Page 11 of His Contract Queen

They lead me down a corridor lined with closed doors.

Oil paintings hang at precise intervals with landscapes and stern-faced men in old uniforms. There are no personal touches on the walls or in the rooms we pass by, no warmth to suggest comfort or care. This place seems to have been designed to keep threats out and whatever lives inside hidden from the world.

At the end of the hall, a set of double doors stands open. Beyond them is a study that could double as a war room. Dark wood paneling absorbs the flickering firelight, making the shadows stretch long and jagged across the floor. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line the walls like towering sentries, each shelf packed so densely, it looks as though the room eats information and secrets for sustenance.

A desk carved from a single massive tree trunk, by the look of it, dominates the space between two tall windows. The glass beyond it is dark, reflecting only the faint movement of flames. The fire in the hearth burns low but steady, casting the room in a warm, deceptive glow that does nothing to soften the tension twisting through my ribcage.

Any illusion that this is some strange dream I’ll wake from dissolves completely.

There is no waking from this.

I straighten my spine and draw in a measured breath, silently reminding myself again why I’m here, why I agreed. Why turning back is not an option.

When I turn my gaze toward the hearth, I see him.

Aleksandr Volkov in the flesh.

He stands with his back to the fire, hands clasped behind him in a posture that radiates both discipline and untouchable authority. He’s tall, taller than the photographs suggested him to be, broad through the shoulders in a suit that fits too perfectly to be off-the-rack. His hair is black, silvering at the temples in a way that looks intentional, like he wears age as another advantage rather than something that’s taken from him.

His suit is as black as the shadows curling at his feet, the collar open at the throat. The sleeves are rolled to his forearms, an oddly casual detail for a man whose reputation is anything but that. Dark ink coils along his skin beneath the crisp fabric, wrapping around thick wrists in harsh lines.

I stop three paces inside the doorway.

That feels safer, though barely.

The guards remain behind me, silent and unmoving. They don’t need to issue orders or block the exit physically. Their mere presence is enough. I can feel the weight of what they’re not saying.Don’t run.Don’t even try.

Aleksandr’s eyes flick toward me.

They move from head to toe in a single, unhurried sweep. They are the darkest blue I’ve ever seen, almost black in this lighting. The firelight catches just enough of them to reveal depth beneath the surface.

He doesn’t look at me in a leering way. No, this is something colder. He’s… assessing me. Cataloging and deciding which mental drawer to place me inside. Somehow, that feels more violating than if he had ogled me outright.

When his eyes finally return to my face, the faintest smile curves his mouth.

“So,” he says, the corners of his eyes crinkling with unabashed amusement. “This is what Borchin has sent me.”

I bristle instantly, heat rushing to my face as humiliation washes over me. “Is that how you greet all your guests?”

His smile widens. The expression tells me he’s enjoying this far more than he should. “Are you considering yourself a guest? I would assume an impending cohabitation would mean we should be far more familiar with each other.”

The way he says it, unbothered, almost conversational in a way, shouldn’t bother me.

But it does.

Deeply.

It pricks at something under my skin I can’t quite name, a primal part of me that remains instinctive and wary of the dangers that lie ahead. I don’t know if he’s teasing or testing me or simply amused by how tightly I’m holding myself together. Whatever it is, it’s setting me on edge more than open hostility ever could.

He gestures to the chair opposite his desk without looking away from me. “Sit. Or don’t. Makes no difference to me.”

The casual dismissal infuriates me in a way that tightens the hands that hang at my sides.

I hold his stare, refusing to drop my gaze or let him think I’m so easily managed. Some part of me, that stubborn and reckless part that refuses to be tamed no matter who tries to, cannot bear the thought of obeying him simply because he expects it.

For some reason, that seems to amuse him more. A quiet huff of laughter escapes him as he straightens his posture, then moves away from the fireplace with an easy, unhurried stride. He doesn’t get too close to crowd me, but the shift in proximity between us is enough to make my pulse quicken.

He observes it. I know he does.