Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
I RINA
I’m still standing by the window when the door to the suite opens—Mikhail walks in like he owns the place, and of course he does.
I turn slowly, leaning my hip against the mahogany dresser.
Mikhail is shedding his jacket, tossing it toward a chair with a violence that suggests he’d rather be throwing a person.
His tie is already gone, his collar yanked open to reveal the pulse thrumming at the base of his throat.
He looks too tense, too controlled, like a spring wound so tight it’s starting to warp.
"How was the board meeting, Mikhail?" I ask, my voice dripping with a casual sass I don't actually feel. "Did you and Papa decide who gets to play God with the Queens docks today, or are you still arguing over the percentages of my soul?"
Mikhail doesn't answer. He walks to the bar cart, pouring a glass of whiskey with a hand that is terrifyingly steady despite the storm rolling off him. He downs it in one go, the ice clinking sharply against the crystal as he sets the glass down.
"It is none of your concern, Irina," he rumbles. His voice is a low, dangerous warning. He finally looks at me, and his dark blue eyes are almost black, focused on me with an intensity that makes my breath hitch. "Don't poke me today. I’m not in the mood for your games."
"Games?" I push off the dresser. I’ve spent my whole life being told to stay in the corner while the men decide my future, and I’m done with it.
"You drag me back here and put a ring on my finger, then tell me your meetings with my father aren't my business? That’s not how this works, Mikhail. If I’m supposed to be the link between these families, I need to know what’s actually going on. "
He walks toward me, stopping so close I can smell the whiskey on his breath. I don’t move. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.
"You want to know what happened?" he asks, his voice dropping to a rough quiet. He reaches out, his hand closing around my waist and pulling me against him. "You want to know what your father brought to the table?"
My pulse jumps, but I keep my eyes locked on his. "T-Tell me."
"He wants to move flesh, Irina," Mikhail says, his grip tightening. "He wants the Morozov docks to be the main port for every fucking stolen girl he can find in Eastern Europe. He wants to turn this business into a pimp's paradise."
I freeze. I expected weapons or drugs, but this? My father is a lot of things, but the thought of him selling women like livestock hits a nerve I didn't know I had left.
"And?" I ask, my voice sounding thinner than I want it to. "What did Vladimir say?"
"Vladimir saw the profit margins," Mikhail snarls, his face inches from mine. "But I told Boris that if a single shipment of his cargo touches my territory, I’ll fucking burn his world to the ground with him inside it."
I stare at him and both my brows shoot up in incredulity, searching those dark blue depths for the lie, but I find only a brutal, uncompromising truth. This man—this volatile, dangerous predator who kidnapped me—just drew a line in the sand that my own father wouldn't.
He has a code. He’s a monster, but he’s a monster with a line he won't cross. Why does that make my heart race more than his threats do?
"You refused him," I murmur. "You turned down millions."
"I don't traffic people, Irina," he says, his voice a low vibration that I feel in my own chest. His hand leaves my waist to cup the back of my neck, his thumb dragging across my jawline.
The anger morphs into a heavy, suffocating hunger that has me gasping. He looks at me like he wants to devour the very soul he claims to own. I want to push him away for the things he’s done, and I want to pull him closer for the man he just showed me he is.
"You're full of surprises, Morozov," I whisper, my chin lifting defiantly even as my body betrays me by leaning into his heat.
"Don't get used to it," he murmurs. He leans down, his lips brushing against my ear, his breath hot and intoxicating.
"We have a gala dinner tonight. A charity event for the 'Old World' donors.
We are going to attend as the happy, reunited couple.
Your father will be there. Mine will be there too, unfortunately.
You are going to put on the most expensive dress in this house and you are going to remind everyone why a Petrov bride is worth a war. "
He pulls back, his eyes tracing the line of my throat. "Start getting ready. I want to see you in red."
"I don't take orders on my wardrobe."
"Tonight, you do," he says, his gaze dropping to my lips. "Unless you want me to dress you myself."
He walks away toward his office, leaving me standing there, my skin burning and my mind a chaotic mess of respect and resentment.
Two hours later, the suite is filled with the scent of perfume, hairspray, and a tension so thick it’s a miracle I can still move.
The dress is a floor-length slip of crimson silk that fits me like a second skin.
It’s daring, elegant, and looks exactly like something a woman who climbed out a window shouldn't be wearing. I’m standing in front of the full-length mirror, struggling with the clasp of a diamond necklace, when the door to the bedroom opens.
Mikhail is already dressed in a black tuxedo. He looks devastating—the kind of man women ruin their lives for. He stops in the doorway, his eyes sweeping over me with a slow, possessive hunger that makes my hands shake.
"Let me," he purrs.
He walks across the room, his footsteps silent on the rug. He stands behind me, his reflection towering over mine in the mirror. I watch him as he reaches for the necklace. His large, calloused fingers are surprisingly gentle as they brush against the back of my neck.
I can feel him watching me, studying every inch of exposed skin, and my body unconsciously responds, my back arches, my lips part in a soft breath. My tongue darts out to wet my lower lip as his fingers linger at the base of my neck.
Gods, I’m wet… for him, for a man like Mikhail.
The heat from his body is wrapping around me, making the silk of the dress feel like it’s too tight.
"You're shaking," he observes, his voice a low, intimate rumble.
"It’s cold in here," I whimper, my eyes meeting his in the mirror.
"Is it?" He clicks the clasp into place, but he doesn't pull his hands away.
Instead, they slide down to my shoulders, his thumbs tracing the line of my collarbone.
The touch is a brand. I can feel the weight of his gaze on my reflection, tracing the swell of my breasts beneath the silk, the curve of my waist.
God, help me… I want this man, badly.
"The dress is... acceptable," he murmurs, though the look in his eyes says it’s much more than that.
"Acceptable? I look like a goddess," I snap, my sass returning as a defense against the way my knees are starting to weaken. "You should be on your knees thanking me for making you look like you have good taste."
Mikhail lets out a low, dark laugh. He leans down, his face disappearing into the crook of my neck. He inhales deeply, the scent of my perfume and my skin clearly affecting him. I can feel the rough stubble of his jaw against my shoulder, the heat of his breath.
"I’m not the one who should be on my knees tonight, dorogaya ," he whispers.
The preparation for this event has turned into a battlefield of a different kind.
Every look, every accidental brush of skin, is a provocation.
He watches me as I put on my earrings, his gaze never wavering.
He watches me as I step into my heels. He watches me like he’s making sure his prize hasn't been damaged in transit.
"Are we done staring?" I ask, grabbing my clutch. "Or do you need to check the 'contract' one more time to make sure you're getting your money's worth?"
Mikhail reaches out, catching my arm and spinning me around to face him. He pins me against the dresser, his hands on either side of my hips.
"I’ve decided you’re worth the stress you put me through. But do you think you’re ready?”
“R-ready? Ready for what?”
“For this. Ready to be mine.”
To be his? Yes? No?
Fucking hell what am I doing??
He leans close with a wicked, sexy grin on his lips. “Ready or not, dorogaya , it has happened. You are mine now, you better be prepared for what that means.”
I tilt my chin up, refusing to let him see how much he’s getting to me. "I grew up a Petrov, Mikhail. I’m always prepared."
"Then make sure you don't forget it," he purrs.
He leans in, his mouth hovering just inches from mine.
I want him to kiss me. I want to bite him, I think I’m running mad because at the same time, I want to run.
I want to stay. The conflict is a roar in my head.
The wetness between my thighs make me bite hard on my lips and Mikhail’s eyes zoom in to the action and he growls low in his throat.
"Let's go," he says abruptly, pulling back and releasing me.
He turns and walks toward the door, leaving me gasping for air.
We descend to the garage. I expect a driver to be waiting, or at least a guard to open the door. But the garage is empty except for a sleek, silver Aston Martin.
Mikhail walks to the driver's side and climbs in. He doesn't look at me. He just waits.
Again. No driver. No bodyguards.
It’s weird. A man in his position should be surrounded by a small army. Why is he doing this alone? Is he that arrogant, or is he that good?
I slide into the passenger seat, the leather smelling of luxury and Mikhail. He shifts the car into gear and the engine roars to life—a low, predatory growl that matches the man beside me.
We pull out of the estate and onto the darkened streets of New York. Mikhail drives with a focused, aggressive grace, weaving through traffic with a confidence that borders on reckless. He doesn't use a buffer. He doesn't look in the rearview mirror for tails. He just drives.
"You really don't like company, do you?" I ask, staring at his profile. The city lights flicker across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the intensity in his eyes.
"I like my own hands on the wheel," he says simply. "In everything."
"It's dangerous," I say, looking out the window at the passing city lights. "My father doesn't play by the rules. He’s not going to wait for an invitation if he thinks you're vulnerable."
"Let him try," Mikhail says, his voice flat and unapologetic. He reaches over, his hand covering mine in my lap. His grip is firm, a constant weight that I’m starting to expect.
"I’ve been looking for a reason to end the Petrovs for years.
If he wants to be the one to start this, that's fine with me. "
I look down at our joined hands. The gold band on his finger catches the light. I bite my lips, forcing myself to remember this situation.
I need to stay focused. This isn't a romance; it’s a cage, no matter how much he tries to make it look like something else.
"You're too quiet, that’s suspicious." Mikhail says, his thumb tracing slow circles on the back of my hand.
"I'm practicing my 'happy wife' face," I say, giving him a sweet, fake smile. "It takes a lot of work to look this thrilled about a kidnapping."
Mikhail laughs, a short, dry sound that feels way too genuine and I find myself staring at how handsome this man is. "Keep practicing. Because once we walk through those doors, everyone in there is going to be looking for a crack just because you're now a Morozov."
"I'm Irina," I mutter, mostly to myself.
"You're mine," he says.
The car pulls to a stop in front of the hotel.
The red carpet is a mess of flashes and reporters, a wall of noise waiting to swallow us up.
Mikhail gets out and rounds the car, opening my door.
He offers me his hand, and I take it, the heat of his palm grounding me against the chaos.
He pulls me close, his arm wrapping around my waist, acting like a shield as we head toward the entrance.
Time to play the dutiful wife.