Arseny taps the side of his temple with the stylus.
“You moved her into the lion’s den, Konstantin. Built her an office out of glass, and then act surprised when men look at her like she’s the sun itself. Perhaps next, you will build her a throne? Velvet cushions? Silk drapes?”
My eyes cut to him. “Don’t assume you know what I want,brat.”
“I’m not assuming. I’m observing.” His gaze flicks back toward Bella—toward the way she’s laughing at something Jenna just said, her head tipped back, hair a silken wave over her shoulders. “And what I’m observing is very simple: you,brat, burn hotter than the sun. And her?”
I feel my pulse jump.
“She’s gasoline,” Arseny finishes simply.
My pulse throbs against my throat. He’s not wrong. Bringing her here was a mistake. Placing her where I can see her—where everyone can see her—was reckless at best. I told myself it was security. I told myself it was practicality.
Lies. Even to myself.
I wanted her close. Where I could see her. Where others would see she was under my protection. Where I could reach her in ninety-seven seconds if needed. I’ve timed it.
He is right about that. I am feeling more possessive than I should. The need to have her close, to shield her from other men’s eyes, to provide for her every need—it goes beyond our arrangement. Beyond what makes sense for a marriage of convenience.
But before I can respond, Bella emerges from the pantry, coffee cup in hand. The skirt she’s wearing clings to her curves like a second skin, accentuating the sway of her hips with each step. The guard’s eyes follow her movement like a starving man watching a feast. I can’t blame him. I’m doing the same thing.
She bends over slightly to set her cup down, and my breath catches. The fabric pulls taut across her ass, outlining every perfect curve. Blood rushes south so quickly that I feel light-headed.
Beside me, Arseny clears his throat. “If you grip that pen any harder, it’s going to explode.”
I glance down. My knuckles are white around a Mont Blanc that’s threatening to snap in half.
“I don’t remember approving that outfit,” I mutter, releasing the pen before I destroy it.
“Did you implement a dress code for your wife I’m unaware of?” Arseny asks, eyes dancing with amusement. “Perhaps a uniform? Combat fatigues? A hazmat suit?”
Mental note: change her work wardrobe to something loose. Sackcloth. Burlap. Preferably with a warning label:Hazardous Material. Keep Away From All Males Within Fifty Meters.
Blyad.
“Timur,” I say quietly. “That guard. Don’t fire him. Break his arm.”
“Boss—” Timur begins.
“Fine. A finger, then.”
Arseny sighs dramatically. “Remember when you used to be this passionate about actual business matters? Before you decided to play house?”
“I’ve known you too long to fear you, Kostya,” he says, using the childhood nickname that only he can get away with. “And this…” he gestures toward the window, toward her, “this obsession is becoming a liability.”
“It’s not an obsession,” I counter. “It’s protection of an asset.”
“Ah yes, assets.” Arseny nods solemnly. “I often stare at my other assets for twenty minutes straight during critical business meetings.”
“Idi nahui,” I mutter, but there’s no real heat behind it.
Timur clears his throat. “Alya’s school situation is arranged. She begins next week. St. Catherine’s has accepted her mid-term with the… generous donation you provided.”
This pulls my attention fully back to the room. “Security?”
“Two teams. One visible, one not. Rotation every four hours. The entire teaching staff has been thoroughly vetted,” Timur recites the details. “And the vehicle you requested for Mrs. Belov has been ordered. Range Rover Autobiography, bulletproof glass, reinforced panels, custom interior. Strictly for school pickups and drop-offs. Delivery next Wednesday.”
“A Range Rover?” Arseny’s eyebrows shoot up. “For a woman who, until last week, was driving a Toyota so old it could vote?”
