile, but sharper. “Dinner. Unless you’d prefer to starve dramatically to make a point.”
My stomach growls in response, betraying me completely.
“Fine,” I say, stepping into the hallway. “Lead the way, Your Bratva-ness.”
He doesn’t respond to the jab; just turns and starts walking. I fall into step beside him, heels clicking against the hardwood in a rhythm that feels like a countdown.
We pass through a corridor lined with art that I’d need a doctorate to understand—all harsh angles and Russian inscriptions and the kind of darkness that costs more than most people’s mortgages.
“You undermined my authority,” he says finally, his voice so casual he might as well be commenting on the weather.
“By what? Showing basic human decency to your staff?”
“By suggesting that mistakes are acceptable in this house.”
I stop walking. He takes two more steps before turning to face me, eyebrow arched like he’s amused by my defiance.
“Let me get this straight,” I say, keeping my voice level. “You’re upset because I told your daughter not to terrorize the help?”
“I’m stating a fact. In my world, mistakes cost lives.”
“We were discussing a bedroom mix-up, not a hit job.”
