“Good,” I muttered. “Exploit it. Blackmail the supervisor or buy him. I don’t care which.”
My mind drifted again. I imagined her in the bedroom. Had she taken off the dress? Was she sitting by the window, looking out at the city she had lost? I felt a sudden, sharp surge of possessiveness. She wasn’t just a move on a board. She was the board.
“That’s all for tonight,” I said abruptly, standing up. The movement was so sudden that the analysts were startled. “Dimitri, walk the perimeter one last time. Everyone else, clear out.”
“It’s only eleven, boss,” Dimitri noted, carefully standing his ground. “We still haven’t cleared the European logistics.”
“I said clear out,” I repeated, my voice leaving no room for argument.
Dimitri watched me for a second, a flicker of knowing in his eyes that I wanted to beat out of him. He knew exactly where I was going.
“Goodnight, boss,” he said softly. “And happy married life.”
The office cleared. I was alone with the hum of the servers and the scent of her that seemed to have permeated the very walls of the estate. I finished the whiskey in one swallow, the liquid burning like a penance.
I was a man of marble. I was a man of stone. I didn’t feel. I didn’t drift. I didn’t lose focus.
And yet, every step seemed to loosen something in me. The walk upstairs felt like an eternity. The marble staircase, usually a symbol of my family’s permanence, felt cold and hollowbeneath my boots. Every guard I passed was a blur of black fabric and suppressed breathing.
I reached the door to the master suite. My hand hovered over the gold handle as I suddenly felt like a trespasser in my own home.
I pushed the door open.
The room was bathed in the soft glow of the bedside lamps. The heavy cream gown I had spent thousands on was draped over a velvet chair, looking like a discarded skin.
Mila was sitting at the edge of the bed. She had shed the armor of the bride. She was wearing a simple white silk slip that shimmered in the low light, her chestnut hair falling over her shoulders in wild, uncombed waves. Her hands were clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles were white.
She looked up at me, and the expression on her face hit me harder than any bullet ever could. It was a volatile mix of defiance and raw, unadulterated terror. She looked so small against the massive headboard, a rabbit caught in the gaze of a wolf.
And yet, she didn’t look away. She remained wild in her quietness; sharp beneath the softness.
She’s herself.
“I’m not yours,” she whispered.
The words were a blade. Sharp. Cold. Intended to draw blood.
I didn’t smile. I didn’t move toward her with the arrogance of a victor. I simply looked at her, letting the silence of the room settle between us.
“Yes, you are,” I replied.
It wasn’t a boast. It was a statement of fact. In the world I inhabited, names were the only currency that mattered. She carried the Lobanov name now. She wore the Lobanov ring.The world outside those windows saw her as my extension, my property, my soul.
“A name is just a word, Alexei,” she hissed as if she’d heard my thoughts, her voice gaining strength. “You can lock the doors. You can put a thousand men in the garden. You can force me to stand at an altar. But you don’t own me. You will never own me.”
I began to move toward her then, my footsteps silent on the thick rug. I didn’t touch her. I stopped just inches away, close enough that the air between us became thick and pressurized. I could see the rapid, frantic pulse in her throat. I could see the way her breath stumbled, her chest rising and falling in shallow gasps.
“I have built a fortress around you, Mila,” I said, my voice dropping to a low, rough rasp. “I have made you untouchable. I have given you my life as a shield. If you want to call that a cage, fine. But it is the only cage in this city that will keep you alive.”
“I would rather be in danger and free than safe and your prisoner,” she snapped.
“We wouldn’t be here if you chose to be unsafe,” I pointed out.
I leaned down, invading her space until our faces were inches apart. I could see the golden flecks in her hazel eyes—eyes that were currently trying to burn a hole through my soul. I reached out, my fingers barely grazing the skin of her jaw as I tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
She shivered at the contact, a visible tremor that went through her entire body. She hated me. I could feel the heat of it radiating off her. And yet, she didn’t pull away.
I could have touched her. I could have claimed the rights the marriage contract gave me. I could have ended the night by proving to her exactly who I was and what I could take.
