Chapter 9 Sophia
SOPHIA
The hot water cascades over my shoulders, washing away the remnants of last night’s sleep.
I stayed up late, my mind racing with Elena’s cryptic warning about my father’s death, about secrets Mikhail doesn’t know.
But exhaustion eventually claimed me, and when I finally crawled into bed I was alone.
I don’t know when Mikhail came to bed. I didn’t hear him enter, didn’t feel the mattress dip under his weight.
But when I woke this morning, his arm was draped across my waist, his breath warm against my neck.
For a moment, just a moment, I let myself pretend this was normal.
That we were a real couple waking up together.
Then reality crashed back in, and I slipped from his embrace and into the shower before he could wake.
I turn off the water and wrap myself in a towel, my hair dripping down my back.
The mirror is fogged, obscuring my reflection, and I’m grateful.
I don’t want to see the confusion in my own eyes, the way my body still hums from thoughts of his touch.
When I open the bathroom door, steam billowing out behind me, I freeze.
Mikhail sits on the corner of the bed, wearing a pair of black pants, but no shirt, putting all those glorious muscles on display for me.
His blonde hair is disheveled, like he’s run his hands through it repeatedly.
But it’s not his state of undress that makes my breath catch.
It’s the injuries.
Deep cuts mark his arms and chest, some of the scabs still weeping.
A particularly nasty gash runs along his ribs, the edges ragged and angry.
Bruises bloom across his torso in shades of purple and blue.
“Oh my god.” The words escape before I can stop them. “What happened to you?”
His green eyes meet mine, and I see exhaustion there. Pain. And something that looks like fear.
I must be reading the expression wrong, though, because as far as I know, Mikhail isn’t afraid of anything.
“It’s nothing.”
“That’s not nothing.” I move toward him without thinking, my hand reaching out to touch the cut on his ribs. He flinches, and I pull back. “You need a doctor.”
“I’ve had worse.” His voice is flat, emotionless, but I can see the tension in his jaw. The way he’s holding himself too still, like movement will hurt.
“When did this happen?” I clutch the towel tighter around myself, suddenly aware of how little I’m wearing. “What happened?”
When he only looks at me without answering, I scowl my displeasure. “Sit down,” I order, surprised by the firmness in my own voice. “Let me look at those cuts.”
“Sophia—”
“Sit. Down.” He’s already sitting, so I point at the headboard, channeling every ounce of authority I can muster while wearing nothing but a towel.
For a moment, I think he’ll refuse.
Then something shifts in his expression, and he maneuvers himself across the bed until his back is resting against the headboard.
His movements are careful, controlled, but I see the pain flash across his face.
I move to the bathroom and gather supplies.
First aid kit from under the sink, clean washcloths, and antiseptic. My hands shake slightly as I carry everything back to the bedroom.
Mikhail watches me approach, his green eyes tracking my every movement.
I set the supplies on the nightstand and sit on the side of the bed, positioning myself beside him so I can reach the wounds on his chest.
“This is going to sting,” I warn, dampening a washcloth with antiseptic.
“I can handle it.”
I press the cloth to the cut on his ribs, and his entire body tenses.
A muscle jumps in his jaw, but he doesn’t make a sound. I clean the wound as gently as I can, watching dried blood wash away to reveal torn skin beneath.
“What happened?” I ask again, softer this time.
“Business.” His voice is clipped. “Nothing you need to worry about.”
“You’re covered in cuts and bruises. That’s not nothing.” I move to another wound, this one on his shoulder. “Did someone attack you?”
“It’s handled.”
Frustration bubbles up in my chest. “Why won’t you tell me anything? I’m your wife, remember? You made sure of that.”
His hand shoots out and catches my wrist, stopping my ministrations.
His grip is firm but not painful.
Then he suddenly lets my hand drop without a word.
I stand and turn toward the closet, needing to get dressed, needing to escape this suffocating room.
I hear him stand, hear his footsteps crossing the room.
Then his hands are on my shoulders, turning me to face him.
This close, I can see every cut, every bruise, can see the exhaustion etched into his features.
“Thank you for trying to help me,” he says quietly. “I’m not used to that.”
The vulnerability in his voice undoes me.
I set down the dress and return to the bed, gesturing for him to sit.
He does, and I resume cleaning his wounds without another word.
We fall into a rhythm.
I clean, he endures.
The silence between us is heavy but not uncomfortable.
I find myself studying him as I work.
The strong line of his jaw.
The way his muscles flex under my touch.
The scars that mark his body, evidence of a violent life.
“How did you get this one?” I trace a long scar across his abdomen, old and faded.
“Knife fight when I was nineteen.” His eyes follow my finger. “The other guy didn’t walk away.”
“And this?” I touch a circular scar on his shoulder.
“Bullet. Three years ago.”
I move to the cuts on his arms, cleaning each one carefully.
Some are shallow, barely more than scratches.
Others are deep enough to need stitches. “These should be sewn up.”
“They’ll heal.”
“They’ll scar.”
“I have plenty of those already.” He catches my hand again, but this time his touch is gentle. “Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Taking care of me. After everything I’ve done to you.”
I don’t have a good answer. I should hate him. Should want him to suffer. But seeing him like this, vulnerable and hurting, I can’t summon that hatred. “I don’t know,” I admit. “Maybe because someone should.”
His thumb brushes across my knuckles, and heat floods through me.
I pull my hand away and reach for the bandages, needing to focus on something other than the way his touch makes me feel.
I wrap his ribs first, my fingers brushing against his skin as I wind the gauze around his torso.
He’s warm, solid, and I’m acutely aware of how close we are. How small the towel is. How easy it would be to lean in and kiss him.
The thought horrifies me.
This man kidnapped me.
Forced me to marry him.
Showed me photos of my father’s execution.
I shouldn’t want to kiss him.
Shouldn’t want anything from him except my freedom.
But my traitorous body doesn’t care about should or shouldn’t.
I finish with his ribs and move to his arms, bandaging the deeper cuts. My towel slips slightly and I catch it before it falls, but not before Mikhail’s eyes drop to my chest.
Heat flares in his gaze, and I feel an answering warmth low in my belly.
“All done,” I say, my voice breathier than I’d like.
“Thank you.” He stands as I scramble to my feet, and we’re suddenly very close.
I can feel the heat radiating from his body, can smell his cologne mixed with something metallic.
Blood, probably.
“You should rest,” I tell him, taking a step back. “Those wounds need time to heal.”
“I can’t. I have calls to make. Security to arrange.” He moves to the dresser and pulls out a fresh shirt. I watch as he carefully pulls it on, wincing when the fabric brushes against his bandages.
“Security for what?”
He buttons the shirt, his movements slow and deliberate. “The attack last night wasn’t random. Someone’s making a move against me. I need to make sure this house is secure. That you’re safe.”
The last part catches me off guard. “Why do you care if I’m safe?”
He turns to look at me, and something in his expression makes my breath catch. “Because you’re mine to protect now. Whether you like it or not.”
Before I can respond, his phone rings. He pulls it from his pocket and glances at the screen, his expression hardening. “I need to take this.”
He answers in Russian, his voice sharp and commanding.
I don’t understand the words, but I understand the tone.
He’s angry.
Worried.
I take the opportunity to grab my dress and slip into the bathroom to change. When I emerge, he’s still on the phone, pacing the room despite his injuries. I catch the fragments of conversation that slip into English.
“Double the guards.”
“No one gets in or out without my approval.”
“I don’t care what it costs.”
I move to the window and stare out at the grounds.
The gardens look peaceful in the morning light, but I know better now.
This beautiful mansion is a fortress.
A prison.
And I’m trapped inside with a man I’m starting to care about despite every reason not to.
Mikhail ends the call and comes to stand beside me. We’re both silent, watching the guards patrol the perimeter.
“It’s going to get worse before it gets better,” he says finally. “The people who attacked me last night, they know about you now. They’ll try to use you against me.”
His hand comes up to cup my face, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone. “You’re good, Sophia. Better than me. Better than this world I’ve dragged you into.”
“Then let me go.” The plea escapes before I can stop it. “If you think I’m so good, let me leave.”
“I can’t.” His voice breaks on the words. “I need you. For revenge, for…I don’t know anymore. But I can’t let you go.”
He leans in, and I know he’s going to kiss me. I should turn away. Should push him back. But I don’t. I let his lips meet mine and let myself sink into the kiss.
It’s different from before.
Softer.
Almost tender.
Like he’s trying to tell me something he doesn’t have words for.
When we break apart, I’m breathless. Confused. Terrified by the feelings swirling inside me.
“I should hate you,” I whisper.
“I know.” He rests his forehead against mine. “I hate myself enough for both of us.”
His phone rings again, shattering the moment. He pulls away with a curse and answers it, his voice cold and professional once more.
I move to the bed and sit down, my legs suddenly unsteady.
I watch him pace and talk, watch the way he holds himself despite the pain he must be in.
Watch the way his jaw clenches when whoever’s on the other end says something he doesn’t like.
And I realize with dawning horror that Elena was right.
Underneath all the rage and violence, there’s a man worth saving.
A man who came to me bleeding and let me tend his wounds.
A man who’s arranging security not just for himself but for me.
A man I’m starting to care about.
The thought should terrify me.
It does terrify me.
But it also feels inevitable, like I’ve been falling toward this moment since the night he kidnapped me.
Mikhail ends the call and turns to me. “I need to go out for a few hours. Marco will stay with you.”
“Of course he will.” I can’t keep the bitterness from my voice.
“Sophia.” He crosses to me and tilts my chin up, forcing me to meet his eyes. “I know this isn’t what you want. But until I know who’s behind the attack, until I know you’re safe, this is how it has to be.”
“I’m never going to be safe with you.” The truth of it settles over me like a shroud. “Your enemies will always come for me. Use me against you. This will never end.”
“Then I’ll keep fighting.” His voice is fierce, determined. “I’ll keep you safe no matter what it costs.”
He kisses me again, hard and possessive, then leaves before I can respond.
I sit in the empty room, my fingers touching my lips where I can still feel the pressure of his kiss.
My mind races with everything that’s happened.
The wounds on his body.
The fear in his voice when he talked about security.
The way he looked at me like I’m something precious.
God help me, I think I’m falling for my captor.