Chapter 13 Kira
Kira
The dining room feels like a trap the moment I walk into it. When Roman sent the text demanding I come to dinner, I should have known he was up to something.
I only agreed because I was hoping to persuade him to change his mind about Anya.
Persuade. Threaten. Beg.
Whatever I had to do.
But I wasn’t expecting to see Maksim.
"Kira." Roman stands, all false charm. "You look lovely."
I'm wearing black—the only color that matches my mood—and heels sharp enough to be weapons if necessary. And I am very much prepared to use them as such. I’m almost hoping I do get to use them.
"Thank you,” I murmur.
Maksim stands, nods and then flops back down in his chair.
Did he know I was coming to dinner? There was a third place setting.
I don’t look at him. Not directly.
"Please, sit." Roman gestures to the place setting to his right, directly across from Maksim.
I sit because I don't have a choice and immediately regret it.
Roman's hand finds my knee under the table. Possessive. Claiming. I resist the urge to stab him with my fork.
Maksim won't look at me. His eyes are fixed on his plate, jaw tight, radiating tension.
Two days ago, we had sex and then he reminded me again that he hated me. Now we're playing happy family over dinner. The absurdity would be funny if it wasn't so nightmarish.
"I thought it would be nice, to have a family dinner before the wedding,” Roman says. He puts up a finger, indicating the server to begin the dinner service. “Get everyone comfortable with the new arrangements."
"How thoughtful," I say, my voice perfectly pleasant. The Ice Queen in full effect.
I can shut off my emotions too. I can be just as cold and cruel.
Maksim wants to play this game, fine.
"I've been finalizing the guest list." Roman pulls out his tablet—because of course he can't have one meal without conducting business.
"Two hundred confirmed. Every major family in Moscow. I have another fifty or so asking to come. I’m leaving them hanging.
Make them feel like they need to work for it. "
He shows me the list, and I scan it with growing dread.
Every ally I had left is conspicuously absent. The families that might have supported me, that might have given me leverage—all excluded.
"I notice the Trotsky family isn't invited," I observe carefully. "Given the upcoming marriage to my sister, I assumed—"
"Artem will be there," Roman corrects. "But his extended family presents security concerns. Better to keep the guest list tight."
Translation: he doesn't want anyone there who might interfere with his complete control.
"And the Petrov family?" I try. "They've been our allies for years."
"Were your allies," Roman corrects, his hand tightening on my knee. "Past tense. They've chosen to remain neutral during this transition. I don't invite neutral parties to my wedding."
Every name I recognize as potentially friendly is missing.
I'm being isolated. Systematically cut off from anyone who might provide support. Does he have something planned? Something bigger than just a wedding. My brain spits out various scenarios, but I keep coming back to Roman hurting me in some way. Or killing me. My family.
My thoughts are cut off when the server delivers the first course.
"The security arrangements are quite extensive," Roman continues, swiping to another screen. The server practically runs out of the room. "Given the high-profile nature of the event, I've tripled the usual precautions."
He shows me diagrams that look like prison blueprints.
"Very thorough," I manage.
"I'm protecting my investment." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Can't have anything happening to my beautiful bride."
Maksim's fork clatters against his plate. We both glance at him, but he's already resuming eating like nothing happened.
“Are there threats?” I ask coolly.
I pick up my fork and poke at my Olivier salad. Am I hungry—no. But I will pretend I’m unbothered.
“There are always threats, my dear,” Roman replies. “And now that Maksim is here, we have to be careful.”
“Why? Does someone want him dead?” I ask the question with so much sweetness it almost makes me gag.
Roman chuckles. “Someone tried. They failed.”
I almost say pity but decide that might not be the smartest decision.
The second course, borscht it brought out.
Maksim is relatively quiet. He still won’t look at me. He talks to Roman, but not me.
That’s fine. When the main course is delivered, I tell myself I’m halfway through. Then I can leave. I can get away from these men. It’s strange to sit down to a civilized meal with two men that hate you in different ways. Roman might pretend he wants me, but that’s only to break me.
Maksim just hates me.
Ten days. I have ten days until this becomes permanent. Ten days to find a way out that doesn't end with Anya destroyed.
And how in the hell will Maksim and I co-exist under the same roof?
"I've also arranged your accommodations for after the wedding," Roman says. "The east wing has been completely remodeled. New security systems. Private access."
"Accommodations." I repeat the word carefully. "You mean our rooms."
"Your room," he corrects. "I prefer to maintain my own space. For work purposes."
Translation: he wants me accessible but contained. Close enough to control, isolated enough to break.
"Of course," I say through gritted teeth.
I’m more than happy to not have to share his bed.
"The wedding night will be in my suite, naturally." His hand moves higher on my leg. "I've made special arrangements.”
I want to vomit. Want to stab him with the steak knife. Want to run screaming from this room.
Instead, I smile. "I'm sure it will be memorable."
Maksim's knuckles go white around his fork.
I glance between the two men. Does Roman know about what happened between us? Did Maksim tell him? I almost want to laugh if Roman hopes to make Maksim jealous to further some kind of pissing match between them.
Maksim doesn’t care.
I would bet he wants me in Roman’s bed to be used and abused. It would only add to my misery which is what Maksim wants.
Maximum damage.
Roman's phone buzzes. He glances at it, frowns. "Excuse me. I need to take this."
He stands, his hand trailing across my shoulders as he leaves. A reminder that he can touch me whenever he wants.
The moment he's gone, the air in the room shifts. Dangerous. Electric.
"You look uncomfortable," Maksim observes, still not looking at me.
"Strange, given I'm planning my wedding to a monster." I keep my voice low. "While the man I love watches and does nothing."
"Don't." His jaw clenches. "Don't make this about love."
"What should I make it about? Revenge? Justice?" I lean slightly toward him. “Did the two of you talk about sharing me?”
He looks directly at me.
Finally.
Finally, I see a spark of rage and jealousy.
I cock one eyebrow and reach for my wineglass.
“Don’t fucking say that,” he hisses.
“Oh, I’m sorry, do you expect me to fuck you and then go to my husband’s bed? Or would you prefer I come to you after? I have a feeling Roman’s sloppy seconds will be rather unpleasant. I’ve heard he enjoys making his women bleed.”
Maksim’s hand comes down on the table, bouncing the silverware and nearly toppling Roman’s half-empty wineglass.
Good. I want him pissed. I want him raging. I want him jealous.
All of those emotions will be nothing compared to the hell I endure.
“Don’t.” The one word is barely a growl.
Now that I’ve managed to crack through that anger just a little, I decide to throw a Hail Mary.
"I found something. In my father's records. Payments. Big ones.”
"Stop." His eyes are cold. "Stop trying to shift blame."
"I'm not shifting blame. I'm showing you evidence—"
"Evidence you could have fabricated." He cuts me off. "Convenient that you 'find' records right when you need them."
The dismissal makes something snap inside me.
I pick up a piece of bread and throw it at his face.
It hits him square in the forehead, leaving a small butter mark. His expression is priceless—shock, confusion, and something that might be amusement fighting for dominance.
"You're an idiot," I hiss. "A stubborn, blind idiot who's being used and can't see it."
"Careful," he warns, wiping the butter away. "That's assault."
"You want to see assault?" I'm past caring about volume.
"I have years of assault saved up. Assault from being blamed for your death.
Assault from building everything I have just to watch you destroy it.
Assault from begging you to help save an innocent girl while you lecture me about consequences. "
"Lower your voice—"
"No." I lean closer, fury overriding fear. "You listen to me, Maksim Barinov. You think I set you up. Fine. Believe what you want. But you have a real enemy out there. One that’s not going to be happy you’re alive. He's going to kill you for real this time."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's a warning. And just like last time, I will have nothing to do with it. But unlike last time, you'll know it's coming and still won't see it because you're too focused on destroying me to notice the knife at your own throat."
He stares at me, and for just a second, I see doubt flicker in his eyes.
Then Roman's voice cuts through the tension. "Is there a problem?"
He's standing in the doorway, watching us with amusement. Like he was hoping to return to find us fucking or fighting.
I sit back. "No problem. Just discussing old times."
"How nostalgic." Roman retakes his seat. "I hope you're both being civil."
"Extremely civil," Maksim says flatly.
We finish the meal in tense silence.
Dessert arrives—something chocolate and elaborate that I can't eat. I move it around my plate while Roman discusses final wedding preparations.
"Oh, one more thing." Roman sets down his fork. "For security reasons, you'll be moving into the compound tomorrow."
The words take a moment to register. "What?"
"Tomorrow. I'll send people to collect your things." He says it casually, like announcing the weather. "You'll stay in the guest wing until the wedding, then move to your permanent quarters after."
"No." I set down my fork carefully. "I'm not moving in before the wedding. That wasn't part of the agreement."
"The agreement has changed." His voice is laced with threat. "You'll be here, under proper security, where I can ensure nothing happens to you before the ceremony."
"Nothing will happen to me in my own apartment—"
"Your apartment is a security risk." He cuts me off. "This isn't a negotiation, Kira. It's done."
"You can't just—"
"I can." He leans forward. "I'm your fiancé. Soon to be your husband. Your safety is my responsibility. And I've determined that you're safest here, under my protection."
In his prison.
"I have work to complete. Arrangements to finalize—"
"Which you can do from here." His smile is sharp. "We have excellent internet. You'll want for nothing."
"Except freedom," I mutter.
"Freedom is overrated." He reaches for my hand, and I let him take it because fighting will only make this worse. "You'll see. Once you're here, you'll realize how much easier everything is."
"Easier." The word tastes like poison.
His thumb strokes my hand. "I'll handle all of it. You just need to focus on being my wife."
Being his wife. Being his property. Being his prisoner.
"This is happening very fast," I try. "Perhaps after the wedding—"
"Tomorrow," he repeats. "I'll send a car at noon. Pack what you need for comfort. Everything else will be provided."
I want to argue. Want to fight. Want to refuse and storm out.
But I can see it in his eyes: this isn't optional. If I refuse, he'll have me brought here by force. And that would be worse.
At least this way, I walk in under my own power.
"Fine." The word costs me. "Tomorrow."
"Excellent." He lifts my hand to his lips. "You'll be much happier here. You'll see."
I won't be happier. I'll be fucking trapped.