Gennady
I've built an empire on control. On thinking faster, reacting slower, and never letting emotion dictate action. Men who lose control lose everything. I learned that lesson early and I learned it well.
So I don't know what the fuck happened in that car.
One moment I was assessing her as a responsibility, a loose end that needed managing. The next, all I could think about was the blood on her lip and how badly I needed to taste it. No calculation. No strategy. Just raw, inexplicable compulsion that overrode decades of discipline.
I put my mouth on her like I had a right to. Like she was already mine.
And it felt exactly right.
Now she's standing in front of me in clothes several sizes too big, hair still damp from the shower, and I'm trying to figure out how to tell her that the arrangement she thinks she made with me isn't the one I'm offering.
"Sit," I say, gesturing to the bed.
She hesitates for half a second, then obeys. Folds herself onto the edge of the mattress with her hands in her lap, spine straight despite the oversized hoody swallowing her frame. The posture is all careful control, but I can see the pulse fluttering at her throat.
Awareness stretches out from her. I can feel it.
I pull the vanity chair around and sit, keeping the distance minimal. Close enough that she has to look at me. Close enough that she can't pretend this conversation isn't happening.
"You offered to work for me," I begin.
Her eyes flick to mine, uncertain but ready to take whatever role I give her. "Yes."
"You won't be."
Confusion crosses her face. Good. She should be confused. Because what I'm about to propose isn't logical. It isn't strategic. It's the opposite of every decision I've made in my entire life.
"I don't need household staff," I continue. "I have Marie to manage that that. I don't need an assistant. Stefan handles the business side of things."
"Then what—"
"What I need," I cut in, leaning forward slightly, "is someone who won't betray me."
Her breath catches, just barely.
"You proved something last night," I say. "When you gave up your brother. When you chose a consequence you couldn't take back over the comfortable lie your family would have preferred."
A small frown line appears above her nose as she opens her mouth to say something, but I hold up my hand to stop her.
"You chose loyalty. To me. Over them."
Her jaw tightens. "I chose myself."
"Because you believed I would protect you." I hold her gaze, not letting her look away. "And I will. But protection comes with expectations, Matilda. It comes with boundaries and structure and a very specific kind of arrangement."
She's not stupid. I can see her mind working, trying to piece together where this is going. Trying to figure out if she should be afraid.
She should be. Because once I say this out loud, there's no taking it back.
"I'm offering you a place here," I say. "As my wife."
The silence that follows is absolute.
Her eyes widen, lips parting on an inhale that doesn't become words. I watch the colour drain from her face, then flood back in a rush of pink that climbs her neck and settles high on her cheekbones.
"Wife?" The word comes out strangled.
"Yes."
"You—" She blinks rapidly, like she's trying to clear her vision. "You can't be serious."
"Marriage is not something I would joke about."
She stands abruptly, hands coming up like she needs something to do with them. Paces two steps toward the window, then stops. Turns back to me.
"You killed my brother six hours ago."
"Seven," I correct.
Her mouth opens. Closes. "That's not—you can't just—"
"Sit down, Matilda."
"No." There's heat in her voice now, the shock giving way to something sharper. "You don't get to order me to sit while you tell me you want to marry me like it's a business transaction."
"It is a business transaction."
Wrong thing to say. I know it the moment the words leave my mouth.
Her eyes flash. "Then find someone else to transact with."
She moves toward the door and I'm on my feet before I consciously decide to move. My hand closes around her wrist just tight enough to stop her momentum.
"Let go," she says, but her voice wavers.
"No."
"Pakhan—"
I flinch at the formality of my title.
"I said it wrong." The admission costs me, but I force it out anyway. "I'm saying this wrong."
She stares at me, breathing hard, and I realize how close we're standing. Close enough that I can smell the soap from her shower, see the water still beaded at her hairline. Close enough that if I leaned in another inch our mouths would touch.
I don't let myself lean in.
"I don't do this," I say quietly. "I don't want things. I don't need people. I built my life to be self-contained because attachment is weakness and weakness gets you killed."
"Then why—"
"Because I can't stop thinking about you." The words tear out of me against every instinct I have. "From the moment you knelt on that floor and held your sister while your family fell apart around you. From the moment you looked at me and chose yourself over everything you'd ever known."
Her breath hitches.
"I don't know what this is," I continue, my grip on her wrist loosening but not releasing. "I don't know why you, why now. But I know that the thought of you walking around this house as staff, as an employee I have to keep at arm's length—" My jaw clenches. "I can't do it."
"So you want to marry me instead?" There's disbelief in her voice, but something else too. Something that sounds dangerously like hope.
"I want you beside me. Not serving me." I release her wrist and step back, giving her space even though it costs me. "I want your loyalty because you choose to give it. I want to know that when I come home, you're here because you want to be here. Not because you owe me something."
She's staring at me like I've grown a second head.
"You barely know me," she whispers.
"I know everything I need to know to be confident in my choice."
"You don't." She shakes her head, and I watch that damp hair shift around her shoulders. "You don't know that I'm clumsy. That I say the wrong thing at the wrong time. That I don't know how to be a Pakhan's wife, how to stand in rooms full of dangerous men and smile like I'm not terrified—"
"I don't need you to smile at other men." The thought has an anger I don’t recognize flaring in my chest. I take a step toward her. "I don't need you to be polished or perfect or political. I need you to be exactly what you were last night when you told your father you were ashamed of his name."
Her eyebrows flicker and her eyes shine, bright and wet.
"What if you're wrong about me?" Her voice cracks. "What if I'm not enough?"
"You are already more than enough." I close in on her now, leaning into the tiny gap between us. "And I'm not wrong, Matilda. I know exactly what you are."
"What's that?"
"Mine."
The word hangs in the air between us, possessive and absolute.
She looks up at me, and I can see the war happening behind her eyes. Fear and want and confusion all tangled together. Her hand comes up, fingers hovering near my chest like she wants to touch but doesn't quite dare.
"I don't understand this," she says softly.
"You don't have to." I catch her hand, pressing her palm flat against my shirt. Against my heartbeat. "You just have to say yes."
"And if I say no?"
The question shouldn't hurt like it does.
"Then I'll set you up somewhere safe. Give you money, protection, a new identity if you want it." I force myself to say it even though every instinct screams against it. "You'll never have to see me again."
Her fingers curl into my shirt.
"That's not what I asked."
I look down at her, at this woman who's somehow managed to crawl under my skin in less than twelve hours, and tell her the truth.
"If you say no, I'll respect it. And I'll regret it for the rest of my life."
Her breath shudders out.
"I don't—" She stops. Starts again. "This is insane."
"Yes."
"You're asking me to marry you when my brother isn't even buried yet." She shakes her head softly from side to side as if that would help it all make sense.
"Yes."
"I'm wearing clothes that don’t belong to me and I don't even have shoes—"
"Matilda."
She looks up at me, and I see it. The moment she stops fighting what she already knows.
"What if you wake up in six months and realize you made a mistake?" she whispers. "What if whatever this is, isn't enough?"
I slide my hand into her hair, tilting her face up to mine. "Then we'll figure it out. But I'm not wrong about this. I'm not wrong about you."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because," I say, lowering my head until our mouths are a breath apart, "I've never wanted anything in my life the way I want you. And I've never lost anything I wanted badly enough to fight for."
She makes a small sound, something between a gasp and a sob.
"Say yes," I tell her. "Say yes, Matilda. Choose me the way I'm choosing you."
Her eyes search mine, looking for the lie, the manipulation, the trap. But there isn't one. There's just truth…raw and desperate and more honest than I've been with anyone in my entire life.
"Okay," she breathes.
"Okay what?"
"Yes." Louder this time. Steadier. "Yes, I'll marry you."
The relief that crashes through me is so powerful it's almost painful. I don't let myself think about what that means. Don't let myself examine why this woman's answer matters more than any territory I've ever won, any enemy I've ever crushed.
I just kiss her.
Not like in the car. Not careful or controlled or testing. This kiss is claiming and possessive and everything I've been holding back since the moment I saw her kneeling on her father's floor.
She gasps against my mouth and I deepen the kiss, one hand still in her hair, the other sliding to the small of her back to pull her closer. She's soft everywhere I'm hard, yielding everywhere I'm unyielding, and the contradiction of her is going to drive me out of my mind.
When I finally pull back, we're both breathing hard.
Her lips are puffy, her eyes dazed, and I've never seen anything more perfect in my life.
"We're doing this today," I tell her.
She blinks. "What?"
"Getting married. Today."
"That's—you can't just—"
"I can." I run my thumb along her jaw. "I'm the Pakhan, Matilda. I can do whatever I want. And what I want is you legally bound to me before anyone gets ideas about taking you away."
"Who would take me away?" She asks, her face folding into lines that tell me she is searching for answers in her own mind.
"Your father. My enemies. Anyone stupid enough to think you're not protected." My jaw tightens. "Once you're my wife, you're untouchable."
She stares at me, and I can see her trying to process. Trying to catch up to a decision that's already been made.
"I don't have a dress," she says finally.
"I'll get you one."
"I don't have—"
"I'll get you everything." I kiss her again, softer this time. "All you have to do is show up and say yes. Can you do that?"
She looks at me for a long moment, then nods.
"Yes," she says. "I can do that."
I smile. It's not something I do often. But right now, with this woman in my arms who just agreed to tie herself to me in every way that matters, I can't seem to stop myself.
"One more I thing," I add. "Call me Gennady."
She nods, and suddenly the urge to hear her say my name overwhelms me.
"Gennady," she whispers softly causing something to ripple beneath my skin that feels like a promise. Then, stronger this time, "Gennady."
"Good girl," I murmur against her temple.
She shivers.
And I know exactly what kind of wedding night we're going to have.