I guide Bella toward a quieter corner, away from the crowd’s eyes, my hand sliding to her lower back, possessive, daring any man to stare. A guy with a diamond cufflink tries—he gets my glare, and he’s gone, tail tucked.
Bella’s not just my wife; she’s my stake in something I didn’t ask for, something that’s thawing parts of me I buried after my father’s lessons.
I want her—fuck, I want her—bent over, begging, my name on her lips, but not here, not with threats circling. Later, at home, I’ll break, storm her room, take what we both need. For now, I’m her shield, not her ruin.
The quartet’s music dips, and I feel her relax against me, just a fraction, her curves molding to my side.
“You don’t have to play guard dog,” she says, half-teasing, but her voice shakes, and I know she’s rattled—by the creep, by me, by this whole damn night.
“Need to,” I mutter, my lips grazing her ear, her shiver sparking heat I can’t afford. “You’re mine to protect.” And more—too much more—but I don’t say it.
Bella’s words—he’d been watching us—are still a fucking splinter in my brain, and Timur’s “not alone” warning has my nerves strung tight. My hand’s glued to her, her warmth the onlything keeping me from flipping tables to find thatsukin synwho dared come near her.
The Chateau Marmont’s ballroom hums with 200 vultures—moguls, liars, all flashing their wealth like it hides the blood on their hands—but I’m not playing their game tonight.
Bella’s shaking against me, her curves a dangerous distraction, and I’m fighting not to drag her somewhere private and fuck the fear out of her.Blyad, I need to focus, but her jasmine scent and that red dress—bare underneath—are screaming for me to lose control.
Two guys break through the crowd, their grins too polished, like they rehearsed in the mirror. I know them—Elliot Hayes, a tech bro with a crypto fetish, and Marcus Tate, a venture capital vulture who smells deals like blood.
Elliot’s wiry, his glasses slipping as he talks too fast, while Marcus is broader, his bald head gleaming under the chandeliers, his smirk screaming “I’m untouchable.” Their wives hover behind, all glitz and sharp laughs, ready to pounce.
“Konstantin, you legend,” Elliot starts, voice slick as his gelled hair. “That punch? Viral material, man.” He chuckles, but his eyes dart to Bella, calculating. “Look, we’ve got something big—AI startup, next-level encryption. Needs a… discreet investor with your reach.”
Marcus nods, leaning in, his cologne choking. “Think global, Belov. Secure data hubs, offshore servers—your kind of network could make it fly. We’re talking billions, low profile.” His smile’s all teeth, like he’s selling me a yacht, not a front for data laundering or worse.
Suka,they’re bold, dangling a tech scam to tap my Bratva lines—ports, contacts, shadow routes—without saying it. Sugarcoating a dirty deal, thinking I’m desperate for their crumbs. My face stays stone, but I’m itching to shove their pitch down their throats.
“Not tonight,” I say, voice flat, my hand firm on Bella’s waist. “Send it to my people. If it’s real, we’ll talk.”
Elliot’s grin twitches, but Marcus laughs… too loud.
“Just a taste, you know? You’re the guy for this, Konstantin.” He’s still pushing when their wives glide forward, oozing fake warmth and glittering claws, zeroing in on Bella like she’s gossip bait.
“Mrs. Belov,” Elliot’s wife—whatever the fuck her name is—coos, her silver gown catching the light, her smile plastic. “That dress is so daring. And married to Konstantin? My God, what a fairy tale!” Her tone’s sweet, but her eyes scream pity, like Bella’s some fling I’ll toss by next week.
Marcus’s wife piles on, her red lipstick too bright.
“Absolutely! Such a surprise! You’re so lucky to snag him.” She tilts her head, touching Bella’s arm like they’re friends, but it’s a jab—lucky, not worthy, like Bella’s just my arm candy, not a woman who’d outhustle them in any deal.
Bella’s breath catches, her body tensing against mine, and I feel her shake—anger, maybe fear, buzzing under her skin. She’s been snatching champagne from waiters’ trays since that bastard cornered her, her fingers tight on a new flute, and I curse myself for not clocking it earlier.
She’s rattled, her real estate spine no match for this viper nest, and these bitches are grinding her down. I’m about to snap when a flicker at the crowd’s edge stops me cold.
Filipp.
Slinking along the ballroom’s edge like the spinelessmudakhe is, his icy blue eyes glinting with that smug hunger I loathe. Thirty-one, lean as a blade, and dumb enough to think he’ll steal the Bratva from me. He thought I’d never find a wife—idiot—and I warned him to stay the fuck away from Bella.
Yet here he is, with Tatiana, my stepmother, gliding beside him, her dark hair piled high, her smile a razor. At 48, she’s avulture in Chanel, her beauty a mask for the venom underneath. She’s always scheming—deals, power, her kids’ inheritance—and she never fails to piss me off.
Filipp catches my glare and falters, his smirk twitching like he’s just remembered my fist. Thesukadoesn’t dare come near; he sidesteps fast, muttering to some suit in a cheap tux, pretending it’s where he meant to go all along. Typical. Hiding in Tatiana’s shadow, letting her do the dirty work.
My gut twists as Tatiana keeps coming, her eyes locking on Bella, narrowing like she’s sizing up prey.
“Konstantin, darling,” Tatiana purrs, stopping too close, her perfume cloying. She glances at Bella, her smile twisting. “And this must be your… acquisition. Charming, really, for a last-minute choice.” Her voice is silk, but it’s a slap, calling Bella a nobody.
Bella stiffens, her flute nearly tipping, but her jaw sets, fire flashing in her eyes.
“Acquisition?” she snaps, voice sharp despite the shake. “I’m nobody’s trophy, lady. I close deals bigger than your ego—try me.” She steps forward, chin up, andblyad,I’m proud, my cock twitching at her nerve, even as I brace for Tatiana’s bite.
