Chapter 4 Konstantin
KONSTANTIN
The car slows as we approach my estate, the gates sliding open soundlessly to admit us.
I watch Nadya from the corner of my eye, careful not to let her realize how closely I’m observing her.
She sits quietly, posture stiff, eyes wide as she takes in the view.
She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t need to.
It’s clear from the way her lips part slightly and the tightening of her fingers against her thighs that she’s never seen anything like this before.
I’ve already studied her background carefully.
She didn’t grow up in a home with money.
Her father, Pyotr, was notorious for squandering every opportunity and every dime that passed through his hands.
From what I gathered, her childhood was modest at best, chaotic at worst. And now here she is, arriving at my estate—a sprawling property set a comfortable distance outside Los Angeles, acres of carefully maintained grounds and architecture designed to intimidate more than impress.
As we roll down the long driveway toward the main house, I glance toward Nadya once more.
She’s trying to maintain her composure, but curiosity—and perhaps shock—is unmistakably written across her face.
When the main building comes into view, with its broad stone steps, marble columns, and imposing facade, her breathing quickens slightly.
It’s subtle, but I notice it immediately.
I’m used to this reaction, and frankly, I enjoy it. This place is a symbol, not just of my wealth, but of everything I’ve built—every drop of blood, every broken bone, every silent betrayal that brought me from Dmitry’s bastard son to a man who means something.
A man nobody ever saw coming.
The car finally comes to a halt in front of the main entrance, and Lev steps out to open Nadya’s door. She pauses, seemingly uncertain, before finally sliding out of the car and taking in the view properly. I follow slowly, buttoning my jacket and adjusting my cuffs as I watch her.
“Welcome to your new home,” I say, keeping my voice even, betraying nothing of my curiosity.
Her eyes flick toward me, wary, but she quickly looks away, focusing instead on the estate’s sweeping, illuminated grounds and the security guards patrolling at regular intervals along the perimeter.
I’ve never taken security lightly. Power attracts enemies, and I have plenty.
Men who underestimated me when I was younger, men who whispered behind my back, dismissing me as Dmitry Buryakov’s unwanted accident.
Those same men lost their arrogance quickly when I began taking their territory piece by piece, carving my name into their losses and claiming what they thought was rightfully theirs.
“You can relax,” I say finally, as I gesture toward the open front door. “You’re safe here.”
She doesn’t reply, probably because she knows that’s bullshit. But I don’t care. She may not understand it, but she’s the last piece of the puzzle I need to own this city, and take my father down.
They underestimated me, and I turned their arrogance against them. I built something they couldn’t ignore, and now, whether they like it or not, the city is forced to see me for exactly who and what I am.
I step closer to her, my voice quiet but firm. “Follow me,” I tell her. “We have much to discuss.”
We walk through the grand entrance, the heavy oak doors closing silently behind us.
Nadya’s steps are careful, as though she expects the floor beneath her to collapse or shift suddenly.
I slow my pace slightly, allowing her to keep up comfortably as we cross the foyer, my shoes clicking against polished marble tiles.
She pauses, looking up at the chandelier hanging above us—crystal and intricate, reflecting tiny prisms of light against the walls. Her expression is tightly controlled, yet I catch the slight widening of her eyes, evidence that she isn’t accustomed to surroundings like this.
“You should get used to it,” I say quietly. “This is your life now.”
“Is that what you call it?” Her voice trembles, but she pushes past it, forcing strength into each word. “My life? Or did you mean to say my cage?”
I stop, turning fully to face her. She doesn’t shrink away like most would, doesn’t flinch, though the quick rise and fall of her chest betrays the fear she’s desperately trying to hide.
Yet she stands her ground, defiant despite everything stacked against her.
Something shifts inside me—curiosity, perhaps admiration. I’ve seen plenty of people afraid, many who faced me trembling, begging, but rarely have I encountered someone whose fear and defiance exist simultaneously, battling within them.
“You think you’re in a cage?” I ask calmly, stepping slightly closer. “Interesting way to put it.”
Her throat moves as she swallows, steadying herself before replying. “What else would you call it, when I’m bought and sold like property?”
I tilt my head slightly, studying her carefully. Her gaze doesn’t waver. “The arrangement wasn’t mine,” I remind her. “If I hadn’t bought you someone else would have.”
Her eyes drop slightly. I hate myself for throwing this in her face.
“So, you pretend that you’re a saint?”
“I pretend no such thing, sweetheart,” I say.
She flinches at that word, lifting her chin higher, the trembling nearly gone from her voice. “So if I set boundaries—if I tell you there are lines you can’t cross—what happens then? Will you respect that?”
Admiration flickers inside me again, stronger now. She knows exactly how little power she has, but she fights anyway, risking angering a man most would never challenge openly. My lips twitch, almost a smile.
“Boundaries,” I say softly, “are earned, not demanded. Prove to me you’re worth them, and perhaps I’ll grant you some.”
She huffs out a breath.
I frown slightly. I don’t understand this woman.
There’s no love left for her father. That much is obvious.
She didn’t cry when he walked away. She didn’t plead or protest when he tried to shake more money out of me.
If anything, she looked like she wanted to punch him in the throat. So if it’s not loyalty, then what?
Does she think she owes him something?
The question sticks with me as we reach the stairs. I turn to glance at her again, and she notices.
“What?” she snaps, lifting her chin.
“You’re awfully bold for someone who just signed herself away.”
Her jaw clenches. “You’re awfully smug for someone who just bought a woman like she’s a car off a showroom floor.”
“I paid to keep you out of worse hands,” I say flatly. “You think Kirov would’ve let you walk five minutes without being touched?”
She flinches. Just barely. But I see it.
“Don’t do me any favors,” she fires back. “If I’m going to be someone’s pawn, I’d rather not be told it was charity.”
I stop walking.
She does too, pausing just a step below me on the stairs. We’re almost eye level now. Her lips are parted, her breath shallow from the climb, or maybe from the way I’m staring at her.
“You think this is charity?” I ask quietly.
She doesn’t answer.
“You think I paid fifteen million for something I pity?”
Still nothing.
My hand lifts before I fully register what I’m doing. I reach up, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear, then let my fingers trail down the side of her neck. Her skin is warm. Her pulse is racing.
She holds her ground.
“You should learn when to stop talking,” I say, my voice low.
“And you should learn how to take no for an ans—”
I don’t let her finish. I grab her jaw and kiss her—hard.
It’s not soft. It’s not gentle. It’s possession wrapped in heat, a kiss that dares her to push me away and knows she won’t. Her lips part in shock and I take advantage immediately, my tongue sliding against hers, deep and demanding.
She stiffens for half a heartbeat, fingers bunched in my shirt as if she can’t decide whether to shove me away or drag me closer; then she tips forward and kisses me back with a fierce, reckless hunger.
Her body presses to mine, the soft curve of her chest meeting the solid line of my torso, and every point of contact lights up—heat rolling off her in waves, matching the thrum in my veins.
I angle her jaw, deepening the kiss, swallowing the small, startled sound she makes when my teeth catch her lower lip.
I slide my free hand down her side—waist, hip, thigh—memorizing the shape of her in one slow pass while her tongue tangles with mine, hot and slick and daring.
She’s the one who tears her mouth from mine, pulse shuddering under my thumb, breath coming in quick, uneven pulls that leave her lips parted and glossy. For a second she just stares, as if surprised by her own reaction. Then she drags in air like it’s suddenly scarce in the hallway.
I keep my palm cupped around the side of her throat, thumb resting on the wild beat under her skin, and make sure my face stays flat and calm even though I’m hard enough to leave a dent in Italian wool.
I let the silence drag until her breathing turns almost normal again and the flush fades from her cheeks. The longer I say nothing, the more that pulse under my thumb stutters, because she can’t decide if I’m about to kiss her again or order guards to carry her off.
Finally, I lower my hand, smooth my jacket sleeve as if all I’ve done is adjust a cuff, and give her a slow, unhurried once-over. “That,” I say, voice steady, “was a reminder. Don’t test me unless you’re prepared for the result.”
Her eyes flash, but she doesn’t have an answer ready; she’s too busy breathing, skin flushed, teeth catching her swollen lower lip like she’s angry at it for betraying her.
I step back, straighten my jacket, and nod toward the upper landing. “Guest wing is this way. Lev will show you to your room.”
I don’t let my expression crack until I’m out of sight and the heavy door to my study closes behind me.