Chapter 11
“You’re right to be afraid.”
VALENTINA
Mikhail walks a step ahead of me, his footsteps silent despite the weight of his boots. Poppy ambles on beside us, and I smile at how she occasionally rubs against my legs.
I glance at Mikhail, curious. There’s a stillness about him. Not just quiet, but something carved from discipline and grief. The kind of silence a man doesn’t come back from.
“You’ve known Roman a long time?” I ask lightly but measured.
“Yes.”
I slow a little, turning to him. “You’re more than just his priest. There’s trust there.”
He smiles warmly. “He bled for me. And I, him. He’s earned more loyalty than most men deserve.”
“Were you the one who married us?”
A long pause. Then a nod. “Yes.”
I stop walking. “Am I…happy?” I ask, almost afraid of the answer.
He pauses, not losing his smile. “Yes. You test each other at every turn. Burn like oil and fire, some days. But no one can deny you’re well matched—in temperament, ambition, and passion.”
My heart skips a beat. “But what about love?”
He holds my gaze, unreadable. “I can’t answer that for you, Valentina. Perhaps what you have is stronger than love. Perhaps it transcends everyday definitions of love, even at its deepest.”
I nod, pondering. “Sasha says love just is. It can’t be explained.”
“Sasha?”
The name tickles my memory. Who is Sasha? He’s important. But I can’t recall why. And then…a sharp nip at my ankle has me yelping.
“Ugh…” I bend over and pick the feisty cat up by her scruff. She wiggles but only a little and bats at me with her paw. “You need a lesson in social skills.” Still, I can’t help but scoop her into a baby hold and scratch her cheeks.
Mikhail folds his hands behind his back. “Impressive. Poppy doesn’t usually take to most people.”
“But why would you be impressed? Wasn’t she like this before with me?”
He pauses, and I swear his face pales a little. He’s hiding something, judging by how he tugs at his collar. Shifting his weight, he shrugs and says, “A newer development, intriguing but maybe related to your accident.”
After a minute or two, I let the cat down. We arrive at the bedroom suite shortly. Just as I turn the knob, Mikhail stops me. “Valentina, while you may not know, Roman, I will share this. He doesn’t give himself lightly. And when he does…he doesn’t know how to let go.”
All I do is nod and enter the room without a farewell. Because I feel the gravity of those words. Like Roman has jaws, and they’ve already sunk into me. The more I struggle, the more his teeth will cut. The more he will bleed me and break me.
And still…I know I will give him everything I’ve got.
I try to rest. I really do.
I lie on the bed—soft as a cloud, dressed in fresh sheets that smell faintly of cedar and something masculine. It’s not the dull pain from the crash that keeps me awake. It’s the words. Something else Mikhail said.
You burn like oil and fire. Well matched in passion…
I stare at the ceiling, breathing shallow.
What kind of man marries me, then hides me away like a state secret?
Ugh, I need to do something other than lie here with my racing thoughts. So, I slip from bed and pull on the soft slippers left by the footboard. The halls are quiet. I move slowly, carefully. No destination in mind. Just…listening. Feeling.
The sun has begun to set, so the hallway lamps flicker shadows along the walls, giving everything a darker but seductive energy.
Then I hear the faint but rhythmic clink of metal and a deep, controlled exhale. Drawn like a moth, I follow the sound through a side corridor that opens up to the wide, glass-walled gym.
I stop just short of the door left ajar, hiding behind a tall potted plant with fronds.
And there he is.
Roman strides out of the adjacent pool, water cascading down his body in shimmering sheets. He’s bare from the waist up, every muscle flexing as he wraps a towel around his neck. I freeze, unable to tear my gaze.
Slabbed, sculpted muscle bulges—his chest broad, his arms carved like weapons, his abdomen taut and relentless. And then, his back! For the first time, I really see it: the thick, jaw-dropping muscle shifting like coiled rope. Pale silver scars riddle his flesh.
And what I first thought were tattoos are much darker.
They’re brands.
His long blond hair, now a shade darker from the water, is pulled back, tied in a knot at the top of his head, exposing the nape of his neck.
That’s when I see it.
A crown. Twisted and jagged. Inked in deep blacks and violent reds, it burns with flames licking at the tips, fresh blood dripping from the gold. It’s not just a tattoo, it’s a warning. A crown earned through suffering. He said he earned this place in blood. A bloodline forged in iron and war.
And whether I like it or not, something inside me responds with fear, of course, but also with respect and want, with need.
How can I be married to Roman Makarova for two years and not remember what he does for a living? Unless…he’s never told me.
Am I just a trophy wife? Some beautiful prize, but I never leave this luxurious prison? Do I simply run this estate with Zina and take up fencing?
I recognize it’s a life any woman could want. A good life. Exceptional, even. But something deep in my bones hungers for more. That can’t be all my life’s purpose.
I try to focus on him. He looks like something from another world—like Adonis dragged from the battlefield, not a garden. Roman moves with the grace of a killer and the restraint of a priest. Like a man who could kill or worship with equal devotion.
And then, he starts.
Weights. Core. Push-ups. Each movement is crisp, methodical, almost punishing. He pushes himself harder than I’ve ever seen a man drive his body. I can’t remember, but I know. He’s the perfect predator.
My mouth goes dry.
There’s something primal about his focus, his discipline. The way his jaw clenches with each rep, sweat coating his chest and collarbones. He doesn’t grunt or curse. He just moves, drives, controls.
Arousal stirs inside me, heat curling low in my belly. Impossible to ignore. I clench my thighs. My gaze slips back to his spine, to the scars. Why do my fingertips trace my back through the fabric of my dress?
A sharp flash strikes my mind:
The crack of a cane across my back. The scent of must and wine. A memory of being tied face-down, wrists burning from the pull of rope, the sting of punishment.
My stomach twists with revulsion.
But then…Roman.
Another memory surfaces. His belt. Not the same. God, not the same. Roman didn’t hit to hurt. He struck to arouse and awaken.
He knew exactly where to hit, how to hit to trigger pain laced with pleasure, driving me wild with desire. He made me beg with my body.
A tremble steals down my thighs before the fluttering of wings interrupts me.
I spin around, heart slamming into my ribs. Zina stands just behind me, arms crossed, the judging crow on her shoulder.
“Curiosity in this house can be fatal, Valentina,” she says, her voice like silk drawn over a blade. “It’s not polite to spy.”
Heat floods my face. “Well, he’s my husband. I reserve the right to spy on him.”
Zina lifts a perfectly manicured brow. “You are also his queen. And a queen trusts her king.”
I glance toward the gym doors, where Roman hasn’t stopped moving. “I could say the same about him.”
She steps forward, her tone lowering, “The things Roman has done to build this Alaskan oasis…they would curdle the blood of the most hardened of warriors. He’s fought for every stone in this manor, for every inch of peace we have here.
We all trust him with our lives.” She tilts her head, examining me. “You should, too.”
I purse my lips, contemplating. When I lift my eyes again, I find her smirking. “But if it’s any consolation, I don’t think you were spying so much as you were admiring.”
I roll my eyes, trying to deflect. “Sure.”
“Or salivating.”
My face goes up in flames.
Zina laughs and turns on her heel. “Come. I’ll take you back to your room. You should rest.”
I fall into step beside her, pulse still throbbing at the base of my throat.
She glances over her shoulder. “He’s working off steam, you know. Preparing himself.”
“Preparing for what?” I ask, though I already feel the answer penetrating my bones.
Zina smiles, slow and devastating. “To be in the ultimate state of control.”
A shiver slides down my spine. “Control for what?”
Her eyes sparkle like frost catching fire. “To make sure he can last. All. Night. Long.”
The sun has set.
Roman hasn’t bothered with overhead lights. Instead, lanterns and tall candles flicker in the room. Their soft glow dances across polished wood and velvet drapery, gilding the edges of his silhouette like he’s forged from midnight.
He sits across from me, his posture both regal and dangerous. Like he owns the room. The night. Me.
He wears a crisp white button-up shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, exposing the cords of muscle.
The collar is undone, revealing a tantalizing hint of chest hair, like he didn’t bother to finish dressing because he knows he doesn’t need to.
Sharp black slacks. He looks like sin dressed in etiquette.
A gentleman only until the door clicks shut.
The low light makes him look darker. Sinister. But also—seductive. His dominance stokes the slow-burning fever spreading through my body.
I’ve barely touched my food. I pick at it with my fork, trying not to let my hand tremble. All I can taste is fear as the desire pulses through me. And wine.
Too much wine. It helps numb the edges. Or maybe sharpen them.
I know a storm is coming. He’s bringing it. What’s happening now is the dark clouds descending.
Roman hasn’t told me what he plans to do with me tonight. And that terrifies me more than anything. I’ll hate it, but he’ll make me want it. I’ll beg for it. And I’ll never be the same after.
Part of me wants to protest, reason with him. I was just in a life-or-death accident, right? It’s too soon.