His eyes—God, his eyes. mercurial and electric, like storm clouds laced with lightning, and they’re looking at me like I’m both the storm and the fool who dared to dance in the rain.
“Tell me,” he says, his thumb now tracing the inside of my wrist, sending sparks up my arm, “did dinner meet your expectations?”
“Honestly?” I breathe, my voice all wrong. “It exceeded them.”
“Good,” he says, a low promise that curls heat between my ribs. “Because dessert is still to come.”
And just like that, I forget every reason I had to resist him.
“Do the kids…?” I say suddenly, then immediately regret it as the words slip out of my mouth. “Do they… call me Mommy now? Or is there a mafia probation period?”
His brow arcs so high it could launch into orbit. He gives me a look that is a devastating blend of amusement and sharp, dangerous warning.
“No,” he says, each syllable precise as a blade. “You arenottheir mother,Bella.Do not mistake this arrangement for what it is not. You are not myrealwife. This isnotyour family.”
The words hit like a lash across my chest. Whatever warmth existed between us a moment ago freezes solid, brittle enough to shatter.
But he doesn’t look away.
If anything, he pins me there with his stare, as if he means to make the words sink deeper.
I try to breathe past the tightness coiling in my throat, but his gaze holds me captive. Heavy. Unflinching. I can’t think, can’t even gather a clever reply. All I manage is a small, shaky nod.
His eyes darken, as though that isn’t enough.
Konstantin steps closer—a single, deliberate step that eats up the space between us—and tilts his head, studying me like a man studying a flaw in his favorite weapon.
“Say it,” he commands, quiet but unrelenting.
My pulse stutters. Heat prickles beneath my skin, even as the chill of his words lingers in my chest.
I know what he wants.
“I…” My tongue feels too thick. I swallow hard. “I’m not their mother.”
His gaze sharpens, satisfied. He takes another beat, letting the silence stretch just long enough to scorch my pride.
“Good,” he says at last, stepping back a little. “Now that this is settled, we can enjoy dessert.”
Before I can untangle the knot in my chest, Alya appears at my side, her arms full of fruit.
“Bella,” she chirps, oblivious to the tension hanging in the air. “Do you want to taste the fruits we picked? Papa says the darkest ones are the sweetest!”
I blink, forcing my face into something resembling normal as I accept a blackberry from her tiny, proud hands.
“Of course,” I say, my voice brighter than I feel. I bite into the berry—it’s lush and sweet, the juice staining my tongue like wine.
Konstantin watches me, his expression unreadable now. Cold, distant, the softness from before locked away behind iron walls.
Don’t be stupid, I remind myself, swallowing the fruit along with my foolishness. Whatever I thought this could be? It’s not.
19
Konstantin
It’s been thirty minutes since dessert, give or take. Bella has already disappeared to her room. Good. Exactly where she belongs—on the outside edge of this family, watching, not stepping in.
And yet, her face keeps pulling at my mind like a loose thread I should never have touched. The way she bit into that blackberry. The bright, stubborn way she covered the chill I delivered.
