They’re not entirely wrong.
I should have killed her. Should kill her now, prove the concerns are unfounded, eliminate the vulnerability before it metastasizes into real threat.
But even considering it makes something dark and possessive twist in my chest.
She’s mine. Under my roof, my protection, my authority. The thought of handing her over to appease rivals who question my control—
No.
I’ll burn their territories to ash before I give them Elena Lawrence.
The intensity of that reaction should concern me, but it doesn’t concern me enough to change the decision.
If keeping her alive makes me weak, then I’ll be strong enough to crush anyone who tries to exploit that weakness.
Marriage.
The thought surfaces with sudden clarity. Not sentiment—strategy. Binding her to my name places her under formal protection. Makes her Bratva family by association, which silences the liability arguments. Closes ranks against external pressure.
Turns a weakness into armor.
It’s logical. Practical. The kind of strategic marriage that’s happened throughout Bratva history when alliances need cementing or problems need solving.
The fact that I want her—that I’ve been circling that attraction like a predator stalking prey—is irrelevant to the strategic calculation.
Or that’s what I tell myself.
***
I don’t see Elena again until that evening.
The day is consumed by damage control—identifying the leak, reinforcing security protocols, sending careful messages to families who might be considering whether my apparent weakness presents opportunity.
By the time I finish, it’s past nine. The house is quiet, most staff dismissed for the night, guards rotating to evening shifts.
I’m heading to my office when I see her.
Elena, in the hallway outside the library, wrapped in a[7]soft silk robe. Her hair is loose, damp like she just showered. She’s holding a book, clearly planning to read before bed.
She sees me and freezes. The instinct to flee crosses her face before pride overrides it.
She tries to pass me without speaking. Head high, gaze forward, pretending I’m not there.
I catch her wrist.
Not hard. Not painful. Just enough pressure to stop her movement, fingers closing around delicate bones that feel fragile under my hand.
Heat flares instantly where we touch. I feel her pulse jump, racing under my thumb.
“Elena,” I say quietly.
She doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t try to escape my grip. Just stands there, tension vibrating through her whole body, eyes finally meeting mine.
“What do you want?” Her voice is steady despite the rapid heartbeat I can feel.
I should release her. Should step back, maintain distance, not blur the lines further than I already have.
Instead, I step closer.
