Chapter Eight
The champagne flute feels light in my hand, delicate and expensive, much like the illusion of happiness we’ve constructed today.
The reception is in full swing, a carefully orchestrated display of power and unity.
I lead Freya back inside from the balcony, and stand near the head of the long banquet table, watching the room.
Everything is proceeding exactly as planned.
My eyes find Freya instantly. She’s by the window, talking to one of the Pakhan’s wives.
She’s performing well. Her smile is polished, her posture perfect.
She navigates the conversation with a social grace that surprises me.
I expected a sullen hostage, not a partner who understands the weight of the room.
I see the cracks if I look close enough. The way her fingers tremble slightly against her stemware. The way her eyes dart to the exits every few minutes, calculating, assessing. She hasn’t accepted her cage; she’s just learning how to decorate it.
Good. Fear makes people sloppy. Determination makes them dangerous. I prefer dangerous.
“Nikita.”
The voice is a low rumble, cutting through the ambient noise of the room. I turn to see Maxim approaching.
He’s a wall of a man, broad-shouldered and dark, radiating a kind of controlled violence that makes even the most seasoned Bratva captains step aside.
He’s wearing a suit that fits his massive frame like a weapon sheath, midnight black with a tie that matches his eyes.
A faint scar runs along his jawline, a souvenir from a knife fight in Moscow years ago.
My cousin. The family’s enforcer. The man who handles the things I can’t—or won’t.
“Maxim,” I say, offering him a curt nod. “I wasn’t sure you would make it.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” he says, his eyes scanning the crowd before landing on me. “Rumors of your impending nuptials have been… entertaining.”
“Rumors have a way of getting out of hand.”
“So do brides.” He takes a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, though I’ve never seen him drink more than a sip at these events. “She’s beautiful. Trouble, but beautiful.”
“She’s smart,” I add, watching Freya laugh at something the old woman says. “Smart women are always trouble.”
“Is she loyal?”
“That remains to be seen.”
Maxim hums, a thoughtful sound in his chest. “The Pakhan is pleased. A strategic alliance within the family, even by marriage, stabilizes the territory. It shows you’re thinking long-term.”
“I’m always thinking long-term.”
“Are you?” He glances at me, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. “Just remember that possession requires maintenance. You don’t just buy a dog and expect it to guard the house without training.”
“She’s not a dog, Maxim.”
“Isn’t she?” He takes his sip, his eyes cold and heavy. “You put a collar on her. Now you have to decide if she’s a pet or a wolf.”
“I know exactly what she is,” I say, my voice hardening. “She’s the means to an end.”
“Just be careful the end doesn’t bite you.” He claps me on the shoulder, a heavy, grounding weight. “Congratulations, cousin. I wish you luck.”
He turns and melts back into the crowd, leaving me with the unsettling truth that Maxim rarely gives advice without a reason. He sees something I’m missing. Or perhaps he just enjoys reminding me that the noose around my neck is just as tight as the one around hers.
I push the thought away. Tonight is about control. About cementing the narrative.
Freya senses me watching her. She excuses herself from the conversation and starts moving toward me. Her strides are long, determined. She’s not trying to sneak away; she’s coming to report.
It’s fascinating. She’s fighting for autonomy within the constraints I’ve set, trying to carve out a space where she can still act.
She reaches my side, the scent of vanilla and jasmine wrapping around me.
“Your cousin is intimidating,” she says, keeping her voice low.
“Maxim is a necessary evil,” I reply. “He keeps the wolves from the door.”
The band strikes up a slower melody, a signal for the guests to take to the floor for the final dances.
“One last dance,” I say, holding out my hand. “For the cameras.”
She looks at my hand, then up at my face. I see the calculation again—the weighing of the pros and cons. She knows refusing would cause a scene. She knows that every move she makes is being cataloged and judged.
Taking my hand, she allows me to pull her into the center of the floor.
I spin her, the white gown flaring out like a cloud. The guests clap, their smiles tight and polite. We move together, steps practiced and synchronized.
“You’re enjoying this,” she murmurs, her breath hitching slightly as I pull her tighter against me.
“Enjoyment is irrelevant,” I reply, guiding her through a turn. “This is business.”
“It feels personal,” she counters, her hand resting on my shoulder.
“Everything in my life is personal, Freya. Business is just personal with a contract.”
The song ends, and I release her, keeping my hand on her lower back a second longer than necessary. The crowd applauds, the signal for the departure.
“Time to go,” I say softly.
She stiffens, but she nods. “Okay.”
The drive back to the penthouse is quiet. The city lights blur past the tinted windows, streaks of gold and red. Freya sits across from me, her hands folded in her lap. She’s exhausted—I can see the fatigue dragging at her features—but her mind is still racing.
She’s already planning her next move.
When the elevator opens into the foyer of the penthouse, the atmosphere shifts instantly. The noise of the world—the traffic, the music, the din of the reception—is cut off. Here, there is only silence and the hum of the climate control.
I walk in first, shrugging off my jacket and handing it to the staff. Freya follows, her heels clicking on the marble floor. She looks around, taking in the space with fresh eyes. This is her prison now.
She stops in the middle of the living area, turning to face me. She looks small in the vastness of the room, fragile in her white lace, but her chin is lifted.
“Which room is mine?” she asks. “The guest room, or…?”
The question is direct. A test.
I stop and look at her. “You’re my wife, Freya,” I say, my voice echoing slightly in the high ceilings. “You stay with me.”
She blinks, processing the command. “I… right. Guess I can’t put it off forever.”
“Assumptions are dangerous.”
She takes a breath, her shoulders squaring. “Nikita, we’ve been married for four hours. I’m not… I’m not ready to share a bed with you. Not like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like a real marriage.”
“It is a real marriage,” I correct, walking toward her slowly. “We signed the papers. We said the vows. It’s legally binding.”
“You know what I mean,” she says, her voice rising slightly in frustration. “The… physical part. The intimacy.”
I stop inches from her. The air between us is charged, heavy with the tension we’ve been building since the gala.
“I don’t recall asking for your permission,” I say quietly.
She stares at me, her green eyes wide and searching. She’s scared. I can smell the adrenaline on her, sharp and sour, but she’s not backing down.
“I’m not one of your soldiers,” she says, her voice trembling but firm. “You can’t just order me into your bed.”
“I can,” I say. “I won’t force you, Freya, but the room is ours. The bed is ours. I’ll sleep facing away if you prefer.”
“And if I choose the guest room?”
“Then you can have it, for tonight.”
She looks away, breaking eye contact for the first time. Maybe she thought she could negotiate, could find a loophole, a way to maintain some semblance of her old life. She’s realizing that the old life is gone.
“Go,” I say, nodding toward the master suite. “Get changed. I’ll be in shortly.”
She hesitates, then turns and walks away. I watch her go, admiring the sway of her hips, the strength in her back. She’s magnificent when she’s angry.
I give her ten minutes.
Walking into the bedroom, I find her standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at the city. She’s changed out of the wedding dress, wearing a silk slip of a nightgown that leaves little to the imagination. Her hair is down, a cascade of blonde waves over her shoulders.
She looks like an angel. A very angry, trapped angel.
“The bathroom is through there,” I say, indicating the door on the left. “Closet is on the right. Your things have been moved.”
She turns to face me, crossing her arms over her chest. It’s a defensive gesture, one that draws my eyes to the curve of her breasts.
“I need to know the rules, Nikita,” she says. “If I’m going to live here, I need to know what I can and can’t do.”
“You can do whatever you want,” I reply, unbuttoning my cuff links and setting them on the dresser. “As long as you remember who you belong to.”
“And who is that?”
“Me.”
She lets out a frustrated huff. “Yeah, I know.”
I enjoy the way she watches me, her breath catching in her throat as I close the distance. She’s trapped between me and the glass, a beautiful moth backed into a corner.
I stop just outside of touching range. “You’re nervous,” I observe.
“I’m cautious,” she corrects.
“There’s a difference?”
“Yes. Nervousness implies a lack of control. Caution implies awareness.”
I smile. She’s smart. Too smart for her own good. “Awareness of what?”
“Of you,” she says, her gaze locking onto mine. “You’re dangerous, Nikita. You think you’re civilized, but you’re not. You’re a predator playing dress-up.”
“So you’re the prey?”
The air between us is thick, electric. I can feel the heat radiating off her body. I want to reach out and touch her, to grab her and pull her against me and show her exactly what kind of predator I am.
But I don’t. Instead, I step back. The movement is subtle, but the effect is immediate. The tension snaps, leaving her standing there, confused and off-balance.
“Get some sleep, darling,” I say, turning away from her. “We have a busy day tomorrow.”
“What?” she asks, her voice laced with disbelief. “That’s it? You’re just going to sleep?”
“I’m tired.”
“You’re torturing me,” she accuses.
“Am I?”
“Yes! You… you get that close. You say all these things, and then you just walk away?”
I pause at the door to the en suite bathroom, looking back at her. “Control isn’t just about taking what you want, Freya,” I say softly. “It’s about knowing when not to take it. It’s about leaving you wanting more.”
“I don’t want more,” she lies.
“Keep telling yourself that.”
I disappear into the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind me.
Leaning back against the wood, I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. My heart is pounding against my ribs, a betraying rhythm. I want her. I want her more than I’ve wanted anything in a long time.
Breaking her too soon is a waste.
I want her to come to me. I want her to realize that the cage isn’t a prison; it’s a sanctuary. I want her to need me as much as I need to own her.
Stripping off my clothes, I step into the shower. The hot water washes away the champagne and the smoke of the reception, but it can’t wash away the scent of her that seems to have seeped into my skin.
When I finally walk back into the bedroom, the lights are dimmed. Freya is in bed, lying on the far edge, her back to me. She’s pretending to be asleep, but her breathing is too shallow.
I slide in under the covers, the cool sheets a relief against my heated skin.
She tenses as the mattress shifts under my weight.
“Good night, Freya,” I whisper.
“Good night, Nikita,” she whispers back.