Chapter 13
Izzy
"If you keep looking at me like that, we're going to scandalize the board of trustees."
Sergei's voice is low against my ear, his hand resting possessively on my lower back as we navigate through the charity luncheon crowd. The Plaza ballroom glitters with old money. Crystal chandeliers, silk tablecloths, women dripping with diamonds.
I turn my head slightly, catching his grey eyes. "Like what?"
"Like you want me to bend you over the dessert table." His thumb traces small circles through the fabric of my dress, and heat builds under my skin.
"That's your imagination."
"Is it?" His lips brush my temple, and I feel him smile. "Because you've been biting your lip for the past ten minutes, kotyonok. I know what that means."
Damn him for being right. The black cocktail dress I'm wearing, silk that clings to every curve, seemed like a good idea this morning.
Now, with his body heat radiating through his charcoal suit, with those tattooed forearms visible when he pushes up his sleeves, I'm regretting not staying home and finishing what we started in bed before Mila woke up.
"Mrs. Orlov!" A woman in Chanel materializes in front of us, all bleached teeth and predatory interest. "How wonderful to see you. And this must be your new husband."
"Sergei Orlov." He extends his hand, smooth and controlled, but I feel the tension coiling through his body. He hates these events. Too many people, too many angles he can't cover. "Pleasure."
She simpers, holding his hand too long. "Oh, the pleasure is mine. We've all been dying to meet the man who tamed our wild Izzy."
"She doesn't need taming," Sergei says, voice dropping to danger. His hand slides lower on my back, almost to the curve of my ass. Claiming. "She's perfect exactly as she is."
The woman's smile falters. I hide my grin in my champagne flute.
We make it through another twenty minutes of small talk and pointed questions about our whirlwind romance before I spot Uncle Matthew across the room. He's talking to Cal Reznick, both of them watching us with expressions that make my skin crawl.
"They're staring," I murmur.
"I know." Sergei's already tracking them, his body angled so he's between them and me. "Been staring since we walked in."
"Should we—"
"Mrs. Orlov, your table is ready." A server appears beside us, young and nervous, gesturing toward the dining area. "If you'd like to follow me?"
We're seated at a round table with six other couples I vaguely recognize from the circuit. Everyone's polite, asking about our honeymoon plans, where we met, what Sergei does. He fields every question with practiced ease, his hand never leaving my thigh under the table.
The first course arrives. Some pretentious salad with edible flowers. Sergei leans close, his breath hot against my ear. "If we survive this lunch without me dragging you to the coat check, it'll be a miracle."
"Behave," I whisper back, but my hand finds his on my thigh, fingers interlacing.
"Never."
Movement catches my eye. The young server from earlier, approaching our table with the wine service. Wrong. His walk is too purposeful, too focused. His eyes don't match his nervous demeanor from before.
Sergei stiffens beside me. He sees it too.
The server reaches our table. His hand goes inside his jacket.
"Get down!"
Everything happens at once. Sergei shoves me sideways, my chair toppling as I hit the floor. I catch a flash of silver, a knife, not a gun, as the server lunges. Women scream. Glass shatters. Then Sergei's on him, moving with that lethal grace that makes him The Wolf.
The knife slashes down. Sergei catches his wrist, twisting until bones crack. The server gasps, and Sergei drives him backward into another table. Food and flowers explode everywhere. People scatter, fleeing toward the exits.
"Stay down," Sergei barks at me.
I'm already crawling toward the wall, my dress ripping, pulse thundering in my ears so loud, I can barely hear the screaming.
Sergei disarms the attacker with brutal efficiency, one strike to the wrist, the knife clattering away, then he's got him in a headlock, dragging him toward the service entrance.
"Sergei—"
"Stay. Here." His voice is ice and violence, nothing soft about it now. This is The Wolf, and he's hunting.
He disappears through the swinging doors, the would-be assassin struggling weakly in his grip. I should listen. I should stay put like he ordered. But my hands are shaking, adrenaline flooding my system, and I need to know who sent that man.
I scramble to my feet, ignoring the ripped dress, and follow.
The service corridor is stark white tile and stainless steel.
I hear grunting, the meaty sound of fists hitting flesh, and I follow it down a set of stairs to what must be the basement storage area.
Dim lighting. Metal shelves stacked with linens and supplies.
And in the center, Sergei has the server pinned against a concrete wall.
"Who sent you?" Sergei's voice is terrifyingly calm.
The man spits blood. "Go to hell."
Sergei's fist connects with his ribs. Once. Twice. The crack echoes in the small space.
"I'm already in hell," Sergei says conversationally. "I live there. Now answer the question."
I should stop this. I should feel horror, revulsion, anything other than this dark satisfaction while watching my husband work. But all I feel is gratitude that he's on my side. That this violence is for me.
"Matthew Ashford," the man gasps, sagging in Sergei's grip. "Uncle Matthew ordered the hit."
The world tilts. My hand finds the cold metal shelving, gripping it for support. No. No, he wouldn't.
Except he would. Uncle Matthew, who's been circling my inheritance like a vulture. Who wanted me to marry Cal. Who's been scared of Sergei since the beginning because he knew this would happen, that I'd find someone who couldn't be bought or intimidated.
"You're lying," I hear myself say, voice hollow.
The man's eyes find mine in the shadows. "He said to make it look like your husband couldn't protect you. Said to scare you back into line."
Horror and fury war in my chest. Uncle Matthew. The same man who patted my hand at Dad's funeral. Who offered condolences with those dead brown eyes.
Did he kill Dad, too?
"Sergei." My voice cracks. "Did he, was my father—"
"Not here." Sergei's still holding the man, but his eyes find mine, reading the devastation written across my face. "Kotyonok, not here."
The assassin laughs, wet and pained. "They said you'd figure it out. The boat—"
Sergei's hand moves before I can process what he's doing. Quick, decisive. The man's laugh cuts off with a choking sound, and then he's slumping, lifeless, in Sergei's arms.
I should scream. Should feel revulsion.
But I just watch as Sergei lowers the body to the ground, checking for a pulse he knows isn't there. When he straightens, his knuckles are split, blood—not his—spattered across his white shirt.
He pulls out his phone, dialing with steady fingers while I stand frozen. "Andrei. Plaza Hotel, basement storage. One body. Make it disappear." Pause. "Twenty minutes." He hangs up.
Then he's moving toward me, cupping my face in his blood-stained hands, forcing me to look at him. His grey eyes are intense, searching mine for cracks.
"Are you okay?"
I laugh, sharp and brittle. "My uncle tried to have me killed in the middle of a charity luncheon while we were eating stupid flower salad." Hysteria bubbles up my throat. "I'm fantastic."
"Isabelle—"
"He killed my father." The words rip out of me, and suddenly I'm shaking.
Everything I've been holding together since that phone call on the terrace, since Dad's casket, since this nightmare began, it all breaks open.
"Matthew killed him. That's what he was going to say. The boat wasn't an accident."
Sergei pulls me against his chest, strong arms wrapping around me, and I bury my face in his shoulder. He smells like violence and safety. His heart beats steady and sure beneath my ear.
"I'll handle it," he murmurs into my hair. "I'll find proof. I'll make him pay."
"How?" I pull back, looking up at him. Blood spatters his jaw, his neck, and I should be repulsed. Instead, I reach up, wiping it away with my thumb. "He's family. He's protected. He has lawyers and money and—"
"He has nothing I'm afraid of." Sergei catches my wrist, pressing a kiss to my palm. "You're my wife. He tried to kill you. There are rules about that in my world."
"What rules?"
His smile is cold, predatory. "Blood for blood, kotyonok. Your uncle just signed his own death warrant."