“Get some rest,” I tell her. “We have a long day tomorrow.”
“Where are you sleeping?” The question comes out almost panicked.
“In the sitting area.”
“What—”
“Tonight, I sleep on the couch in the sitting area. Tomorrow night, we share the bed. It gives you time to adjust.”
“Why?” Suspicion colors her voice. “Why give me time? Why not just—”
“I want you aware. Want you to spend tonight lying in my bed, knowing I’m just outside the door. Want you to realize that tomorrow there’s no barrier, no distance.” I move toward the sitting area door. “Sleep well, Elena. Or don’t. Either way, tomorrow comes regardless.”
I leave before she can respond. Close the door between the bedroom and sitting area, then settle onto the couch that’s far too small for comfortable sleep.
I don’t care about comfort.
I care about control. About making her aware of every choice I’m making, every restraint I’m exercising.
Tonight, I could force the issue. Could claim what’s legally mine, consummate the marriage in ways she can’t refuse.
That would be easy. Quick. Satisfying in the moment but ultimately hollow.
I don’t want her body surrendered out of legal obligation.
I want her wanting it. Wanting me. Even if that want comes wrapped in hatred and resentment, even if she fights it every step.
I want her aware of the choice I’m not forcing. The restraint I’m demonstrating. The control I’m exercising for her benefit.
So she understands that when I do take her—when patience runs out and control snaps—it won’t be violation.
It will be the inevitability she chose by not running when she had the chance.
Through the door, I hear her moving around the bedroom. Water running in the bathroom. Drawers opening and closing. The soft sound of fabric rustling as she changes out of the wedding gown.
Then silence.
I imagine her lying in my bed, surrounded by my scent, wearing whatever she found to sleep in. Staring at the ceiling, knowing I’m just beyond the door. Close enough to reach her in seconds. Far enough to let tension build.
Chapter Seventeen - Elena
The routine settles in with unsettling ease.
Three days after the wedding, I wake to find guards greeting me by name in the corridors. “Mrs. Sharov,” they say, voices carefully neutral, eyes never quite meeting mine. Like I’m something fragile and dangerous at once.
Doors open before I reach them. Staff appear when I need something before I ask. The entire household moves around me with choreographed precision, everyone watching Aleksandr for cues on how to treat me, what I’m allowed, where the boundaries are.
I’m not a person to them. I’m an extension of him. Property that requires careful handling.
The realization should make me angry. Does make me angry. It’s exhausting being angry all the time, so some days I just… exist. Move through the routines. Play the role.
Aleksandr is everywhere and nowhere. He leaves early most mornings, disappearing into his office or the city for business I’m not privy to. Returns in the evenings for dinners we eat in tense silence, him watching me with those pale blue eyes that catalog every reaction, every flinch, every time my hand shakes when I reach for my water glass.
He doesn’t touch me during meals. Doesn’t sit too close. Maintains careful distance like he’s proving something.
His presence fills the room anyway. Heavy and inescapable.
At night, he still sleeps on the couch in the sitting area. True to his word—one night of separation, then sharing the bed. Except it’s been three nights now and he hasn’t moved into the bedroom.
