25. Sophie
25
SOPHIE
“ T his is where you live?” I blurt out before I can stop myself, my voice flat with disbelief. “It looks like Dracula’s Airbnb.”
A mansion looms ahead, a hulking mass of stone and shadow, towers stabbing into the overcast sky. Ivy crawls along the walls like it’s trying to escape. If this house had a face, it’d be scowling at me.
Maxim’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t look at me. “It’s functional,” he says, like that’s supposed to explain why his house looks like the set of a Tim Burton movie.
“Functional,” I echo, leaning closer to the car window. “What function, exactly? Scaring people away?”
“Out of the city, safe place for you to work.”
“And the Munsters are working in the kitchens, I presume?”
“I hired the Addams Family,” he replies quick as a flash. “They were cheaper.”
The car rolls forward. My stomach tightens with every inch closer we get. The mansion is beautiful in the way a thunderstorm is beautiful—stunning, sure, but you don’t really want to get caught in it.
We pull up in front of the massive double doors, and there’s a knot in my chest that I can’t seem to shake. The doors swing open as if on cue, and there he is. Nikolai.
“Welcome home, Mrs. Abramov,” Nikolai says as I climb out of the car. “Hope you like bats.”
“Bats I can handle,” I shoot back before Maxim can say anything. “It’s the grumpy Russian men with guns I’m worried about.”
Nikolai’s grin widens, and he glances at Maxim. “She’s still got a sharp tongue. Thought you’d get her under control now she’s got your ring on her finger.”
Maxim steps out of the car, his expression unreadable, but the air around him practically crackles. “Careful, Nikolai,” he says, his voice calm but laced with something darker. “Keep talking, and you’ll be hanging with the bats soon enough.”
Nikolai ignores him. “Come on, I’ll give you the tour.”
The interior is exactly what I expect: dark wood, towering ceilings, and chandeliers that probably cost more than my college tuition. The smell of old books and polished stone lingers in the air, and the faint echo of our footsteps makes the space feel even larger.
Nikolai leads me through the house, his tone half tour guide, half comedian. “Library’s that way, dining room’s here, and if you’re feeling brave, we’ve got a wine cellar that doubles as a dungeon.”
I arch a brow. “You’re joking, right?”
He pauses just long enough to make me uncomfortable before grinning. “Mostly.”
Maxim, walking just ahead of us, doesn’t even look back. “Ignore him.”
Nikolai shrugs, unfazed. “I’m just trying to make the bride feel at home.”
Bride. The word makes my stomach flip, and I glance at Maxim’s broad back, wondering—not for the first time—what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.
Finally, Nikolai pushes open a heavy door, revealing what I assume is supposed to be my room. It’s huge—bigger than any apartment I’ve lived in—with a massive canopy bed, velvet curtains, and a view of the sprawling gardens outside. Everything is lush, expensive, and intimidating. Just like Maxim.
“Fit for a queen,” Nikolai says with a mock bow. “Or a prisoner, depending on your perspective.”
I glance at Maxim. “And I’m guessing the locks are on the outside of the door?”
“Only if you give me a reason to use them,” he replies, his tone so casual it takes me a second to register the warning beneath it.
I square my shoulders, refusing to let him see the tiny flicker of unease that runs through me. “Don’t worry,” I say sweetly. “I’ll be the perfect little houseguest.”
His eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he straightens and nods toward Nikolai. “Leave us.”
Nikolai steps out of the room, muttering something under his breath. Maxim lingers a moment longer, his gaze locked on mine. It’s not hostile, exactly, but it’s not warm, either.
“Wander where you like,” he says. “I want you back at work in an hour.
I wander through the endless halls. It’s like walking through a museum where everything screams, Don’t Touch .
The silence presses in, broken only by the occasional creak of the floorboards or the muffled footsteps of guards moving somewhere out of sight.
Eventually, I stumble across the library. And when I say library, I mean Library with a capital L. It’s a cathedral of books, shelves stretching so high they’ve got ladders attached.
A chandelier hangs above the center of the room, casting soft light across the rows of leather-bound spines.
“Wow,” I breathe, stepping inside. The faint smell of aged paper and polished wood wraps around me, and for a second, I forget where I am.
I trail my fingers along the edge of a shelf, my eyes scanning the titles. Everything from ancient philosophy to modern economics, with a healthy dose of Russian literature in between. I reach for a book on the top shelf, forgetting that I’m barely five-foot-four in heels, and—predictably—the entire stack wobbles.
“Crap!” I lunge to catch it, but gravity’s already won. The books crash to the floor, the sound echoing through the room like a gunshot.
Before I can even process the mess I’ve made, a voice cuts through the quiet. “Making yourself at home, I see.”
I spin around to find Maxim leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed and a faint smirk tugging at his lips. Of course, he’d show up now.
“I, uh…” I glance down at the pile of books at my feet. “It’s fine. I’ve got it.”
Maxim steps into the room, moving with that infuriating grace he has, like he’s gliding instead of walking. “It’s fine?” he repeats, raising an eyebrow. “You just attacked an entire shelf.”
“It was an accident,” I snap, crouching to pick up the books. “Not all of us were born tall and terrifying.”
He doesn’t respond right away, but when I glance up, I catch the faintest flicker of amusement in his eyes. “You could’ve just used the ladder.”
“Didn’t notice it,” I mutter, stacking the books with more force than necessary. “Too busy marveling at your gothic Batcave.”
“That’s what you’re calling it now?”
“Fits, doesn’t it?” I stand, brushing off my hands. “Dark, brooding, slightly over-the-top.”
He smirks, stepping closer. “You forgot intimidating.”
“That too.” I roll my eyes but can’t help noticing how the air shifts when he’s this close. It’s like the room gets smaller, his presence filling every corner.
I bend to grab the last book, but Maxim reaches it first, his fingers brushing against mine as he picks it up. The brief contact sends a jolt through me, and I pull back quickly, hoping he didn’t notice.
He doesn’t hand the book to me right away. Instead, he studies the cover. “The Art of War.” His smirk returns, sharper this time. “Interesting choice.”
“Thought it might come in handy,” I say, crossing my arms. “You know, given my current situation.”
He holds the book out to me, his expression unreadable. “War requires strategy, Sophie. Impulse is a good way to get killed.”
“Good thing I’m not planning on fighting any wars,” I retort, snatching the book from his hand.
The words hang between us, heavier than I intended. His gaze lingers on mine, and for a moment, something unspoken passes between us. Then he steps back, the faintest trace of a smile playing on his lips.
“You might survive this yet,” he says, turning toward the door. “If you don’t bring down the rest of the house first.”