Chapter 11
Benedikt
Breakfast looks like a goddamn spread for royalty.
Silver platters, glass bowls, crystal pitchers. Eggs, bacon, pastries, fruit carved into shapes nobody asked for.
Half of it will go untouched.
My staff is good at excess—it’s what they think I want—and maybe I do. Maybe I like sitting at the head of a table that screams power before I open my mouth.
But this morning, it’s not working.
Sienna comes down the stairs, quick and with her head down like it’d be a damn cloaking device.
Blue jeans.
Oversized pink sweatshirt.
Hair pulled back in one of those messy knots that look like it took two seconds to do, but she still looks perfect.
Irritatingly perfect.
She’s not nervous. Not twitching or hiding. She just doesn’t want to be here. Doesn’t want to be around me.
And that’s too fucking bad.
Her eyes flick over the table, then me, and she sets her jaw. “I’ll be late.”
I didn’t say anything yet.
But I like that she already knows what I’m going to say just by the limited time we’ve been around each other.
“You need to eat,” I press lightly, bringing my coffee to my lips, then I point to the chair next to mine. “Sit.”
“I can’t. I’ll be late.”
I allow my gaze to drag down her frame, but it’s only to torture myself. That R word that she threw at me last night pissed me off. “Then take something with you.”
I hear her huff, then she plucks a piece of dry toast from one of many plates.
It takes everything in me to tell her to take more. That a piece of bread isn’t sufficient or nourishing enough for a full day at work, but I refrain.
The more I push Sienna, the harder it’s going to be for me to get her to soften for me.
The silence stretches, filled only with the tick of the clock on the wall. Her eyes flick toward it like she’s counting down the seconds until she can bolt.
I reach for the carafe of orange juice, pour a glass, and slide it across the table to her.
She doesn’t touch it.
“You think I’m a monster.”
“I don’t think,” she grinds out. “I know.”
I lean back in my chair and let that hang between us.
She’s not wrong. I’ve bled men dry, crushed their throats with my bare hands, and made examples of anyone stupid enough to cross me.
My empire wasn’t built on kindness.
It was built on fear, respect, and the bones of enemies.
If that makes me a monster, then fine. I’ll wear it.
But with her?
I want to be something else. Something that doesn’t make her look at the clock like she’s begging time to run faster.
“Monsters don’t offer breakfast.” Her eyes finally cut to mine, not buying or giving a shit about breakfast or anything to do with it. “After work, take your friend Lucy with you shopping. There’ll be a car waiting.”
“For what?”
“For my future wife.” I hold her stare, and she appears like she’d rather make me choke on the piece of toast residing in her hand than take anything I’d give her.
“I’ll pass.”
“There’s always a choice. But you’re too smart to run without thinking, too loyal to abandon the people you care about, and too damn stubborn to admit you’re in deeper than you can handle. So here you are. With me.”
“And why is that, Ben? Because you didn’t threaten to kill my father? Is that how you sleep at night?”
“No,” I answer honestly. “It’s the knowing that you’re going to be my wife. And that I’ll have a son.”
That earns me a glare.
“It’s going to be a very long five years for you, Benedikt,” she grinds out. “Am I free to go? Or do I need your permission every time I leave the house?”
I tap my cheek like an asshole. “Kiss first, princess.”
“Is that an order?”
I want it to be.
But, again, forcing my soon-to-be wife…is not going to play in my favor if I keep pissing her off.
“No,” I drone, even though my brain demands I command her to do it. “I just thought you could use the practice.”
She scoffs and tosses the toast aimlessly on the table. “Have a good day making everyone else miserable, Benedikt.”
The sound of her footsteps carries through the house until the front door shuts. I’m left alone with a table full of food, my jaw tight enough to crack.
She got the last word again, and I let her.
Not because she earned it, but because I’m trying not to strangle what little chance I have at breaking through that wall of hers.
I drain the rest of my coffee and reach for my phone, needing a distraction before I start pacing like a caged animal. The screen lights up with an incoming call—Dahlia, the interior designer I hired.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Volkov,” she greets, her voice smooth and professional. “Is this a good time?”
I wish I were busier at the present time, but I’m not.
“What can I do for you, Miss Mitchell?”
“I’d like to go over some preliminary plans for the bakery you commissioned. When’s a good time for us to meet?”
The bakery.
Her bakery.
My chest tightens with the thought of Sienna seeing it, walking inside something I built for her future. She’ll probably spit in my face, accuse me of bribery to keep her distracted, but I don’t care.
She’s getting it whether she wants it or not.
“Tomorrow,” I answer. “Are you available for dinner?”
“Of course,” she coos. “I can make the reservations—”
“I’ll handle the place, Miss Mitchell. My fiance is picky with…places.”
“Oh.” She’s silent for a few seconds before she says, “Of course. I’d love to meet her.”
“I’ll text you the details and time. Have a good morning, Miss Mitchell.”
“You too—”
I hang up, sliding the phone on the table.
Fiancée.
The word tastes bitter and sweet all at once.
She hates me, but I’m building her a world anyway. And if that makes me a monster, then fine, I’ll be the kind of monster who gives her everything she never asked for and dares her to hate me for it.
I sit there in the silence after the call, staring at the abandoned toast she left behind. Her words from last night dig their claws into me again.
Because it’s going to start feeling like rape.
I’ve had bullets graze me, knives dig into my flesh, and broken ribs that took weeks to heal, but none of it touched me the way that word did coming out of her mouth.
It made me hesitate.
It made me think.
And I hate that.
She doesn’t understand that I didn’t chain her here because I get off on breaking someone.
I chained her here because she’s the only damn thing I want that doesn’t rot me from the inside out.
But how the fuck do I explain that when all she sees is a man who forced her here?
A mob boss who’s spent his life controlling, taking, punishing.
A man who knows the only way to keep what’s his is to crush every obstacle that gets in the way.
Yeah, I’m a monster. But I want to be her monster.
And wanting that is its own kind of hell.
I rake a hand through my hair, thinking ahead to tomorrow with the bakery plans.
Something I had no right to give her, but I will anyway. Maybe if she sees it, she’ll stop looking at me like every touch is a prison. Maybe she’ll stop running in her head, even if her body’s still here.
At the end of the day, I don’t just want her obedience. I don’t even just want her body.
I want her soft, genuine smile. I want her walking through this house and not looking for exits.
I want her happy.
And that’s the part that’ll ruin me.
But I’ve got time.
Five years of it, if that’s what it takes.
And tomorrow is just the first step.