Chapter 4
“I am Roman Makarova. And you… are my wife.”
ROMAN
It’s been two days. Why the hell isn’t she awake yet?
The thought claws at me like a beast. I sit at Valentina’s bedside, focusing on her form—the curve of her lips, the smoothness of her skin, the rise and fall of her chest. She’s beautiful. Perfect, even in unconsciousness.
I clench my fists, cursing myself for the hundredth time. The doctors around me speak in hushed tones, but I barely hear them over the hammering in my chest. They keep telling me she’s stable, she’s breathing, she’s fine. But why isn’t she awake?
Her beauty is consuming. Soft, golden curls spread over the pillows like sun rays tangled in silk. The delicate slant of her nose. Her flawless skin is so pale against the pristine white sheets.
I remember the sight of her in that ridiculous wedding gown when she first arrived. My blood was boiling, my hands trembling to touch her, to see her, to feel her. But I resisted. I had to resist. She needs to wake on her own first until I can claim her in the way I want.
My head matron put her in a more appropriate attire, a silk nightgown, a soft pink shade that clings to her delicate frame in all the right places.
I was this close to bathing her myself—hell, I wanted to—if only to take in every inch of her.
But no. No. My willpower held, barely. I couldn’t—I will not—take that from her.
The first time she feels my touch, she will be awake.
She will see me and know what it means to belong to me. I have waited all these years for her.
The doctor did his blood work, ran his scans. Nothing is seriously wrong. Yet here we are, waiting. Chert. The doctor should be giving me answers. What if she doesn’t wake up? What if I’ve done something wrong? My mind whirls with the possibilities, each darker than the last.
The doctor glances up from the small tablet, his voice steady but quiet.
“There’s no immediate reason she shouldn’t be awake.
Physically, she is healing well. The trauma was mildly severe, but we can’t rule out the possibility of psychological factors—emotional trauma could have locked her subconscious. ”
Psychological. Emotional. Dammit.
I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to slam my fist into something, anything.
The car accident should have been nothing more than a blip in her life.
I put the best safety measures in place—the airbag systems, the reinforced frame.
Yet here she is, my queen locked away behind the barricades of her own mind.
It’s my fault. I set everything in motion. I should have done more.
But then, suddenly—she moves.
Her eyelids flutter open. Slowly. At first, it’s nothing more than a quiver, a tremble beneath the sheets. My heart stops. Her eyes—a flawless blend of violet and twilight—flicker to life, squinting against the dim light. Her lips part in a soft moan.
My gaze sharpens, my breath ragged. She’s awake.
The doctor looks at me and nods, stepping back toward the door with the nurses. I hold up a hand, silencing them, ensuring no one interrupts. I need to hear her voice. I need to know that she knows who I am, how I’ve claimed her instead of my goddamn brother.
Her eyes land on me, hazy, unfocused. A sharp gasp escapes her lips, and she winces, her hand going to her brow. “My head hurts…”
The doctor approaches slowly, cautiously, locking eyes with me more than her.
“It’s normal,” he says, low and comforting. “The swelling has gone down significantly. It should feel like a headache now.”
She’s alive. She’s here. She’s mine. That’s all that matters.
“The headache from hell,” she murmurs. I’ll arrange for a higher dose of pain medication.
Then, her eyes narrow. She turns her head toward me with an intensity that almost shocks me. She studies me for a moment before her lips part again.
“Who are you?” she asks, her voice uncertain, confused. “Where am I?”
My fingers twitch. Every muscle in my body tightens. She doesn’t remember me. Of course, she’s never met me.
I brush my knuckles across her soft cheek. “All will be explained soon, Moya Koroleva,” I murmur, my voice thick with possession, “But for now, you are home.”
Her brows furrow, and her gaze drifts to the room. “Home?” she repeats slowly, as if testing. Her eyes roam to the windows, taking in the view. “That’s… the ocean?”
From this angle, the forest surrounding my home parts to reveal a distant sweep of gray sea, calm and cold beneath the low-hanging mist. Fog curls along the treetops, breathing through the towering evergreens that crowd the cliffs. It’s stark. Wild. Remote.
Her hand slips out from beneath the blanket. She pauses, staring at her ring finger, gazing at the beautiful teardrop purple diamond ring, surrounded by clear diamonds. The one I slipped onto her finger while she was unconscious.
I smirk to myself, already anticipating the fire I know will spark in her eyes.
She’ll push back. She’ll question. She’ll fight me. And I wouldn’t want it any other way. That’s Valentina—proud, fierce, unwilling to be claimed without a battle.
Her brows draw in as confusion flickers. “This…is mine?”
I step in, voice low and smooth. “Of course, My Queen.” Then lift a cursory brow. “Do you disapprove?”
She leans slightly, blinking, then shakes her head. “It’s beautiful. The room is beautiful.”
Beautiful and strong. And deadly. I had this suite rebuilt with triple-layered, weather-sealed ballistic glass. Titanium alloy frames anchor it into the cliffside, hidden beneath polished steel and imported wood.
Even the vents and insulation are modified for arctic conditions. When the Bering winds scream and the sea rages, this room stays silent, warm, untouched.
And of course—discreet security cameras and motion sensors are embedded into the design, invisible to the untrained eye. Nothing enters or leaves this suite without me knowing.
She’s safe. Safe, mine, and sealed inside a fortress I built for her.
She frowns. “I don’t recognize it.” Then, her gaze locks back on me. “Who are you?”
We met long ago, masked, but my Valentina is sharp and shrewd. My father didn’t disguise me from our familial portraits. She should have some awareness.
“You were in a car accident,” I say, my voice soothing and calm. “But you are safe now, maya Valya.”
“Is that my name?” she asks shyly, uncertain. Her brows furrow, and she stares at me, waiting.
The question catches me off guard. My breath stutters, chest tightens. I glance toward the doctor standing near the door, then back to her. I give the doctor a hard look—a silent command for answers.
The doctor shifts uneasily, clearing his throat. “Roman, if you’ll step into the hall for a moment.” He gestures, and I follow him outside.
“I will be back soon. Rest,” I say, brushing a strand of hair from her face with gentle fingers.
In the hallway, the doctor’s expression turns clinical. “Based on my initial assessment, she is suffering from retrograde amnesia. Memory loss related to the trauma. It’s common in severe emotional shock cases.”
My emotions riot. A memory loss.
I rub my temple, holding back my irritation. “Will she get her memories back?” I ask.
He shrugs. “It’s unpredictable. Memory can return gradually or in fragments. It might take days, weeks…or longer. Some memories might never come back.”
I grit my teeth. There’s no time for uncertainty. “What about testing? Observation?”
He nods. “We’ll need to run a battery of neurological and psychological tests. But it’s best to monitor her first, see how she responds to stimuli and therapy.”
I say nothing. In the silence, something darker unfolds inside me.
What if they don’t come back? What if the slate stays clean?
She has no memories of her father. No memories of the cage he built for her. No memories of her arranged fate.
But she’s here. In my home. In my bed. Wearing my ring.
This could work.
I breathe, slow and deliberate. For the first time in days, the chaos recedes. This may be a gift.
The doctor continues, “There are some cognitive techniques and pharmaceutical protocols that can—”
“No,” I cut in, voice firm. “No tests. No drugs. Not unless her health demands it. I want observation only. Physical wellness is the priority. Not memory recovery.”
“You understand that—”
“She’s adjusting fine. Keep her comfortable. That’s all I want from you.”
The doctor nods. “As long as I may monitor her health…”
“I have full security coverage throughout the estate,” I say. “Every movement, every interaction is recorded. I’ll send you any pertinent files regarding her medical health. You may return later to check her vitals and administer any medication I deem necessary.”
Before the doctor departs, I pull out my phone and fire off a secure message to Zinaida:
“She is displaying retrograde amnesia. From this moment forward, all staff are to maintain the following narrative: she is my wife. No hesitations. No contradictions. Assist her as needed with memories of her life here, but only within the parameters I’ve allowed.
Any deviation will be dealt with accordingly. ”
I hit send without hesitation. Zinaida and Arkady will enforce my directive.
When I return to the room, Valentina is trying to sit up, groggy, her fingers pressing against the sheets for support. Her body is still too weak from the sedatives, her movements slow, unfocused.
One of the thin straps of her nightgown has slipped down her shoulder, exposing the curve of her breast. My mouth goes dry, my pulse quickening.
I should be worried about her. I should be concerned about her recovery.
But the only thing that consumes me in that moment is her beauty—the way she is so helpless and yet, so intoxicating.
I lean over her slowly, my gaze never leaving her form. Her eyes go wide, and her body tenses as I slide the strap of her nightgown back up, my knuckles grazing her soft, warm skin. I take a moment to breathe, to appreciate how she’s here. She’s here.
Valentina glances at me, but before she can speak, I pull a strand of her golden hair away from her face.
And then I kiss her.
I kiss her like she’s the air I breathe, like I’ve been starved of it for years. She doesn’t respond at first—she’s still too groggy, still too lost, but I don’t care. I kiss her deeply, passionately, marking her as mine.
When I pull away, her eyes are dazed, her lips slightly parted, her breath coming in shallow gasps. I take her hand gently in mine, lifting it. I tap the ring.
“You are Valentina Makarova,” I say with no equivocation. “I am Roman Makarova. And you…are my wife.”
Her eyes widen slightly, as if the words are foreign. She doesn’t know who she is. But I’ll remind her. Over and over again, if I have to.
She is mine.