Chapter 6
Ryder
“I’ll admit it,” I say, breaking the silence because it’s starting to crawl under my skin. “Your boss runs an impressive empire.”
Across from me, Liev looks up from his phone. His sleeves are rolled to the elbows, forearms strong and corded, posture relaxed but alert, like he’s never fully off duty. When he slips his cell into his pocket, I get a quick glimpse of a photo on the screen: two newborns.
“Kazimir doesn’t build anything halfway,” he replies, giving me his full attention. Those light eyes settle on me, and I realize with a shiver that suddenly, the last thing I want is my new husband to look at me too closely.
“That’s obvious.”
The jet barely vibrates, barely makes a sound.
We glide instead of fly. Below us, the coastline falls away, the marshlands around Savannah shrinking into thin green veins against the gray-blue water.
The cabin smells faintly of leather and jet fuel, expensive and sterile at the same time.
The interior isn’t flashy or gaudy like my father’s toys tend to be.
It’s the sort of wealth you don’t notice until you compare it to everything else.
The last week and a half replays in my head: handing off encrypted drives, transferring access codes, walking my team through systems usually only I touch.
Every goodbye felt like peeling away a layer of skin.
They tried to make jokes, tried to act like I’d just be gone for a business trip, but we all knew the truth.
I wasn’t just leaving.
I was surrendering control.
For someone like me, that feels dangerously close to losing oxygen.
My chest tightens when I think about it.
We took off forty-five minutes ago, and my father didn’t even bother to say goodbye.
Liev’s daughter had been there. I watched them hug from behind tinted windows and tried to act like what I was giving up was respect and not being taken advantage of.
Liev shifts in his seat, and the movement pulls me back to the present.
This is the first time we’ve been alone like this, without Kazimir, his men, or paperwork between us. No distractions. No buffers.
Just my husband.
The word tangles something deep inside. I’m too young to be married, but then Liev is too old to have been single. It makes me wonder what’s wrong with him. Why hasn’t some Bratva woman snapped him up already?
The plane jostles suddenly, and Liev jerks forward, barely catching himself on the arm of my chair. He’s almost on his knees, eye-to-eye with me now as the plane bumps and hums. I realize suddenly that my hand is on his shoulder, gripping tightly, stopping him from getting hurt.
Or from falling into my lap face-first?
“Seatbelts, please,” an attendant calls from just outside our seating area.
The air between us feels heavier than the cabin pressure, thick with everything we’re not saying.
Liev rights himself, sits down, considers messing with the seatbelt but doesn’t.
His eyes flash dangerously. I study the line of his jaw, the faint crease between his brows when he’s thinking.
He keeps glancing at me like I might vanish if he looks away too long.
It should irritate me. Instead, it makes my pulse skip.
Things were easier when this was just strategy.
Liev slips his phone back out and returns to whatever he’s pretending to read, but I can tell he isn’t actually seeing it. His thumb hasn’t moved in thirty seconds, and every so often his gaze flicks up, checking my position like I might have slipped out a hidden door midair.
He doesn’t trust me.
Good.
The thought steadies me.
Because the alternative is worse.
The alternative is that I’m starting to trust him.
I fold my arms and lean back into the leather seat, pretending to watch the sky outside while my mind churns through possibilities. In the week and a half since the wedding, I’ve replayed every outcome of this marriage. Every trap. Every angle.
Every way out.
If I make this inconvenient enough, irritating enough, embarrassing enough, maybe he’ll cut his losses and end it himself.
Men like Liev don’t tolerate chaos.
So maybe I just have to become chaotic.
A slow smile curls at my mouth. I cross one leg over the other, deliberately letting my shoe brush his knee.
He glances up.
“Accident,” I say sweetly.
His eyes narrow because we both know it wasn’t.
I tilt my head, studying him openly. “You’re awfully tense for a man on a private jet. You always this serious, or is that just a husband thing?”
“I’m always serious.”
“That sounds exhausting.” I pause, then add lightly, “Old man.”
His jaw tightens.
There it is.
I press my advantage, because pushing him feels safer than sitting quietly and acknowledging the heat that keeps coiling low in my stomach every time he looks at me too long.
I’m suddenly understanding why people joke about the “mile high club,” and I need a distraction from wanting to hate-fuck his brains out.
“You know,” I continue, “most newlyweds would be a little more enthusiastic. You haven’t even tried to seduce me yet. Should I be offended, or are you conserving energy?”
His gaze drops, slow and deliberate, then climbs back up my body like he’s memorizing every inch.
My pulse stutters.
Okay… maybe the distraction shouldn’t involve bringing up sex.
“I don’t need to try,” he says quietly.
I snort, ignoring the way my clit pulses at the memory of his touch. “Wow. Confidence. Didn’t know they made that in bulk for men over forty. Does it come as a supplement?”
He leans forward then, forearms braced on his knees, voice low enough that it slides over my skin instead of through the air.
“My age,” he murmurs, “and my experience are exactly why you made the sounds you did that night.”
My mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
Heat floods my face so fast it’s humiliating. Because he’s right.
For a split second, the memory steals the breath from my lungs. He watches me as my mouth snaps shut and gives a small, satisfied grunt. He looks like a predator that’s just proven it still has teeth.
I look away first.
Damn him.
Silence falls again, but now it’s charged and alive, crawling over my skin.
I stare at the window and pretend I’m not hyperaware of the space between us, of the faint brush of his boot against mine when the plane shifts.
Everything in me wants to dominate him, to climb onto his lap, pull his perfectly styled hair, and make him beg me—
I can’t finish the thought. Not if I want to survive the rest of this flight without traumatizing the crew.
This was supposed to be easy. Annoy him, provoke him, make him regret choosing me. Instead, every time I push, he doesn’t budge; he gives, somehow coming closer.
And some terrible, traitorous part of me likes it.
* * *
Hours later, the cabin lights dim as we begin our descent. The city below spreads out like spilled gold, endless and glittering. I press against the wall, wiping the fog of my breath off in my eagerness to see home.
Miami.
My chest tightens at the sight of it.
The jet touches down smoothly, and neither of us moves. Liev is watching quietly as if waiting to see what I’ll do. Does he expect some grand spectacle? Is he expecting me to run out and kiss the tarmac before getting on my knees and thanking him for taking me home?
Yeah. No way is that happening.
I stare back at him, our gazes locked. The engine’s wind down, the door opens, and warm thick air rushes inside the cabin. It’s familiar.
Then he stands. Holds out a hand.
There’s a moment of hesitation before I take it. This has to be for show, for the benefit of the crew watching. There’s no other reason for him to be kind to me, but his fingers wrap around mine.
We descend the steps together, close enough that our shoulders almost touch. A black sedan waits on the tarmac, completely ordinary. Efficient. Discreet.
Liev’s style, I’m learning.
Your husband’s style, a traitorous voice whispers, lightly triumphant at his intelligence. I’ve never understood the point of any businessman who makes his money in questionable ways showing off. Liev knows better, apparently.
It doesn’t seem to matter, though. Seconds out of the airstrip, the driver catches a tail.
“To the rear,” he intones flatly, turning off the car’s lights and driving dark. “Pulled out from a narrow road between two outbuildings.”
“Perhaps just the welcoming crew,” Liev murmurs, glancing in the mirror. We pass by another outbuilding, this one spray-painted with a gang sign on the side—the 21Hearts. My pulse picks up; since when did they expand outside the city limits?
“Take the next left,” I tell the driver, leaning forward and bracing myself with a hand on Liev’s thigh.
The muscle jumps under my touch, and we make eye contact quickly before both looking away.
“You’ll hit a strip of road that goes through an industrial complex.
It shouldn’t be hard to lose them in there. ”
And it works—thankfully.
Whoever is tailing us is an amateur; their car is noticeable, and their lights are on. We watch from a dark alcove under a steel mill as they drive slowly through the buildings before giving up fifteen minutes later.
“They probably just want to know who I am,” Liev comments quietly, his features hidden in shadow. “Get a look at the new Bratva leader.”
There’s a tension between us—something dangerous taken with us from Savannah. Whoever it was, 21Hearts or not, they were well-informed enough to know when Liev Demsky would be landing in Miami. And that’s not a good start; the city is one step ahead of us already.
* * *
Not long after, the car pulls up in front of a sleek waterfront hotel. Palms and greenery line the walkways, and late-night staff step out to take our bags. The air is so warm I sigh, shoulders dropping, and Liev glances at me with those striking eyes over his shoulder.
He pushes through the revolving door without waiting for me.
I follow him, sliding into the cool, citrus-scented air of the lobby.
Marble floors stretch wide and glossy beneath our feet, reflecting the soft pendant lights overhead.
Low couches sit arranged like little islands of privacy, occupied by travelers murmuring into phones or nursing late-night drinks.
No one looks twice at us, which somehow feels more luxurious than a crowd ever would.
Liev walks straight to the front desk like he owns the place. Or maybe Kazimir Baranov does?
The attendant brightens the second she sees him, posture snapping straighter.
“Good evening, Mr. Demsky. Welcome back.”
Back? So he’s been here before. Of course he has. Gotta scope out the territory that comes with the wife, right?
She slides two keycards across the counter with an easy smile. “Your rooms are ready.”
I frown faintly, but before I can ask, she turns to me and offers another card. “And yours, ma’am.”
I just stare at it.
For a second, my brain refuses to process what she’s saying.
Mine.
Separate.
My gaze lifts slowly to Liev.
He doesn’t look embarrassed or hesitant. If anything, he looks almost careful.
“I booked us separate rooms,” he says, voice low and matter-of-fact. It’s like he’s explaining a security protocol instead of a marriage boundary. “You’ll want your own space tonight. Tomorrow will be long.”
I open my mouth to make a joke about wedding nights, but then realize how stupid that would be and snap it shut. The attendant suddenly finds the computer screen fascinating. Heat creeps up my neck.
“Oh,” I say, hating how small it sounds. “Right. Of course.”
Separate rooms. I should be relieved.
God, I should be thrilled.
No awkward first night. No expectations. No lying awake wondering if he’s going to cross the room and climb into my bed like some territorial animal.
Space means control. Space means safety.
I take the keycard, fingers brushing his for the briefest second. The contact sparks straight up my arm.
I mutter a thank you to the attendant and follow him toward the elevators, trying to ignore the strange, hollow feeling settling under my ribs.
The ride up is quiet except for the soft hum of the cables. We stand shoulder to shoulder without touching. Our reflections staring back at us in the mirrored walls like strangers pretending not to know each other.
Husband and wife.
Two separate rooms.
It shouldn’t feel this intimate just standing here, but it does. Somehow, it’s just as bad as if we were going to the same room, the same bed.
The doors open and we step out, but then our footsteps slow automatically. The world narrows.
He stops first.
So do I.
For one suspended second, everything shifts.
His eyes drop to my mouth.
My pulse hammers.
It would be so easy.
So easy for him to step forward, wrap those broad hands around my waist, and pull me against his chest. We could easily ignore every careful rule he’s apparently decided to set between us without my agreement.
Do I want to sleep with the man I was forced to marry?
I can almost feel it already: the heat of him, the weight of his arms, the way he’d lift me like I weigh nothing and carry me to his room without asking.
My body leans a fraction toward him before I even realize it.
Liev inhales slowly, like he’s fighting something.
Then he steps back.
“Goodnight, wife,” he murmurs.
And then he turns, walks down the hall, and disappears into his room, the door clicking shut with quiet finality.
I stand there alone, keycard clutched in my hand, cheeks burning.
Relieved.
Safe.
And stupidly, painfully disappointed.