Chapter 18 – Ilya
If I had my way, she wouldn’t be sleeping in the guest room anymore. She’d sleep with me on the king-sized bed in my bedroom, which was now hers as well. At least I’d be able to keep my eyes on her and make sure she was always under my protection.
After our wedding night and the incredible sex that followed, my obsession with her seemed to have spiraled out of control. I was always watching her on the CCTV cameras, making sure she wasn’t overly friendly with any of the guards.
I’d already issued a stern warning that none of my men were allowed to be more than three feet close to her. I knew it was extreme, but it was necessary.
Iris was my wife now in every sense of the word, meaning she was way above them. And because of her new identity, all of the staff and the guards knew better than to cross their boundaries with her.
They accorded her the same reverence and fear they showed me. What was even more interesting was that they didn’t do it simply because they were afraid of me. They respected her because she earned it.
A few days had passed, and she still hadn’t moved in with me. I could compel her to do so, but I would rather not. Iris was still finding it difficult to accept this life.
She already harbored some resentment toward me, and the last thing I wanted was to give her more reasons to retreat into her shell. If I was going to win her trust, I mustn’t force things.
She’d move to our bedroom when she was ready. In the meantime, I’d keep watching her life through my screens like I was watching a movie. That was a creepy thing to do, and I knew that.
However, I couldn’t help keeping tabs on her all the time. What started as normal recon had become a full-blown obsessive habit.
Even during important Bratva meetings, I found myself constantly checking the live feed on my phone’s screen. Although nobody said a word about me zoning out every now and then, it was clear they noticed.
My wife was all I could think of these days, and it wasn’t just about the sex. No. What I was starting to feel—what I’d always felt—was beyond physical attraction.
After our wedding night, I felt more connected to her in more ways than one. I enjoyed her company, and she always jumped at the opportunity to pick a fight with me.
The other day during breakfast, I snapped at one of the maids for spilling coffee on the paperwork I’d placed beside my dish.
Iris was offended. She said I overreacted and that it was an accident that didn’t require me to be mean. She even went a step further by shifting the blame to me.
“Those documents are supposed to be in your study, not on the dining table,” she had said.
Iris hadn’t reacted immediately; she waited until the maid had dematerialized before attacking me. She also didn’t raise her voice, so no one outside the dining area heard her scold me.
Refusing to challenge my authority in front of the maid seemed like a wise decision. She could’ve easily disrespected me and painted herself as the saint, but she didn’t.
In fact, her expression didn’t even shift until after the maid had left. My respect for her peaked after she handled the situation like the mature woman she was.
***
Tonight, I had a gala party to attend at one of the Tarasov properties, and I almost went alone. Then I remembered that I was married to the most beautiful woman in the world.
There was no way I would pass up the chance to show her off. I had Natasha take the new dress and jewelry I had gotten to my wife’s room. She was to tell her to be ready at eight because she was going out with me tonight.
It wasn’t a request. So she couldn’t exactly say no.
By 8:30, she still wasn’t ready, and I was pacing the length of the living room, waiting. I glanced at my watch every five minutes, wondering what was taking so long.
I caught the scent of her perfume before I heard her. The floral smell filled the room, threading ahead of her footsteps.
I turned my head toward the staircase and found her descending, and for a second my heart stopped.
Her black gown fit her body perfectly, the fabric highlighting her curves and contours. The neckline dipped low enough to give a teasing glimpse of her cleavage.
A slit ran high along the hem, showing her alluring leg with every step down. A diamond sat at her throat, catching the light from the chandelier above.
Her makeup was flawless, blending seamlessly into her skin, nothing overdone except her mouth—painted a bold, deep red that drew the eye straight to it.
My goodness!
Her chestnut hair fell in loose waves around her shoulders, effortless in a way that had clearly taken effort.
When she moved, her heels clicked against each step, slow and deliberate, the sound sharp in the quiet room.
I stood there, almost frozen in place—unable to take my eyes off her.
Her manicured fingers clutched her designer purse as she closed the distance between us with a few elegant strides.
I was tempted to say how gorgeous she was, but I couldn’t. Instead, I said simply, “You’re late.”
“You said to be ready by 8:30.” Even her voice was smoother and softer tonight.
“No, I said to be ready by 8:00.”
She shrugged her shoulders slightly. “I guess I heard wrong.”
I turned around and began toward the door.
“Where are we going?” she asked, walking beside me.
“Somewhere important.”
A pause.
“Yeah, that’s not vague at all.”
My lips curled into a small grin.
***
We walked into the grand hall together, her hand resting lightly on my arm, heels clicking beside my own measured stride.
She wore a faint smile, plastic but beautiful, enough to sell the idea that we were a perfect couple.
Crystal chandeliers hung overhead, throwing warm light across marble floors polished to a mirror shine.
Waitstaff moved through the crowd with trays of champagne, weaving between clusters of Chicago’s wealthiest, the crème de la crème of society. All dressed to impress.
The soft hum of conversation filled the room, punctuated by the occasional clink of glasses. A string quartet played near the far wall, barely audible beneath the layered chatter.
Heads turned as we moved through the crowd, eyes drawn to Iris on my arm.
I sensed her sudden discomfort and held her close, my possessive arm settling on her waist.
“Ilya,” she called softly through clenched teeth. “They’re looking at us.”
“No,” I replied with the same tone. “They’re looking at you.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” I glanced at her. “Perhaps they haven’t seen a beautiful woman today.”
Her cheeks flushed a faint shade of pink, an almost invisible smile perched on her lips.
“I assure you, we haven’t,” Grigori’s voice interrupted us.
He’d appeared out of nowhere, standing before us in his white tuxedo, cradling a glass of wine.
“Grigori.” I extended my hand.
“Ilya.” He took it, his grip firm. He faced my wife and smiled at her. “Mrs. Tarasov, lovely to finally meet you in person.”
“The pleasure’s all mine, sir.” She shook his hand, beaming.
“Sir?” He raised his brows. “Please, don’t let my gray hair deceive you. I’m not that old.”
She chuckled, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Ilya, tell her.”
“He’s not that old,” I whispered to my wife.
“See?” He gestured with his hands.
She chuckled again, quieter this time.
“That accent wasn’t American,” he said, brows knitting together.
“British,” she answered.
“You bagged yourself a British woman?” He teased me.
“British-American, actually,” she corrected.
“Even better.” He looked at her. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but um…do you say ‘Bo’le of wa’er’?” He mimicked the British accent. “Or ‘Bahdle of wadder’?” This was an American accent.
She laughed. “Both. I say both.”
He turned his gaze to me. “I like her.”
Of course he would. What wasn’t there to like? The woman was a ten out of ten.
After he left us to mingle with other Bratva officials, she met my gaze with that smile and said, “He seems…harmless.”
That couldn’t have been further away from the truth.
“Trust me, he’s not.”
Grigori was a free-spirited old man, but he wasn’t harmless. If anything, he was one of the most brutal men I’d ever met.
I’d once watched him take down three men much younger than him with just a piece of a broken bottle. Grigori was as dangerous as they came.
I reached for a waiter’s tray, picked out two champagne flutes, and handed her one.
“Thank you.” She accepted it, holding my gaze for a moment.
“If you two lovebirds are going to engage in a staring contest, I suggest you take it somewhere else.” It was Ivan.
His expression was softer tonight, with what looked like a smile playing on his lips.
“Iris, meet my brother, Ivan.”
“Older brother,” he corrected, without taking his eyes off her. “Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.” A pause. “I remember you. You were at our place the other day.”
Did she just refer to the mansion as “our place”?
“Also at our wedding,” she added.
“Indeed.” His small grin widened. “Welcome to the family, Iris. If you don’t mind, I’d like to borrow my brother for a moment.”
“Sure,” she said. “He’s all yours.”
Ivan pulled me aside, and we walked together to a corner.
“You look different,” he said.
“Don’t start.”
“I’m serious,” he insisted. “I can’t explain it, but something about you has…changed.”
I sipped my champagne.
“Listen…” He glanced around, as if making sure no one was eavesdropping on our conversation. “I hear Yevgeni and Markov are up to something, and we both know whatever it is, it’s not good.”
My brows knitted together. “Do you have details?”
“Not yet. But I’ll let you know if I find anything,” he replied. “In the meantime, though, keep her away from the public.”
I traced his gaze to Iris, where she was standing by a champagne tower. She wasn’t alone; a tall, lanky young Bratva official was keeping her company. She didn’t say anything to him, but she listened with a small smile on her face.
My expression darkened instantly, fists clenched at my sides. The idiot had that particular smug smirk of a predator, his eyes flashing with pure lust.
“Don’t create a scene over this, brother.” Ivan tapped my shoulder and excused himself after seeing how pissed I had already become.
The second he left my presence, I marched straight over to where my wife was entertaining that bastard. His name was Nikolas Pavel, an arrogant nitwit charged with multiple sexual assaults and improper behavior around women.
I heard a familiar voice calling my name somewhere to my left, but I ignored them, my eyes fixed on the pervert talking to my wife.
“I’m Nikolas.” He extended his hand, his lustful gaze sweeping over her body. “But you can call me Nik.”
She reached out and was almost to take his hand when I arrived just in time to pull her wrist back.
“She’s not interested,” I said, stepping between them. “Now get lost.”
“Or what?” He drew closer, arrogance on his face. “What’re you gonna do, old man?”
“Hey, watch it!” Iris warned him before I could even form a thought in my head.
This asshole had no idea whom he was talking to. Another man his age, whom I assumed was his friend, pulled him and whispered something in his ear.
His eyes widened instantly, that arrogance dissolving into absolute terror. “Mr. Tarasov, I apologize, I had no idea…”
“Get…lost.”
He and his friend wasted no time fleeing the scene.
I turned toward her. “We’re leaving.”
“What?”
“Now.”
The drive back was silent. I was at the wheel, eyes fixed on the winding road ahead, while she sat in the passenger seat with her arms crossed.
I was furious at the sight of her with that son of a bitch, and the more I remembered how he looked at her, the angrier I grew. A small part of me tried to remind me that she actually stood up for me. But I was too angry to think straight.
“Slow down,” she said, bracing herself as the vehicle began speeding up.
I didn’t. Instead, I tightened my grip on the steering wheel and stepped on the gas.
“Ilya, slow down!” she barked at me, slamming her palm on the dashboard.
I veered the car off the road and pulled over by the curb, tires screeching loudly.
“What the hell was that about?” She glared at me, her voice dripping with fury. “You could’ve killed us. Why, because you were jealous?!”
“You don’t know who that bastard is—”
“I don’t care who he is; he was just talking to me. There was absolutely no need to make a scene!”
“Oh, yeah? Do you have any idea how many girls he’s lured into his bed with that tactic?”
“Excuse me?” She furrowed her brows, as if insulted by my response. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
My voice fell silent.
“Do you honestly think that because you had it easy with me, I’m accessible to just anybody?” Her tone was bitter, laced with disdain, as angry veins lined her forehead. “Wow.”
“I never said that.”
“It was implied,” she insisted, fuming. “And it’s not the first time. You always do this. The other day, you chased Anatoli out of the kitchen because he was talking to me.”
“He should’ve known his place; he’s a bodyguard, not a private comedian,” I growled.
“Speaking of guards,” she continued immediately. “It’s come to my attention that they’re not allowed anywhere within three feet of my door.”
I listened in silence.
“They’re not allowed to speak with me or even look me directly in the eyes. Not just them, the domestic staff too.” The frustration in her tone was evident in how quickly the words burst out. “This marriage might’ve freed me from the Bratva, but it clearly didn’t free me from you!”
I hesitated, the sound of her ragged breaths filling the car’s cabin.
“I was just trying to protect you,” I said quietly.
She let out a sharp breath, and her voice dropped a little below average as she stared at me. “You can’t keep caging me and call it protection, Ilya.”
A brief silence.
“I’m not as fragile and helpless as you think I am. I’m not a child. So stop treating me as one.”
It sounded more like a request than a command. I held her gaze, savoring how beautiful she looked tonight. The softness of her voice and the way her anger dissipated into thin air thawed something frozen inside me.
Indeed, she wasn’t a child. She was a mature woman who knew how to express herself without sounding disrespectful.
She didn’t know this. But I admired that about her.