"Truth rarely is." Lara's pale eyes hold hers for a long moment. "But it's better than pretty lies that get you killed."
I walk Lara to the door, leaving Aria in the living room with instructions to rest. The older woman's heels click against the marble foyer as we move toward the exit, and I feel her assessing gaze on me like a physical weight.
"She's stronger than she looks," Lara says when we're out of Aria's earshot. "But strength alone won't be enough."
"I know. That's why I need you to help her."
"I can teach her the rules. Show her how to navigate the politics. But I can't protect her from the fundamental truth of what you are, Nikolai." Her voice drops to something almost gentle. "You're a dangerous man."
She moves toward the door, and I follow. Lara pauses on the threshold, her pale blue eyes holding mine with that unsettling intensity that's always made her dangerous.
"She's either very valuable or very dangerous," Lara says, her voice dropping to a whisper meant only for my ears. "For all our sakes, Nikolai, let's hope it's the former."
25
ARIA
The moment Lara's Mercedes disappears through the gate, I'm moving. My feet carry me across the marble foyer before conscious thought catches up, fury propelling me toward Nikolai's study with enough force that I don't bother knocking. I shove the door open hard enough that it bounces against the wall, the sound echoing through the cavernous space like a gunshot.
Nikolai looks up from his desk, those ice-blue eyes tracking my entrance with predatory focus. He doesn't startle, doesn't even flinch at my dramatic arrival. He just leans back in his leather chair with that infuriating calm that makes me want to throw something at his perfectly composed face.
"What the hell was that?" I demand, my hands curling into fists at my sides.
"That was Lara Utkina." His voice carries that hint of amusement that makes my blood boil. "I thought the introduction went well."
"Don't." I cross the space between us in three strides, planting my palms on his desk and leaning forward. "Don't you dare act like that was a social call. She circled me like a predator deciding whether I'm worth eating."
His lips curve into something that might be a smile. "She was assessing you. It's what she does."
"Assessing me for what, exactly?" My voice rises despite my attempt to maintain control. "Whether I'm worthy of being your property? Whether I'll be a good little prisoner in your gilded cage?"
Something flickers across his face, too quick to identify before his mask slams back into place. He rises from his chair with fluid grace, moving around the desk until he's standing close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. The scent of his cologne wraps around me, making it harder to maintain my anger when my traitorous body wants to lean into him.
"Lara can help you navigate the world you're in now," he says, his accent thickening slightly. "Teach you the unspoken rules that keep Bratva wives alive. Show you how to wield influence without appearing to seek it."
"I don't want to wield influence." I force myself to hold my ground even though every instinct screams at me to put distance between us. "I want my life back. My apartment. My business. My freedom."
His hand lifts to cup my jaw, and I should pull away but I'm frozen, caught in the gravity of his gaze. "That life is gone, Aria. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be."
"How long?" The question comes out barely above a whisper. "How long do you plan to keep me prisoner here?"
His thumb brushes across my lower lip, sending unwanted heat cascading through my body. "This is your home now. Permanently."
The word settles over me like a sentence, heavy and absolute. I want to scream, to fight, to tell him exactly where he can shove his declarations of ownership. But exhaustion pulls at my bones with enough force that I can barely stand. The confrontation with Lara, the constant tension of living in this house, the morning sickness that's been plaguing me for weeks, all of it crashes over me at once.
"I'm too tired to fight you today," I whisper, hating how defeated I sound.
"Then don't fight." His other hand finds my waist, pulling me closer. "Let me take care of you."
"Taking care of me would mean letting me go."
"No." His forehead drops to rest against mine, and I feel his breath warm against my lips. "Taking care of you means keeping you safe. Even if you hate me for it."
I close my eyes, fighting the tears threatening to spill over. "I do hate you right now."
"I know." His lips brush my temple in a gesture so tender, it makes my chest ache. "But you'll forgive me eventually."
"You keep saying that." I pull back enough to meet his gaze. "What makes you so certain?"
