Chapter 13 #2
His brow furrowed, that familiar flash of confusion and restrained amusement flickering in his storm-gray eyes, but I didn’t care. I spun on my heel, storming past Seraphina and Giovanni without a backward glance, and slammed the bedroom door with more force than necessary.
The sound reverberated through the room like a gunshot. I threw myself onto the bed, letting the mattress swallow me in a mix of fury and exhaustion, my hands clutching the sheets until my knuckles went white.
Minutes passed. The silence in the room became unbearable, pressing in from all sides. Then—the quiet sound of the door sliding open. I didn’t move.
He stepped in, towel still knotted low around his hips, droplets of water glinting on his bare chest and shoulders. He paused at the foot of the bed, hands hanging loosely at his sides, watching me with that unreadable expression that had haunted my dreams for years.
“That wasn’t jealousy, was it?” he asked, low, careful. His voice had softened, but there was a trace of steel beneath the words—as if he were measuring me, testing my reaction.
I stayed silent, chest heaving, staring at the ornate ceiling.
The truth burned hotter than I wanted to admit. It was jealousy. Raw, consuming, and utterly ridiculous.
Jealousy at watching him cradle another woman, at seeing that flash of concern in his eyes that should have been mine.
The irony of it stung. We weren’t strangers.
He was the only man I had ever truly loved.
The only one capable of setting my blood on fire, even after years of grief and distance. And he might never know.
He moved closer, slow and deliberate, sitting on the edge of the bed a few feet from me.
The mattress dipped under his weight, radiating warmth and danger at the same time.
“It’s... cute,” he said finally, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
“That you’re already jealous of me touching another woman.
On the very first day of our three-month marriage. ”
He emphasized ‘three month’ deliberately, testing me, gauging how much I cared, watching for the flicker of emotion he could exploit.
The words landed like a punch. I’d known from the beginning this was a contract, a fleeting arrangement—a public charade with an expiration date everyone in Lake Como would notice. But hearing him say it aloud, so casually, twisted something deep inside me that had nothing to do with reason.
I turned my face away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
My throat felt tight, a mix of heat and frustration choking me. The silence stretched between us, thick with all the things we weren’t saying: anger, desire, regret, and a yearning I could not allow myself to acknowledge.
He leaned back slightly, letting the shadows of the room play over his face, the tension coiled in his posture as palpable as mine.
“I only helped an injured woman. That’s all,” Dmitri said quietly, his voice stripped of any defensiveness, as if the mere truth should make everything simple.
I sat rigid on the edge of the bed, arms crossed tightly over my chest, the damp fabric of my sweater clinging unpleasantly to my skin.
“You don’t owe me explanations,” I replied, sharper than I intended.
“She’s your mistress, after all. Forced or not, she’s here because of you.
She deserves your attention more than I do. ”
His exhale was slow, measured, carrying a weight that pressed into the room. “She is not my mistress, Pen. Never was, never will be. She and her family manipulated their way into this house—kidnapping a child to force my hand. I’d sooner cut my own throat than touch her willingly.”
I said nothing. Couldn’t. The image of Seraphina draped over him, the smear of blood on his bare skin, the smug glint in her eyes—it seared behind my eyelids. Jealousy, fierce and animal, coiled in my chest, spitting venom. My pulse thundered against my ribs.
Dmitri moved closer, and the mattress shifted under his weight as he lay down beside me. “Go change,” he said softly, tone carrying a quiet command masked in care. “Your clothes are soaked. Put on a proper nightgown—not jeans and a sweater, like you’re ready to bolt at any moment.”
I rose without a word, refusing to meet his gaze.
In the bathroom, I peeled off the cold, clinging layers and stepped under the hot water, letting it scald the chlorine and strip away the lingering unease of the pool.
Steam curled around me, a fleeting shield against my own thoughts. I lingered longer than necessary, letting the warmth seep into my bones, reminding me I was alive, that I was here, and that he was just beyond the bathroom door.
Finally, I emerged, slipping into a simple silk nightgown—pale gray, soft as whispers.
It clung lightly, a modesty that felt almost foreign in Dmitri’s presence.
When I returned, he was still awake, propped against the headboard, low-slung sweatpants replacing the towel.
The lamplight carved shadows across his chest, highlighting the scars I once knew by heart, each one a map of pain, survival, and a history I was not sure I could ever fully untangle.
He watched me cross the room, eyes tracking, intense and unyielding. I slid under the covers on my side—far from him—and deliberately curled toward the edge, creating distance as if I could make an ocean between us.
The silence stretched, thick and expectant. My heartbeat echoed in my ears, loud enough that I feared it would betray my inner turmoil.
Then, the mattress shifted again. His arm slid across the sheets, tentative yet insistent, searching until it found my waist. Gently, carefully, he tugged, drawing me back toward him. “Come here,” he murmured, voice low and coaxing. “It’s cold. Let me warm you.”
I stiffened, fighting the pull, trying to anchor myself in logic and restraint. “I’m fine,” I said, though my voice trembled more than I wanted.
“I know you are,” he countered softly, voice threading around the edges of the space between us. “But I am not.” His hand moved slightly, brushing against the small of my back. “I will not leave you shivering alone.”
My resolve wavered. The warmth of him, the familiar scent of him, the undeniable weight of his presence pressed into me like gravity. I could feel the pull, the silent promise of protection and danger wrapped into one impossible man.
His arm encircled me, snug and possessive, pulling me closer until my back pressed to the solid plane of his chest. I could feel the steady drum of his heartbeat, the heat radiating from him, the gentle rise and fall of his breathing against mine.
“Better?” he asked quietly, lips brushing the top of my hair.
I swallowed hard, words lodged somewhere between pride, fear, and desire.
His thumb traced a slow, absent circle against the silk at my hip, a touch so light it was almost worse than pressure. Familiar. Intimate. Dangerous.
“You’re still angry,” he said quietly.
“I’m tired,” I corrected, keeping my voice flat, brittle at the edges.
Another tug—gentler than before, but more certain. “Pen.”
“No.” I shifted farther away, pressing myself toward the edge of the mattress until there was nowhere left to retreat. My back met open air, a precarious drop. “Just... sleep, Dmitri. Please.”
He froze. The word ‘please’ landed between us like a boundary he hadn’t expected. After a long pause, his hand withdrew.
The loss of warmth was immediate, shocking. I heard him settle onto his back with a controlled exhale, the sound of a man forcing himself into stillness.
The space between us felt vast.
I stared into the darkness, eyes burning, heart pounding in a rhythm that had nothing to do with the pool or Seraphina or the way jealousy had embarrassed me. Tomorrow loomed like a storm waiting just beyond the horizon.
The annual Lake Como gala.
Four families under one roof—Volkovs, Orlovs, Morozovs, Ferraros—each smile sharpened into a blade, each polite greeting layered with threat.
Alliances made and broken over champagne flutes.
Old grudges dressed up as civility. Dmitri wanted me in the middle of it.
Wanted me to approach Ricci Ferraro and tilt the scales before blood was spilled.
Charm him. Persuade him. Pressure him.
I had never been raised for this world. I wasn’t bred for politics or power plays.
The thought of stepping into that viper’s nest tomorrow—of speaking for Dmitri, of carrying his name and his intent into that room—sent my pulse racing, a frantic drumbeat against my ribs.
And beneath that fear—deeper, darker, far more lethal—was the secret I carried like a live wire against my skin.
Vanya.
My son.
Our son.
Sooner or later, Dmitri would see it. Blood always told its story.
The resemblance was already there, growing sharper by the day—the dark eyes, the stubborn tilt of the chin, the way Vanya’s rare, crooked smiles mirrored his father’s.
Ruslan had warned me this moment would come.
That blood called to blood, no matter how far you ran.
If Dmitri discovered the truth before I secured an escape—before the three months ended and I could disappear again—he would never let us go.
A man who would burn the world for a ghost would chain the living without hesitation.
And me... I wouldn’t just be bound by a contract anymore. I’d be bound by something far stronger. Permanent. Inescapable.
Family.
The thought stole my breath. My fingers curled into the sheets until my knuckles went white. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing sleep to come, to silence the spiraling dread clawing through my chest.
Beside me, Dmitri didn’t move. But I felt him—awake, restrained, a storm held behind steel walls.
I didn’t feel the moment exhaustion finally claimed me. One heartbeat I was drowning in tomorrow’s shadows; the next, there was nothing at all.