A sharp knock at the door made me jump.
The door opened, and the air in the room suddenly felt heavier. Alexei stood there, his auburn hair swept back, his three-piece suit pristine, as if he hadn’t spent hours in an interrogation room. The tattoos on his hands, a map of his violent life, peeked out from beneath his cuffs.
Had I ever noticed his tattoos?
Anya looked between us, bit her lip, and slipped out of the room without a word.
“You look like you’re contemplating jumping,” Alexei said, his voice a low, melodic rumble. He didn’t move toward me. He just stood there, commanding the space.
“Maybe a fall would be safer than staying here,” I snapped. My fear was curdling into a hot, defensive rage. “You’re a monster, Alexei. You’re a control freak. You’re a tyrant who thinks he can buy and sell people like commodities.”
He took every word in silence. His expression didn’t flicker. He didn’t even look angry. He looked… efficient.
“I’ve been called worse by better people,” he answered calmly. He finally moved, walking slowly toward me. I backedaway, but the window was behind me. I was trapped. “Are you finished?”
“No! You’re forcing me into a marriage! This is the twenty-first century, not some medieval fiefdom.”
“In this city, for people like us, it is exactly a medieval fiefdom,” he said, stopping just inches from me. I could perceive the scent of his cologne. “This isn’t about your choices, Mila. This isn’t about your ‘life plan’ or your degree. This is about survival. Pure and simple.”
“You’re using that as an excuse to own me,” I accused, my voice lower than I intended.
“I am using the only leverage I have to keep you from being gutted and left in a dumpster,” he retorted, his voice finally losing its chill, flaring with a brief, white-hot intensity. “The Italians are already regrouping. The way, the only way, they back off is if you are a Lobanov. My wife.”
“I hate you,” I whispered.
But my body was a damn traitor. As he loomed over me, the tremor in my bones wasn’t just fear. It was a terrifying, magnetic pull toward the very danger he represented. I hated the way my pulse spiked when his hazel eyes dropped to my mouth.
“Hate me all you want,” he said, leaning down so his face was level with mine. “It will mean you’re still alive. You can walk out of this estate right now. I’ll even have Dimitri drive you. But the moment you leave my sight, you’re dead. Is that the choice you’d rather make?”
I looked into his eyes, searching for a lie, a hint of a bluff. I found nothing but the cold, hard reality of a man who had already decided the future.
“You’re forcing my hand,” I pointed out, my voice reflecting the brokenness I felt inside.
“I am,” he admitted, his thumb grazing the line of my jaw. The touch was surprisingly light, almost reverent, contrasting with the brutality of his words. “And I’m doing it for you.”
The silence stretched between us, thick with everything I couldn’t admit. I thought of the man in the ballroom. I thought of the blood on my dress. I thought of the way Alexei felt like a shield when the world exploded. But my foremost thought was fear. It had a way of making decisions for me.
“Okay,” I whispered. “Yes.”
He didn’t celebrate or smile. He simply nodded, as if we’d just finalized a shipping manifesto. “Good. Stay in this wing. I’ll have the papers and the priest brought here to the estate.”
He turned and walked out, leaving the door open this time—a silent reminder that while I was “safe,” I was no longer free.
Later that day, after the house had settled into an uneasy quiet, I stood in front of the full-length mirror in the dressing room.
I gazed at my reflection—the pale girl with the chestnut hair and the haunted hazel eyes. I looked small. I looked like a victim.
I reached up, touching my lips where I could still feel the ghost of his kiss, even after several hours.
My fingers trembled, but my gaze hardened.
“This isn’t love,” I whispered to the empty room. “This is war.”
Chapter Four
Alexei’s POV
The Lobanov machine does not grind; it hums.
