“Your new life.” I study her face closely. “You’re not just Zara Thompson anymore. You’re Mrs. Nikolai Maksimov.”
“And?”
I pull out a black credit card and set it on the bedside table. “No limits. Buy whatever you want.”
She stares at it like it might bite her before gritting out. “I don’t want your money.”
“Too bad, it’s yours.” I pick up a strawberry and hold it to her mouth. “Open.”
She glares at me but parts her lips, letting me feed her the fruit. The sight of her mouth this close to my fingers sends heat straight to my cock.
“You’ll also have security,” I continue. “My enemies might try to use you to get to me.”
Fear flickers in her eyes. “Enemies?”
I nod. “That’s what the security’s for.” I trace a finger along her throat and feel her shiver. “Our men are the best. They’ll keep you safe.”
“Safe from everyone but you,” she bites out.
I smirk, loving that she’s still feisty after everything. “I would never hurt you, Zara.”
She scoffs, raising her eyebrows.
“There’ll also be events,” I continue, ignoring the attitude. For now…
“I hate you.”
I smile wickedly, remembering how she clung to me last night, milking my cock, marking my skin with her nails, her teeth… “No, you don’t.” I brush a tear off her cheek.
She turns away, but I catch her chin and force her to look at me.
“Finish your breakfast, wife,” I order, standing.
I’m almost to the door when her voice stops me.
“Nikolai?”
I turn.
“Why me?” she asks, looking me straight in the eye. “You could have killed me that night. Or, I don’t know… exiled me. Why marriage?”
I don’t hesitate. “Because the moment I saw you, I knew you were mine.”
I leave her with that, closing the door behind me.
7
Zara
After Nikolai leaves, I eat, reluctantly admitting to myself how delicious everything is. Go use the bathroom, clean up, and brush with a new toothbrush I find on the counter. On my way back to the bedroom, I see a stack of designer shopping bags by the massive wooden dresser that weren’t there last night. Curiosity wins over, and I peek inside them. There’s gorgeous lingerie, impossibly soft cashmere sweaters, shoes that look like they belong on a runway, dresses, pants, blouses. An entire wardrobe for my new life… And there’s a note written in bold handwriting: For my beautiful wife. -N
I should tell him to go fuck himself, that I don’t want his blood money. But fuck, when was the last time anyone bought me anything? Or called me beautiful?
He’s a killer. I try reminding myself. But my fingers are already stroking the fabrics, imagining how the clothes will feel against my skin.
“You like them.” I spin around to find my husband leaning against the doorframe, still in pajama pants, hair mussed. Even first thing in the morning, this man looks like he could grace the cover of GQ. All ripped body, sharp features and dangerous eyes.
“It’s too much.”
