But as I looked at her, I felt that crack in the marble again. That sharp, uninvited twist in my chest. If I took her by force I would become the monster she already believed me to be.
Who am I kidding? I’m a damn monster.
That brought me to a new discovery: I wanted to try to be less of a monster to her. Not because her opinion of me could do me any harm. But, I just… preferred her not feeling terror at the sight of me.
I leaned in, my mouth inches from her ear. I didn’t touch her with my lips, but the proximity was enough to make her gasp.
“Sleep, Mila,” I whispered. “You’ll need your strength soon.”
I pulled back, the loss of her heat leaving me feeling strangely hollow. I looked at her one last time—at the white knuckles, the silk slip, the wild hair.
I turned and walked toward the dressing room, my footsteps heavy.
For a man who had killed without blinking, for a man who had built a life on the corpses of his enemies, that small moment of gentleness terrified me more than any strike from the Morettis ever could.
I had married her to keep her safe. But as I closed the door, I realized I was the one who was truly in danger. I had let an angel into my house, and I was terrified she was going to teach me how to feel the fire.
Chapter Seven
Mila’s POV
I lay beneath the weight of the silk duvet, my eyes tracing the intricate plasterwork of the ceiling in the dim glow of the single golden lamp across the room. The air was cool, smelling of the expensive beeswax candles that had burned down hours ago and the faint, lingering trail of Alexei’s whiskey.
I could hear him. He was a shadow moving in the darkness near the far wall, his movements quiet and steady. The rhythmic sound of his breathing, the soft rustle of his clothes—it should have been terrifying. I had spent the entire wedding day braced for the inevitable. After the ceremony, after that claiming, slow-burning kiss at the altar, I had prepared myself for a battle of wills. I had expected demands. I had expected the cold, hard reality of a Lobanov taking what he had paid for in blood and protection.
But he hadn’t.
He had come to me, made his hand hover around my face, and then he had simply… stepped back.
That restraint was what was currently unraveling me. It was a jagged edge I hadn’t prepared for. If he had been the monster I’d studied in my textbooks—the predatory patriarch—I would have known how to harden my heart. I would have found safety in my own hatred. But this quiet distance felt like a different kind of trap, one that made the air in my lungs feel thin.
My mind drifted back to the afternoon, back to the sun-drenched silence of the sitting room where Anya and I had spent the hours leading up to this.
The sitting room was a masterpiece of velvet and light, but to me, it felt like a waiting room for a life sentence. Anya sat across from me, her legs tucked under her, a porcelain teacup balanced precariously on her knee. We had been talking forhours, an endless stream of university gossip and old memories that felt like they belonged to another lifetime.
“You’re doing that thing again,” Anya said, setting her cup down with a soft clink. “The thing where you count the threads in the rug so you don’t have to look at the clock.”
“Is it that obvious?” I asked, my voice flat.
“Mila…” She reached across the small marble table, taking my hand. Her skin was warm, a contrast to the chill that had settled into my bones. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re wondering what happens next. You’re wondering if Alexei is going to become the man everyone says he is.”
I looked out the window, watching a pair of guards pace the perimeter. “I don’t know what to expect, Anya. I’ve seen the way people look at him. I’ve seen the way he looks at the world. He’s a collector. He’s a strategist. And now, he’s collected me.”
Anya squeezed my hand. “He’s also my brother. He’s spent his whole life protecting me, protecting this family. He doesn’t take things just to have them. He takes them to keep them safe. Your marriage doesn’t have to be a battle, Mila. He’s not a man who enjoys causing pain to those he considers his own.”
“But I’m not ‘his own,’” I whispered. “I’m a Petrov. I’m the daughter of the man who caused the mess he’s cleaning up.”
“You’re his wife,” Anya corrected firmly. “And in this house, that means more than any bloodline. Just… try to see him. Not the name, but the man.”
I hadn’t known how to answer her then. I still didn’t.
Back in the dim light of the bedroom, I shifted, the silk of my slip hissing against the sheets. The sound felt deafening.
“I’m not asleep,” I whispered into the dark. My voice was a fragile thread, easily broken.
Alexei stopped moving. I could see the silhouette of him standing by the heavy oak wardrobe. He had discarded his jacketand tie, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He looked less like a marble statue and more like a man—a man who was exhausted by the weight of the world he’d built around us.
“I know,” he said. His voice was a low rumble, devoid of the sharp, strategic edge he used with his men.
