Chapter 17
Cecilia
The door to my bedroom bursts open. “Morning, sunshine,” Mikhail jeers.
With a high-pitched scream, I jolt upright in bed, pick up the closest object I can get my hands on—a book—and hurl it at him. It misses his chest by a few inches, falling to the floor with a thud.
“Someone woke up in a cranky mood…”
“God! You scared me! We’ve been over this. Can’t you at least knock?”
Standing by the window in the morning light, he looks unfairly handsome, his hair a tousled mess that somehow works with the dark suit he’s wearing. The swelling and bruises on his face are mostly gone, and he seems ready for whatever else life will throw at him.
Clutching the sheets to my chest, I suddenly become aware of my morning face. What’s with him at this hour?
“Do I need to carry you again?” He sighs. “We’ve got a long day ahead, and I’d rather avoid all the traffic.”
My brows rise. “We? No, no. We aren’t doing anything together. Now crawl back into whatever hole you climbed out of and leave me alone.”
He steps closer, hands in his pockets, his gaze lowering to whatever part of my body is still visible. “If that pretty nightgown is all you’re going to wear, fine by me. Just don’t act surprised when I start plucking the eyes of every man who sees you out on the streets.”
A dangerous thrill passes through me. “If anyone sees me, if anyone wants me, maybe I’ll want them back. I’m sure you’ll be taking plenty of lovers yourself.”
Will I? The thought has never even crossed my mind. I always hoped I’d be like Ms. Donatello—no husband, no lover, just me, my piano, and maybe a dog. It sounded a thousand times better than being in this situation.
Mikhail’s jaw locks as he throws me a cold smile. “This—me—is all you’ll ever get, sweetheart. I fucking dare you to take any man to bed, and he’ll turn up dead the morning after. Now, what’s it gonna be? Are you getting up?”
His words make me frown, totally baffled.
He’d kill my lovers? Why would he even care?
But as his brow raises again in question, I sigh, deciding I don’t want him to carry me again.
Or face the dreadful cold outside these walls without proper layers.
So I drape my legs over the edge of the mattress, knowing I’ve lost this fight.
Keeping the sheets around my body, I trudge to the adjacent bathroom. When I move past him, his scent envelops me—sophisticated and hushed, and… his. Traitorous heat skitters through my body, flushing my cheeks, as the memory of him pinning me under him a few nights ago hits me like a sling.
For a second too long, our gazes meet, and it feels like a part of that memory is playing out in his mind too.
His mouth opens to say something, yet only silence comes out. A silence that stretches, and stretches, until eventually, his lips come back together in a restrained smile.
“I’ll be in the foyer,” he says. “Be there in ten.”
Later, when I’m bundled up in too many clothes to remember, I saunter downstairs like I’ve got all the time in the world. Instead of berating me about being late, Mikhail quirks a brow, looking me up and down.
“We’re not in Siberia, you know,” he says.
I take a beanie out of my coat’s jacket and shove it on my head. “If you don’t like my outfit, I can always stay here. I don’t want to go with you, anyway.”
“Oh, you’re going. Now open.”
“What—” As I form the word, a piece of soft pastry is shoved between my lips. I clamp down on it before I realize what’s happening and pick it up with my hand. “What is wrong with you? I’m not your goddamn dog!”
He rolls his eyes. “Relax. I’m just making sure you’re fed. Wouldn’t want you fainting halfway to Manhattan—I’d have to stop somewhere, and the whole thing would be annoying—”
“I got it,” I snap.
Frustration courses through me as I bite into the chocolate croissant and walk past him toward the main doors. Truth be told, I am hungry, and this tastes delicious, but I’ll never tell him that.
The ride out of the estate is quiet. It’s not awkward silence, but it is a statement. He doesn’t want to talk to me. And, well, I don’t want to talk to him either. I just wish I didn’t feel his stare burning into the side of my head when I’m looking out the window.
How can he be so… open and inviting one moment, then the next he’s acting like we’ve never met? He’s giving me whiplash, and I hate that I cling to every gesture as if it’s supposed to mean something.
I lean against the door, focusing on the road ahead as I try my hardest to ignore the buzzing energy between us. The forest begins to thin out, only the surrounding mountains remaining. They’re not very tall, but their peaks are covered in snow and icy morning sun.
We then pass through a town—Alemont City, as the sign shows—with lovely shops and cafes, all decorated for the upcoming holidays.
A wave of sadness moves through me at the prospect of spending Christmas alone in that bedroom, but I push it down, refusing to acknowledge it.
Better alone than with Mikhail or his family.
The houses are small and chic, with narrow cobbled streets and a romantic, old-world vibe that part of me is itching to explore. For half an hour, maybe, I could feel normal. But I’m not asking this man for anything.
Eventually, the urban jungle of New York pulls us in with its skyscrapers, smoke, and bustling atmosphere. The car stops in the parking lot of an apartment complex, and I follow him out, then into the elevator.
“You haven’t asked where we’re going,” he says, pressing the button to the 50th floor.
“Why bother? You dragged me out of bed without giving me much of a choice.”
“But you like that, don’t you? Having someone in control to tell you what to do.”
“Being used to it and liking it are two very different things. As far as I’m concerned, you’re one and the same with the people I had to deal with at home.”
The bastard has the nerve to look into my eyes. “Oh, no, sweetheart. I’m much worse.”
The elevator dings and the doors slide open, throwing us directly into a luxurious apartment.
My eyes fall on a bunch of wedding dresses spread across the giant couch, each more shimmering and voluminous than the other.
My first instinct is wincing, but then my eyes roll around the room, and the person standing there completely changes my mood.
“Y-You’re here,” I marvel, stepping out of the elevator.
Ms. Donatello’s smile struggles against a furrowed brow, the usual way in which she greets me. She steps in with open arms, and I embrace her fully. My shoulders loosen. My face creases with relief. And for a moment, I forget about the monster waiting behind me.
“How are you here? Why?” I beam.
“Your father wanted me to help with the wedding,” she says. “Make sure we pick something out for you that you’ll really like.”
More like, make sure we pick something that makes him look good among his new allies. But that’s not Ms. Donatello’s fault, and frankly, I’m just glad that she’s here, no matter the reason.
“You’re welcome, by the way,” Mikhail says, coming next to me.
I wrinkle my nose. “You’re staying?”
His smirk twitches just barely, not in amusement this time. If I didn’t know him better, I’d say my question felt more like a slap.
But I can tell his mind is elsewhere. The way he watches my mentor—with cold, dark curiosity—leads me to believe another menacing thought has taken root in his mind. Fortunately, Ms. Donatello isn’t the kind to cower in front of any man, and the threat in her eyes when she assesses him proves it.
Mikhail’s gaze remains on her as he drawls, “Wish I could stay, sweetheart, but I’ve got work to do.”
Two predators staring each other down. That’s what this is.
Ms. Donatello brings her hand around my shoulders, pulling me farther into the room with her. “Come, come, let me show you what I brought.”
Mikhail walks past us, his steps fading as he moseys down a large hallway in the distance. “I’ll be in my office. Don’t break anything.”
Once she knows we’re truly alone, my mentor pulls me to an empty spot on the couch, holding my hands. “How are you, cara? Has he hurt you…?”
I shake my head. “No. I mostly sit in my room all day. I don’t know where he goes or—”
“And the others? Has the Pakhan threatened you?”
“No. His wife actually helped me get settled. I’m fine, I just…”
“The nightmares,” she says softly, “You still have the same one, right?”
My breath hitches as I recall my latest. “Mostly the same.”
“So they’re changing?” Her gaze sharpens.
“I…”
She squeezes my hands a little harder, the gesture odd but affirming. “You know you can tell me anything. I’ve helped you before, and I can do it again. If you need that tincture again…”
A sad smile tugs at my lips. “I know. Thank you. I just…I don’t really want to talk about that right now.” The last thing I want her to know is how I woke up pinned beneath my future husband…and liked it.
Her lips press into a tight line. “That’s alright. We’ll have more time to talk now that I’m helping with the wedding preparations.”
“Do you know when it is? No one tells me anything.”
“What a bastard.” She scoffs, glancing away. “It's two days from now. Not a lot of time, I know, but then again, this wedding is just to close the deal publicly.”
Two days.
My stomach lurches.
Of course, it’s just business, yet hearing it aloud makes my pulse spike. Because once that ring is on my finger, I’ll belong to Mikhail officially.
“Let’s see about that dress then,” she says, getting up from the couch.
We go through dozens of gowns—all massive, suffocating things with layers of tulle and stiff corsets that bite into my ribs. They remind me too much of being displayed back home.
“This is it, I think,” Ms. Donatello says an hour later, clasping her hands together as I stand in the mirror wearing a monster of a dress. “Royal. Sumptuous. Worthy of Cecilia Ferrara, pianist extraordinaire.”
I turn to the side, taking in all the ruffles before meeting her gaze. “You don’t think it’s a bit…much?” Pompous. Heavy. Too…out there.
“What? No, no, no. It’s perfect.” She steps closer, her tone shifting into that soft command she’s always used on me. “You’ve always loved statement pieces. Big dresses make people notice you onstage.”
Did I? I remember preferring simpler pieces. Satin. Then again, she knows best. She usually does.
“Right, but…”
She lets out a sigh, placing both hands on my shoulders from behind. “Trust me on this one. There’s a lot of tension back home. The last thing your father needs is for you to look small. Let them see power. Presence.”
Slowly, I begin to nod, realizing she’s probably right. She’s the one with an eye for these things, and her wardrobe attests to that. Besides, I don’t even want this wedding, so might as well pick this dress and get it over with.
“Good.” She smiles victoriously. “I’ll call the atelier and make the order.”
As she goes to retrieve her purse and coat from the couch, Mikhail’s reflection joins mine in the mirror. Our eyes meet, and immediately, his nose scrunches, his disappointment all over his face. I look away, unable to stop the embarrassment from flooding me.
So what if he thinks I look ridiculous? Let him.
“You’re done here, I suppose?” he asks Ms. Donatello.
“For now,” she answers, a clear bite in her tone.
“Great. I look forward to never seeing you again. Now, get out.”
She approaches him—slowly, controlled, with a feline grace that always unsettled me. “You don’t want me as your enemy.”
“Out,” he says.
Ms. Donatello turns to me, offering a smile. I return it, and before I know it, she’s in the elevator, disappearing before the closing doors.
“You didn’t have to talk to her like that,” I scoff, gripping the hem of my dress so I can walk. “She’s done nothing to upset you.”
“Cecilia…” He lets out a controlled breath. “What on Earth are you wearing?”
“Great. Now you’re being a jerk to me as well.” I avert my gaze, a sob catching in my throat as I pull my lower lip between my teeth.
“I’m not trying to—fuck… Just tell me the truth. Do you actually like this thing? If yes, I’ll shut up.”
I pause, considering the question, searching his eyes for any hint of mockery but finding none. Instead, I find something worse—confusion. Frustration. And something that looks disturbingly like concern.
“Well?” he asks.
“I…” I cross my arms, shrugging. “It’s not what I would’ve chosen, but if this is for the best…”
His nostrils flare. His brows lower. In fact, all his features twist with something I haven’t seen displayed on his face yet—anger. And it’s not directed at me at all.
“Go take this off. In fact, rip it to fucking shreds.”
“What…?”
“We’re going shopping,” he says, getting our coats from the hanger.
“But I can’t just—” I shake my head, a smile tugging at my lips. “She’s already putting in the order for this dress.”
“She can wear it then. My wife will wear whatever the fuck she wants on her wedding day. Let’s go.”