Chapter 11
ELLE
Two weeks into my marriage, and I wake up to the sound of hangers scraping against metal rods and voices that aren't even trying to be quiet.
For a hot second, I actually think I'm still dreaming, until I crack an eye open and see two women raiding my closet.
They're goddamn color-coding.
"Excuse me?" I sit up so fast my head spins. "What are you doing with my clothes?"
The younger one smiles at me. "Good morning, Mrs. Ivanov. We're moving your things to the master suite."
Mrs. Ivanov. Two weeks in, and I still feel like they're talking about someone else.
"The master suite," I repeat dumbly, my brain still trying to boot up without caffeine. "As in... Nikolai's room?"
"Yes, ma'am." The older woman nods, already returning to her task. "Mr. Ivanov gave instructions this morning. Everything is to be moved before noon."
I blink. Well, hello, plot twist.
For two weeks, I've been wondering if this is what marriage is supposed to be like. Most women sleep with their husbands. Mine ghosted me like he accidentally married me on a dare and didn't know how to cancel the subscription.
On the morning after our wedding night, yes, the same night when I literally saw stars and sobbed into a silk pillow and thought oh shit, I'm actually in trouble here, he returned me to my room like a Victorian governess, and hasn't laid a single finger on me since.
Oh, we've crossed paths. Exchanged pleasantries at dinner. Once, his hand brushed mine reaching for the salt and I nearly combusted on the spot. But that's it.
Not a kiss. Not a hug. Not even a half-hearted boob graze.
And now, suddenly, I'm being upgraded?
Unfuckingbelievable.
Sir Isaac Mewton is curled next to me, licking his own paw with a look that says you did it, sis.
"Is there anything you'd prefer to pack yourself, Mrs. Ivanov?" the younger one asks, hovering over my underwear drawer like it might bite.
"No, you can go right ahead," I smile, lying back flat. "And don't forget the cat's bed, bowls, and litter box."
"Oh, um... boss said the cat won't be allowed in." A hesitant, terrified voice.
"What?" I screech, sitting bolt upright. "Sir Isaac has to go with me!"
"Boss said he's allergic and it's either the cat... or him." The older maid won't even meet my gaze.
Allergies, my ass. I haven't once seen him sneeze around my cat. For a man who can command a room of killers without blinking, he sure has a weird thing about my feline.
"Fine," I say, stroking Sir Isaac's silky head. "He'll stay with Pasha. They're best friends anyway."
I lean down to address my cat directly. "Sorry, bud. Looks like you're getting evicted so Mommy can have conjugal visits."
The housekeepers exchange a look that makes me wonder if they think I've lost my mind. Welcome to the club, ladies.
I wait until they leave with their first armload of clothes before falling back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.
So. Nikolai wants me in his room.
That means something, right?
It has to. Because I've spent the last fourteen days turning "not trying" into an art form.
I've mastered strategic indifference. Showing up at the pool in the smallest bikinis I own.
I've noticed he particularly loves the red one, shocker.
I make sure to be stepping out of the water just as he walks out to the back, sometimes bending to arrange my towel on the lounge chair in full view of him, all while pretending to be oblivious behind my black Prada sunglasses.
Every. Single. Day.
I'd catch him roving his gaze over me. Holding his breath. But he never stayed long enough to give himself an invitation.
Three nights ago I took it up a notch. Engineered a kitchen run-in that ended with me licking cake batter off my finger, slowly, while asking if he preferred chocolate or vanilla.
His jaw clenched so hard I thought his molars might file for divorce.
He thinks he's made of ice. Cold and untouchable. But I've felt what's under there. I've seen the look he gives me when he forgets to be careful, when those blue eyes flick down and come back up darker.
There's heat under that stillness. A furnace banked low. I've felt it burn. Can you blame me for wanting to feel it again?
But despite it all, Nikolai held out. Then last night happened. Another strategic attempt at temptation. I was tired of being alone and bored as hell. Enough was enough. A girl's got to work for what she wants, and is it so damn awful to want in with her husband?
I decided to walk to the kitchen for tea, right around the time I knew he went for his ritual protein shake. Only I changed from my usual pajamas into my baby blue nightgown, the one with the lace hem barely covering my ass and zero back coverage.
I turned the corner and ran straight into him.
Solid chest.
Bare skin.
A breath caught in my throat like a fire alarm.
He grabbed my arms. Steadied me. Didn't let go. His eyes dropped. Took me in. Slowly. And then he exhaled, like I was a problem he didn't want to solve.
"Do you sleepwalk?" he asked, voice rough.
"What? No!"
"Then you shouldn't be walking around the house like this."
"Why?" I smiled sweetly. "Is it distracting?"
He looked at me then. Full-on. Like he wanted to drag me into the shadows and ruin me all over again. Like he remembered everything.
His fingers twitched. Then he let go.
"Staff and guards could be around. Goodnight, Elle."
"Didn't know you cared," I whispered.
He stopped. Just long enough for me to see that look on his face, like he'd been struck with an open palm. "Of course I care," he said. Then went back to acting like I didn't exist.
What the hell was I supposed to make of that?
Only now I realize he did more than think about it. He moved me into his bedroom.
"Eeeepppp!" I squeal, jumping out of bed and scooping up Sir Isaac. "Sorry, baby." I kiss his silky head. "I wish I could take you, but we've all got to compromise."
I grab a quick shower, give myself a pep talk in the steamy mirror. "Don't overthink this. It's a good sign. At least he's not sending you to the attic."
By the time I'm dressed in jean shorts and a loose white button-down that falls off one shoulder, the housekeepers have made significant progress.
I decide to give them space and find Pasha instead.
Sir Isaac trots alongside me. This place is still a maze, all hardwood floors, high ceilings, and windows that let in light but somehow make the outside world seem farther away.
I find Pasha in what I've come to learn is his "STEM room," a converted bedroom filled with more robotics equipment than most science labs.
He's sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by tiny metal parts, his dark hair falling across his forehead as he squints at something in his palm.
"Knock knock," I say, tapping on the doorframe. "Mind if we crash your mad scientist lab?"
His head jerks up, and his face breaks into a smile so wide my chest cracks open.
Eight-year-olds shouldn't be able to make me emotional with just a look. But here we are.
"Elle! Look what Papa got me!" He holds up a box with a picture of a small robotic arm. "It's a robot that can pick up things on its own!"
"No way." I step inside, Sir Isaac on my heels. "That looks intense. Are you building it yourself?"
"I could." He shrugs. "But it's more fun with someone else. Want to help?"
And just like that, I'm recruited.
I settle on the floor beside him as he spreads the parts out between us like a tiny mechanical buffet.
"Do you do this with your friends too?" I ask.
"I go to school with other kids, but none of them like building stuff as much as me," he explains, handing me a screwdriver. "They're okay, but..."
"But what?" I frown, already struggling with a stubborn screw.
His voice goes small. "They think I'm weird for liking this stuff. And I'm bigger than all of them."
"Bigger?"
"Taller. Stronger." He flexes one skinny arm, and I bite my lip to keep from smiling. "Yuri called me a giant last week."
"Well, I would take that as a compliment. Wish I could have been a giant right about the age of whenever wolves started being a thing." Pasha's forehead wrinkles in confusion. "Never mind. Bad joke."
"Is being big bad?" he asks, suddenly very focused on connecting two metal pieces.
My heart cracks. "No, little bear. Being big is amazing. You can always protect the people you love."
"Like Papa protects us?"
"Exactly like that." I smile. "And now that Sir Isaac will be living with you..."
"He will?" Pasha jumps to his feet, looking at the cat like he can't believe it, then at me like I've just made his entire year.
"Your father doesn't want him in his room, kid. Looks like it's your lucky day."
"No way!" he squeals, launching himself into my arms. His little body softens against mine, shoots straight into my heart. I hold him tighter for a moment, breathing in that child-smell of soap and grass and innocence, before letting go.
I'm still warm and fuzzy when he sits back down.
We work in comfortable silence for a while. Building the robot is easy enough once I get the hang of it.
"So tell me more about your school," I say as we attach the robot's main arm.
"It's a school for children like us..." He sticks out his tongue in concentration.
"Children like you?"
"Yeah. It's mostly kids of people my father is friends with. Dad calls it co-op."
My hands freeze. I don't want to ask, not knowing how to talk about the Bratva around an eight-year-old. But that's exactly what he just described. A school for Bratva children.
"School is boring, but the special classes are fun," he adds.
"Special classes?" I wonder if I even want to know.
"Yeah. Like how to tell if someone's following you, or codes, or how to remember faces. Papa says it's important."
Kid Spy School. What the hell have I married into?
"Do you like it?" I ask carefully.
He thinks about it, face serious. "Some parts. But the other kids all have moms and dads that talk about the special classes. They already know stuff."
"And you don't?"
"I know some things. But Papa doesn't talk about that at home. He says home is for being normal."
I almost laugh. Normal. Right. Nothing screams normal like a mansion with armed guards and children learning counterintelligence.
"Well," I say, helping him attach the tiny gripper to the robot's arm, "I think that makes you lucky. You get to be a regular kid and a super-smart one."
He brightens. "Really?"
"Absolutely. Look at this robot we're building. I bet none of those other kids could do this."
"Maybe," he admits. A small smile forming.
"Case closed." I high-five him. "You're obviously the genius of the group."
We finish assembling the robot faster than either of us expected. Both of us lean in at the same time as Pasha hits the power button.
The little machine hums to life. Its arm lifts, reaches cleanly for the small ball we placed in front of it.
"It works!" Pasha crows, bouncing on his knees. "Look, Elle, it works!"
His joy is so infectious I find myself laughing too, genuinely delighted by this tiny mechanical victory.
"You're going to be an amazing engineer someday," I tell him. And mean it.