I hear “Lawrence” and the dismissive tone is unmistakable.
Aleksandr goes absolutely still.
The temperature in the room drops. Conversations die mid-sentence. Everyone suddenly very focused on their plates.
“Repeat that,” Aleksandr says, voice quiet and lethal.
The man pales slightly but tries to recover. “I just meant that the Lawrence family’s recent troubles. It’s unfortunate—”
“You meant that my wife comes from a failing bloodline. That her family’s weakness reflects poorly on my choice.” Aleksandr’s tone could cut glass. “That’s what you meant. Yes?”
“No, I apologize if—”
“Viktor.” Aleksandr doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t need to. “Escort our guest out. Make sure he understands his comments were inappropriate.”
Two guards appear immediately, flanking the gray-haired man. He stands, stammering apologies, but Aleksandr’s expression doesn’t change.
The man is removed. The doors close behind him.
Conversation resumes carefully, everyone pretending nothing happened.
I see the guards exchange glances. See the way people’s eyes dart toward Aleksandr with new wariness.
The next morning, Irina mentions casually while bringing breakfast that one of last night’s guests was found dead. A terrible accident, she says, though her tone suggests otherwise.
The gray-haired man. The one who insulted my family.
The violence unsettles me. Should horrify me. A man is dead because he made a dismissive comment at dinner.
Underneath the horror is something else. Something that feels dangerously like… validation.
He did that for me. Defended my name, my family, me. Drew blood over words most people would have ignored.
My name carries weight now. Sharp enough to kill.
I don’t know how to feel about that.
***
In private, Aleksandr’s attention is constant but maddeningly restrained.
He notices everything. When I skip lunch because anxiety kills my appetite, a tray appears in my room with foods he knows I like. When I flinch at raised voices from his office, he closes the door and handles the rest of the argument elsewhere.
He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t crowd my space. Just… watches. Aware of everything I do, everything I need, adjusting the household around me without asking permission.
It’s infuriating and comforting at once.
One afternoon, I’m in the library when an argument erupts in the hallway outside. Two of Aleksandr’s men, voicesrising in heated Russian. I tense instinctively, old fear of violence surfacing.
Aleksandr appears in the doorway seconds later. Steps between me and the noise without a word, his body a wall of protection. He says something sharp in Russian. The voices cut off immediately. Footsteps retreat.
He turns to me. “They’re gone. It’s handled.”
“I didn’t need you to step in.”
“I know.”
He doesn’t move. Just stands there, close enough that I can feel the heat of him, far enough that we’re not touching. “Read your book. I’ll be in my office if you need anything.”
