Chapter Thirteen - Elena
I wake to sunlight streaming through the windows and the memory of last night pressing heavy on my chest.
“People are asking for your death… you’re under my protection now.”
The way his thumb dragged across my pulse point, deliberate and possessive. The heat that bloomed where he touched me. The certainty in his voice when he said I wasn’t going anywhere.
Something is changing. I can feel it in the air, in the way guards watch me differently now, in the tension that’s been building since that conversation in the hallway.
It terrifies me.
I’m still in bed, trying to make sense of my racing thoughts, when the door opens without warning.
A maid I haven’t seen before enters, young and nervous. She doesn’t meet my eyes. “Mr. Sharov is waiting for you.”
My stomach drops. “Where?”
“The east dining room. He asked that you come now.”
Not a request. A summons.
Curiosity wins over defiance. Whatever he wants to say, whatever’s been building since last night—I need to know.
I dress quickly in clothes from the wardrobe. Another dress, this one dark gray, simple but elegant. The kind of thing someone wears to important meetings. The symbolism isn’t lost on me.
The maid leads me through corridors I’m starting to recognize. Down stairs, past the main hall, to a smaller dining room I haven’t been in before.
The space overlooks the east gates—I can see them through tall windows, iron and threat and a constant reminder of exactly how trapped I am.
The room itself is intimate compared to what I’ve glimpsed of the main dining hall.
Table for eight, maybe ten. Too small for formal entertaining. Big enough to make me feel isolated.
Aleksandr stands at the head of the table.
No jacket today. Just a white shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle and marked with scars I can see clearly now in the morning light.
The door closes behind me with a soft click. We’re alone.
“Sit,” he says. Not harsh, just… expectant.
I don’t. “What is this?”
“A conversation we need to have.” He gestures to the chair nearest him. “Sit, Elena.”
Something in his tone makes my spine stiffen. This isn’t the cold control from the cell or the calculated threat from last night. This is something else. Something final.
I sit because standing feels like pointless defiance when I don’t yet know what I’m defying.
Aleksandr remains standing, hands braced on the back of his chair. Studying me with those pale blue eyes that miss nothing.
“You will marry me,” he says.
The words land like a physical blow. For several seconds, I can’t process them. Can’t make them mean what they clearly mean.
Then I laugh.
Sharp, incredulous, the sound echoing off the walls as I push back from the table. I pace the length of it, needing movement, needing to break the absurdity of what he just said.
“Marry you,” I repeat, still laughing, though it’s starting to sound hysterical even to my own ears. “You’ve lost your mind. Actually lost it. Is this some kind of psychological torture? Because—”
I look at his face. No amusement. No threat. Just certainty settled deep in his expression, immovable as stone.
The laughter dies in my throat. “You’re serious,” I whisper.
“Completely.”
“You can’t just—” I shake my head, trying to find words for the impossibility. “You can’t just decide someone will marry you. That’s not how it works. That’s insane.”
“It’s strategic.”
“Strategic?” My voice rises. “Forcing someone into marriage is—”
“Protecting you.” He straightens from the chair, still calm, still certain. “The families who want you dead won’t touch you if you carry my name. Your status changes from liability to protected asset. It silences questions about why I’m keeping you alive.”
“So this is what? A business transaction?”
“Yes.”
The bluntness of it hits harder than cruelty would. At least cruelty implies emotion. This is cold calculation, reducing marriage to terms and conditions.
“Your family’s assets,” he continues, voice level and clinical, “will be stabilized under my control. Not destroyed, not seized, but absorbed and managed properly. The Lawrence name remains, though under different authority.”
“You mean your authority.”
“Yes.”
I resume pacing, needing the movement to process this. “What do I get in this arrangement besides not being murdered?”
“Safety. Comfort. A position of authority within my organization once you prove you can be trusted.”
“Trusted to what? Obey? Submit? Be your—your trophy wife in some Bratva power play?”
“Trusted to be intelligent without being reckless. To use your skills productively instead of destructively.” He moves around the table toward me, slow and deliberate. “You’re wasted hiding in London pretending you don’t have value. Here, you could actually matter.”
“I matter to my family—”
“Your family barely acknowledges you exist.” The words cut clean.
“Your father uses you when convenient and ignores you when not. Your siblings treat you like an embarrassment. The only time you’ve ever felt valued is when you’re proving yourself worthy of a name that should have been yours by right. ”
I stop pacing. He’s right, but it still hurts. “You don’t need to be cruel.”
“It isn’t cruelty, Elena. Only fact.” [8]He’s close now, just a few steps away. “I’m offering you something they never did. A place where your intelligence is asset, not threat. Where your value isn’t conditional on proving yourself worthy.”
“In exchange for what?” My voice shakes despite my effort to control it. “My freedom? My autonomy? My entire life?”
“In exchange for loyalty. Public and private. You follow my rules, support my authority, make no attempts to run or contact anyone outside my approval.” His gaze holds mine. “You become my wife in every sense that matters.”
Every sense.
The implication makes my skin flush hot.
“This is insane,” I say again, needing to break the tension. “You can’t just—people don’t do this. Forced marriage is—”
“Common in my world. Strategic alliances have been built on marriage for centuries.”
“That’s—” I search for arguments, for logic that will make him see how impossible this is. “Legally, you can’t force someone to marry you. I’ll refuse. I’ll tell them I’m being coerced—”
“Tell who? The officials I own? The authorities who won’t question a marriage between Elena Lawrence and Aleksandr Sharov because they value their positions too much?” He tilts his head slightly. “There’s no one coming to save you. No legal loophole. No escape through bureaucracy.”
“Then I’ll run the moment I have a chance.”
“No. You won’t.” Not a threat. Certainty. “I think you’re smart enough to know running means death. Not from me. From the families who want you eliminated. At least here, you live.”
The logic is airtight, and I hate it. Hate that he’s right. Hate that my options have narrowed to acceptance or suicide by escape attempt.
“You’re a monster,” I say quietly. “You’re taking away my choice, my freedom, my life and calling it protection.”
“I’m offering you survival. How you experience that survival is largely up to you.”
I throw my hands up, frustration boiling over into desperate anger. “This is… you’re treating me like property. Like something you can acquire and control and—”
“And I will.” He takes another step closer. “That’s the reality of your situation. You infiltrated my operations, put yourself in my power, and now face consequences. Marriage is the least cruel of your available options.”
“Least cruel?” I laugh again, bitter this time. “Forcing someone into lifelong bondage is least cruel?”
“Compared to death? Yes.”
“I’d rather—”
“Don’t.” The word cracks sharp. “Don’t say you’d rather die. We both know that’s a lie. You want to live. You want to matter. You want recognition and purpose and safety. I’m offering all of that.”
“At what cost?”
“Your pride. Your illusion of independence. Your fantasy that the world operates on fairness rather than power.” He’s directly in front of me now. “Small prices for staying alive.”
My back hits the wall without me realizing I’d been retreating. The solid surface behind me, his presence in front—caged again, always caged.
“I won’t do it,” I say, trying to sound certain. “I won’t marry you. You can’t make me.”
“I can. I will.” His hand comes up, gripping my jaw. Not painful but firm, forcing me to meet his eyes. “This is not a request, Elena. Not a negotiation. The world has already decided your fate. I’m the only reason you’re still breathing to argue about it.”
The contact lights every nerve on fire. My pulse hammers against his palm. Heat floods through me—anger and fear and that unwanted awareness I’ve been trying to deny.
“Let go of me,” I whisper.
“Why? Because you hate how your body reacts when I touch you?” His thumb presses slightly harder against my jaw. “It terrifies you that part of you wants this even while your mind rejects it?”
“I don’t—”
“You do. I can feel your pulse racing. See your pupils dilate. Feel the heat in your skin.” His voice drops lower. “Your body knows what your pride won’t admit. You’re mine already. Marriage just makes it official.”
I should shove him away. Should fight, scream, do anything but stand here trembling under his touch.
Instead, my hands come up and grip his shirt. Not pushing. Just… holding on.
“I hate you,” I breathe.
“I know.” His mouth curves slightly. “Hate me all you want. It changes nothing.”
He releases my jaw and steps back. The loss of contact feels like both relief and abandonment.
My knees are weak. I press harder against the wall to stay upright.
“This isn’t a proposal,” I say, voice shaking. “This is a sentence.”
“Call it what you want. The outcome is the same.”
My mind races, searching for leverage, for any angle that gives me power in this situation. Then it hits me; if this is happening, if I can’t stop it, maybe I can shape it.
“If I agree—” The words taste like ash. “If I do this, my family’s assets. You said they’d be stabilized.”
“Under my control, yes.”
“No. Not destroyed. Not completely absorbed.” I push off the wall, forcing strength into my spine. “The Lawrence name remains operational. Some businesses continue as they have been. Not all of it goes to Bratva.”
His eyebrow raises slightly. “You’re bargaining?”
“If I’m going to be your wife, I should come from a family with at least some standing, shouldn’t I? A completely ruined name reflects poorly on you. Better to have a wife whose family still maintains respectability.”
For the first time since this conversation started, something like amusement crosses his face. “You’re trying to strike a bargain where you have no leverage.”
“I have the leverage of making this easy or difficult. Compliant or resistant. A willing wife or a prisoner you have to force into every appearance.”
“Do you think that threat matters to me?”
“I think you want this to work. Want me cooperative, not broken. Which means giving me something I can tell myself justifies the choice.” I meet his gaze steadily. “Let my family keep enough to survive. Enough that I’m not watching them destroyed while wearing your ring.”
He studies me for a long moment. Calculating, weighing, deciding how much control to surrender.
“That’s up to me,” he says finally. Simply.
Not yes. Not no. Just… maintaining power over the decision.
“So that’s it?” Frustration bleeds through. “I get no say? No input into what happens to my own family?”
“You get to make suggestions. Which I’ll consider when relevant.” He moves back to the table, pouring water from a pitcher into a glass. “Understand this—every concession you ask for is a favor granted, not a right negotiated. Your position here is not an equal partnership.”
“Then what is it?”
He hands me the water. I take it automatically, too stunned to refuse.
“Ownership,” he says quietly. “Possession. Mine in every way that matters.” His eyes hold mine. “But I’m not a cruel master, Elena. Obedience earns rewards. Cooperation grants privileges. You might even find the arrangement… tolerable.”
“Tolerable.” The word tastes bitter. “You’re asking me to marry you and you’re promising tolerable.”
“I’m promising safety, security, and purpose. The rest develops with time.”
“Or it doesn’t.”
“Or it doesn’t,” he agrees. “Either way, the marriage happens. The question is whether you fight every step or make peace with inevitability.”
I drink the water because my throat is dry, because I need something to do with my hands.
When the glass is empty, I set it down carefully.
“When?” I ask.
“Soon. Arrangements are already being made.”
“Of course they are.” I laugh, hollow. “You decided this before you even told me.”
“Yes.”
The honesty shouldn’t surprise me. He’s been honest about everything—his intentions, his control, his complete lack of interest in my consent.
“Do I get any input?” I ask. “Into how this happens?”
“You can choose your dress. Beyond that, no.”
“Generous.”
“Practical. The less you’re involved in planning, the less opportunity you have to sabotage or escape.”
He’s thought of everything. Covered every angle. Made this inevitable through sheer force of will and superior positioning.
I’ve been outmaneuvered so completely there’s no move left except acceptance.
“I want it in writing,” I say finally. “About my family. What you’re willing to preserve, what protections they get. I want legal documentation.”
“Done.”
“I want—” I swallow hard. “I want time. Before… before anything physical. Time to adjust.”
Something flickers in his eyes. “How much time?”
“I don’t know.” Forever sounds more accurate but impossible to ask for.
“We’ll see,” he says. Which is not agreement but not refusal either.
It’s the best I’m going to get.
I nod slowly, feeling the weight of it settle into my bones. This is happening. This is real.
I’m going to marry Aleksandr Sharov.