Page 17 of His Contract Queen

Privately, he’s reminding me of the hierarchy. Reminding me of my role and that curiosity in his world is a liability with consequences he doesn’t need to describe for me to know exactly what they are.

What I can’t understand and what I can’t stop asking myself is… why?

Why not teach me a lesson? Why not drag me inside the room where the man on the floor might be dead and force me to witness exactly what I decided to spy on? Why not make it clear he knows exactly what I was doing here and punish me accordingly?

Why is he letting me off with just a warning?

For a moment, I’m speechless. My mind scrambles for something that won’t implicate me or tempt him to test how far my luck stretches.

“I wasn’t aware there was a… meeting going on,” I say carefully.

His smile widens slightly. Not by much, just the faintest pull at the corner of his mouth, but it’s enough to tell me he doesn’t believe me at all. “Is that so?”

It isn’t a question, it’s an indulgence. A cat playing with its favorite mouse.

I stare at him for a long moment, searching his face for even a hint of what he’s actually thinking behind those dark eyes. He remains opaque, the polished surface of a mirror reflecting only what he wants me to see.

In that quiet, razor-sharp moment, a truth sinks deeper into me. He isn’t sparing me because he’s feeling particularly merciful. He’s sparing me because, for reasons I cannot begin to understand, hewantsme here.

Before I can untangle the implications, he takes another step toward me. Just a half-step, barely enough to crowd me against the wall behind me, but it shortens the distance separating us dramatically. He’s close enough now that I have to tilt my chin up to maintain eye contact.

“You’re a terrible liar, Katya,” he whispers. The sound of my name—his version of it—sends a jolt through me. “Your eyes give you away every time.”

He’s reading me. Not in the way my father had trained me to read political opponents but the way a predator reads the tremble in its prey right before it’s devoured. Every flicker of uncertainty, every attempt at composure, he sees all of it.

He’s enjoying watching me squirm and try desperately to hold my ground anyway.

I force myself not to look away.

If I do, he wins.

If I flinch, he wins.

If I let him see how badly I want to run, hewins.

I roll my shoulders back and hold his gaze. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. I was just?—”

“Liar.”

Before I can react, his fingers brush the side of my face. It’s barely a touch, feather-light and so soft, I almost wouldn’t believe it happened except for the way my nerves ignite beneath it. The pad of his thumb traces the line of my cheekbone, stopping exactly where the heat of fear burns the most.

If I didn’t know better, I would have never predicted hearing him brutalize a man in the room behind him.

The most important thing I've learned so far is Aleksandr Volkov does nothing accidentally. He is suddenly close enough that his breath ghosts across the side of my face, close enough that I can see the flecks of darker color embedded in the blue of his irises even in the dim lighting.

“Next time you can’t sleep, don’t go wandering where you shouldn’t be,” he murmurs, voice low enough to buzz against my skin.

I swallow around the lump forming in my throat.

“If I catch you again,” he continues, the faintest edge bleeding into the softness, “you won’t like the outcome.”

A cold flush erupts over my skin.

He lingers a split second longer before he straightens. His hand falls away, leaving behind only the absence of his warmth, making the spot throb with leftover sensation. I remain rigid as he turns and walks back toward the study door.

When he reaches the doorway, he lifts a hand, letting his fingers slide up the frame in a slow, thoughtful gesture. He pauses there half-turned, the light from the room cutting across the sharp angle of his jaw.

“And Katya?” he says, looking over his shoulder at me.