Her sharp intake of breath as she realizes where she is.
The soft pad of her feet on the hardwood floor.
“Where are my clothes?” Her voice is hoarse, probably from screaming my name last night. The thought sends heat through my veins, and I hate myself for it.
“Burned,” I say flatly, still not looking at her. “Elena will bring you new ones. Appropriate ones.”
“Appropriate?” There’s fire in her voice now. Good. I can handle her anger. It’s her vulnerability that undoes me. “What the hell does that mean?”
I finally turn to face her.
She’s wrapped the sheet around herself, clutching it to her chest like armor.
Her blue eyes blaze with fury, but I can see the fear underneath.
The uncertainty.
“It means you’re my wife now.” My voice is cold and controlled. “You’ll dress the part. Behave the part. Play the part.”
“I’m not your wife.” She takes a step toward me, and I force myself not to notice how the sheet slips slightly, revealing the curve of her shoulder. “That ceremony was a joke. A mockery. I didn’t sign anything, so it doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means everything.” I close the distance between us in three strides. She flinches but doesn’t back away, and I have to admire her courage even as I curse it. “I didn’t need your signature. You’re mine now, Sophia. My property. My revenge. And you’ll learn to accept that.”
“Never.” The word is barely a whisper, but it carries the weight of a vow.
I reach out and cup her face, my thumb brushing across her cheekbone.
She trembles at my touch, and I can’t tell if it’s from fear or something else. “Your body already has,” I murmur. “Last night proved that.”
She jerks away from me, and the sheet slips further.
I catch a glimpse of the marks I left on her breast before she yanks the fabric back up. “My body betrayed me,” she hisses. “That doesn’t mean I accept this. Any of this.”
“It doesn’t matter what you accept.” I turn away from her, needing to put distance between us before I do something stupid like pull her back into bed. “There are rules now. You’ll follow them, or there will be consequences.”
“Rules?” She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Of course there are rules. What kind of prison would this be without them?”
I move to my desk and pull out a sheet of paper, already prepared.
I’d written it last night after she fell asleep, when I lay awake trying to convince myself that what we’d done was just part of the plan.
Just revenge.
Nothing more.
“Rule one,” I begin, reading from the list. “You don’t leave the mansion grounds without my explicit permission. Ever.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Rule two: you’re to be monitored at all times. Guards will be posted outside every room you enter. Cameras cover every inch of this property except the bathrooms and our bedroom.”
“Our bedroom?” Her voice rises. “I’m not sleeping in here with you again.”
I finally look at her, and I let her see the cold determination in my eyes. “You’ll sleep where I tell you to sleep. Which brings me to rule three: you obey my commands. All of them. Without question or hesitation.”
“Go to hell.”
“Rule four: no contact with the outside world. No phone calls, no internet, no letters. As far as anyone knows, Sophia Moretti disappeared. Only Mrs. Artyomov exists now.”
