Chapter Fourteen - Makar
The first light of dawn filters through the heavy drapes, casting a faint golden glow over the room. I stir, blinking against the soft light as the events of the night come rushing back. My gaze shifts to the woman beside me, and for a moment, I simply watch her.
Hannah lies curled against the pillows, her dark hair spread out like a shadow against the pale sheets. Her face is relaxed in sleep, the usual tension gone, replaced by something softer, almost vulnerable.
It’s a sight I didn’t expect to find so… captivating.
The thought unsettles me. I didn’t bring her into my life for this, for emotions or distractions. She’s here because of the child, because of the Bratva’s honor. Yet, as I watch her chest rise and fall with slow, steady breaths, a foreign urge stirs within me.
An urge to protect her.
I scoff softly, brushing the thought away. She doesn’t need my protection; she needs my control. This marriage is a transaction, nothing more. Allowing myself to feel otherwise would be a mistake—one I can’t afford.
Hannah shifts slightly, her brows furrowing as she stirs awake. Her lashes flutter open, and when her gaze meets mine, a deep blush spreads across her cheeks.
Her arms immediately move to pull the sheets up over herself, and the corner of my mouth lifts into a sly grin. “Good morning, Mrs. Sharov,” I say, my tone laced with amusement.
She groans softly, burying her face in the pillow for a moment before peeking back at me, her blush deepening. “You’re insufferable,” she mutters.
I chuckle, leaning back against the headboard. “Yet, here you are, in my bed.”
Her glare is halfhearted, the embarrassment still coloring her expression. She shifts again, clutching the sheet tightly as if it’s a shield.
“You don’t have to look so embarrassed,” I add, my grin widening. “You seemed to enjoy yourself last night.”
She throws me a withering glare, but I catch the flicker of heat in her eyes before she looks away.
Pushing myself upright, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and stand, reaching for my discarded shirt. “Get dressed,” I tell her, my tone shifting back to the controlled, authoritative edge she’s become accustomed to.
“For what?” she asks warily, her gaze following me as I button up my shirt.
“For the discussion we’re about to have,” I reply, turning to face her. “Now.”
She huffs, reluctantly sliding out of bed, the sheet clinging to her as she gathers her clothes and disappears into the adjoining bathroom. When she emerges a few minutes later, fully dressed but still flushed, I’m seated in one of the armchairs near the window, waiting.
“Sit,” I command, gesturing to the chair across from me.
Her brows knit together, but she complies, folding her arms over her chest as she sits.
“I’m laying down some rules,” I say, my tone leaving no room for argument.
“Rules?” she echoes, her voice laced with skepticism.
“Yes. From this moment forward, you’ll abide by them, without question.” I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “First, you’re not to leave this mansion unless escorted by me or my men. Your safety is paramount, and I won’t have you wandering into situations you can’t handle.”
Her lips part, but I cut her off before she can argue.
“Second, you will have no contact with anyone outside this house unless I approve it. No calls, no letters, nothing. You’re my wife now, and your allegiance lies here, with me.”
Her eyes narrow, and I see the defiance flicker back to life. “You can’t just cut me off from the world,” she snaps.
“I can,” I reply coldly. “I will.”
She shifts in her seat, frustration radiating off her. “What else?”
“You will follow Bratva protocol at all times,” I continue. “That means respect for my men, adherence to my commands, and no interference in matters that don’t concern you.”
“If I don’t?” she asks, her voice sharp but trembling slightly.
I meet her gaze, letting the silence stretch for a moment before speaking. “Disobedience will result in consequences, Hannah. Severe consequences.”
Her defiance falters briefly, a flicker of fear passing over her features. She lifts her chin, refusing to look away.
“You really are a monster,” she whispers, her voice barely audible.
I lean back, watching her carefully. “Perhaps,” I say evenly. “I’m the monster keeping you alive. Remember that.”
She doesn’t respond, her hands clenching in her lap as she stares at the floor.
This is her reality now, and whether she likes it or not, she’ll adapt. I’ll make sure of it.
Hannah stands abruptly, her hands braced against the arms of the chair as she pushes herself up. Her defiance lingers in the way she holds her chin high, but there’s something else beneath it—something I can’t quite name but find myself wanting to uncover.
“I’m hungry,” she says simply, her voice sharper than it needs to be.
I lean back in my chair, my gaze sweeping over her. The faint flush on her cheeks from our earlier exchange hasn’t faded, and her dark hair is still slightly tousled from the bed.
There’s a certain charm to her disheveled appearance—innocent yet undeniably alluring. She looks like she belongs here, standing in the soft morning light, even if she doesn’t realize it yet.
“Hannah,” I say smoothly, rising to my feet in one fluid motion.
She turns slightly, her eyes narrowing as she watches me approach. “What?”
“You forgot something,” I murmur, my hand reaching out to catch hers as she tries to step away.
Her brows knit together in confusion, and before she can respond, I pull her closer, my free hand tilting her chin up. My lips capture hers in a kiss that’s far from gentle, my grip firm enough to keep her in place but not enough to hurt.
She stiffens for a moment, her hands pressing against my chest as if to push me away. But then she melts, her fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt as her lips move against mine.
Good girl.
When I finally pull back, her breath is ragged, her lips slightly swollen. She stares at me, her wide brown eyes flickering with a mixture of emotions—confusion, frustration, and something she’s trying desperately to suppress.
“You didn’t pull away,” I say, my voice low and laced with satisfaction.
Her blush deepens, and she quickly steps back, tugging her hand free from mine. “I didn’t because…,” she starts, searching for an excuse but coming up empty. Her gaze drops to the floor. “Because I’m starving, and I’m not thinking properly,” she finishes weakly.
I chuckle softly, the sound deep in my chest. “Then let’s get you fed.”
The dining room is quiet, the expansive table stretching between us. I sit at the head, my usual spot, while Hannah is to my left. The sunlight streaming through the windows highlights her features—the curve of her cheek, the slight furrow in her brow as she toys with her fork.
Breakfast is laid out before us, a spread of fresh fruits, pastries, and eggs prepared to perfection. She eats slowly, her movements deliberate, and the silence between us feels heavier than it should.
I sip my coffee, watching her with a mix of amusement and curiosity. She’s guarded, her eyes flicking toward me occasionally as if she’s waiting for me to speak first.
When I finally do, it’s with purpose. “You’ll need something to occupy your time,” I say, my tone calm but firm.
She looks up, her fork pausing midway to her mouth. “What do you mean?”
“You can’t work,” I continue, setting my coffee cup down. “It’s not safe, and I can’t keep tabs on you if you’re out of the house.”
Her lips press into a thin line, and I can see the spark of resistance flare in her eyes. “So, what, I’m just supposed to sit around all day doing nothing?”
“You’ll find something to do,” I reply smoothly. “A hobby. Something you can manage within the confines of the house.”
She scoffs, leaning back in her chair. “Oh, sure. I’ll take up knitting or embroidery like some nineteenth-century housewife.”
I smirk, raising an eyebrow. “If that’s what you’d like, I’ll have the supplies brought in.”
Her glare sharpens, and for a moment, I think she’s about to throw something at me. Instead, she exhales sharply, shaking her head. “This sucks.”
“Maybe, but I’m right,” I counter, leaning forward slightly. “This isn’t negotiable, Hannah. Your safety comes first, whether you like it or not.”
Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t argue further. She pushes her plate away slightly, her appetite clearly diminished. “I’ll think of something,” she mutters, her tone clipped.
“You will,” I say, my voice softer now. “Whatever you choose, I’ll ensure you have what you need to do it well.”
Her gaze flicks to mine, and for a brief moment, I see something shift in her expression. It’s not acceptance, but maybe a small step toward understanding.
The silence stretches again, and this time, it feels less suffocating.
The quiet stretches between us, broken only by the faint clink of silverware against fine china. I watch Hannah as she takes small bites of the food in front of her—a plate of delicately scrambled eggs, fresh berries glistening with dew, and a buttery croissant that practically melts in the mouth.
Her movements are deliberate, almost hesitant, like she’s picking at the food more out of obligation than enjoyment.
“You’re not eating much,” I comment, leaning back in my chair and sipping my coffee.
She glances up briefly, her brow furrowing. “I’m not really used to… this.”
I raise an eyebrow, gesturing toward the spread between us. “You mean breakfast?”
“This kind of breakfast,” she clarifies, setting her fork down. “Fancy. Over the top. I’ve never had food like this.”
I study her for a moment, the corners of my lips tugging into a faint smirk. “What do you usually eat, then?”
“Cereal,” she says, almost defiantly. “Sometimes French toast if I had time before class. Nothing like this.”
I chuckle softly, setting my cup down. “Toast and cereal?”
“Yes,” she replies, her voice clipped. “Not everyone has a personal chef to whip up a gourmet meal every morning.”
“You don’t need a chef,” I say, leaning forward slightly. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll make it for you.”
That catches her off guard. Her eyes widen, and she stares at me as if I’ve just suggested something absurd. “You’d cook for me?”
“I would,” I say simply, my tone leaving no room for doubt.
She looks skeptical, leaning back in her chair. “Why?”
“I want you to be happy,” I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
Her expression hardens, and she looks away, her fingers tracing the edge of her plate. “I won’t be,” she says quietly, her voice laced with a bitterness that cuts deeper than I expect.
I frown, the sharpness of her words catching me off guard. “You can’t know that,” I reply, my voice firm but not unkind. “Things can change.”
Her gaze snaps back to mine, her eyes flashing. “You think I’ll just magically be okay with this?”
“I think,” I say evenly, “that you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for. In time, you’ll see that this life doesn’t have to be as miserable as you’re determined to make it.”
She stares at me for a long moment, her jaw tightening before she looks away again. “You don’t get it,” she mutters.
“No,” I agree. “I’m willing to try.”
Her fork clinks against her plate as she sets it down, the tension in her shoulders palpable.
For now, I let the silence return, but I don’t miss the way her hands tremble faintly as she folds them in her lap.
She’s still fighting me.