Chapter Ten
The morning reports blur together on my desk. Shipment manifests, financial projections, intelligence briefings on the Colombo family’s recent movements.
Yuri drones on about a discrepancy in the Brighton Beach accounts, but his words wash over me like white noise.
My mind is elsewhere.
Specifically, it’s in the kitchen, replaying the way Freya’s eyes tracked my every move as I lifted that fork. The slight tremor in her hands she tried to hide by crossing her arms. The way her lips parted when she expected me to spit the food out.
She wanted a reaction. She wanted me to choke, to rage, to prove her right about the monster she’s convinced I am.
Instead, I ate it.
It was inedible—my tongue still burns from the salt, and that coffee was a war crime. Refusing would have given her the victory. It would have confirmed that she could get under my skin, that she could disrupt my control.
I don’t give victories away.
“Sir.” Yuri’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “The Sokolov situation?”
“Handle it,” I say, signing a document without reading it properly. “Tell Pavel I want a full accounting by Friday.”
“The Colombo intel?”
“File it. We’ll revisit after the meeting tomorrow.”
Yuri nods and slips out of the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
She tested me. A small, deliberate move—poisoned breakfast disguised as wifely devotion. It was amateurish, almost childish, but the intent behind it was razor-sharp. She wanted to see how I’d react. She wanted to map the boundaries.
Interesting.
Most people in my orbit don’t test me. They avert their eyes and scurry away. Freya does none of those things. She charges directly at the flame, seemingly oblivious to the fact that it could consume her.
Or perhaps not oblivious. I think Freya knows exactly what she’s doing.
I find myself smiling at the thought. It’s not a pleasant smile.
Checking my watch, I see it’s nearly noon. Time to set the next move in motion.
Rising from my desk, I walk to the secondary office—the one I keep for less sensitive matters. It’s positioned near the main living area, accessible but controlled. A workspace that offers just enough visibility to feel like trust, without actually granting any.
I pull out my phone and send a single text. My office. Now.
Three minutes later, the door opens.
Freya steps inside, her posture defensive. She’s changed out of the leggings into dark jeans and a cream sweater that softens her features. Her hair is pulled back in a simple ponytail, exposing the line of her neck.
She looks younger like this. “You wanted me?” she asks, her tone carefully neutral.
“Sit.” I gesture to the chair across from my desk.
She doesn’t obey immediately. Instead, she takes a moment to survey the room: cataloging exits, noting the window placement, assessing the space with tactical precision.
Smart girl.
Finally, she crosses to the chair and sinks into it, crossing her legs at the ankle.
“I have a meeting tomorrow evening,” I begin, leaning back against the edge of my desk. “With Viktor Petrov and his associates. They’re interested in a joint venture regarding the new shipping terminal in Red Hook.”
“Okay,” she says slowly, clearly waiting for the catch.
“You’ll be attending with me.”
Her eyebrows rise. “Why?”
“It’s expected. A man of my position doesn’t attend social functions alone. Especially not a newly married man.” I pause, letting the implication settle. “Your presence lends stability. It suggests I’m settled. Not prone to erratic behavior.”
“You want me to be a prop,” she says flatly.
“I want you to be an asset.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Props are disposable. Assets are valuable.”
She absorbs this, her jaw tightening slightly. “What exactly am I supposed to do at this meeting?”
“Smile. Nod. Look beautiful on my arm. Don’t speak unless spoken to. And if Petrov’s wife tries to corner you about wedding details, be vague but enthusiastic.”
“So I’m supposed to be a silent, smiling doll.”
“You’re supposed to be my wife,” I correct. “There are expectations. Protocols. You’ll follow them.”
She stands abruptly, her hands balling into fists at her sides. “You don’t get to control every aspect of my life, Nikita. I agreed to this marriage for access, not to become your puppet.”
“Access has a price.”
“I’m already paying it! I’m living in your house, wearing your ring, sleeping in your bed. What more do you want?”
I push off from the desk and step toward her. I’m slow, giving her time to retreat. She doesn’t.
“Everything,” I say simply.
Her breath catches, but she holds her ground. “That’s not how this works.”
“Isn’t it?” I stop inches from her, close enough to see the faint pulse hammering in her throat. “You wanted inside my world, Freya. You wanted access to my files, my contacts, my operations. Did you think that came without strings?”
“I thought we had an arrangement.”
“We do. Part of that arrangement is following my lead in public. When we’re out there—” I gesture toward the window, toward the city beyond.
“—you are an extension of me. Your behavior reflects on my authority. Any weakness, any hesitation, any sign that you’re not fully committed… it will be exploited.”
“I’m not weak,” she fires back.
“No,” I agree. “You’re not, but you are stubborn. Stubborn people make mistakes when they think they know better.”
She opens her mouth to argue, then closes it. Her eyes search my face, looking for something—weakness, perhaps, or a crack in the armor she can exploit.
Finding none, she changes tactics. “What if I don’t want to go?” she asks, her voice dropping to something almost conversational. “What if I refuse?”
“Then you’ll stay here,” I say. “Under guard, with no access to anything beyond these walls.”
“That sounds awful.”
“It’s the reality.” I reach out, my fingers brushing against her chin. A gentle pressure, tilting her face up toward mine.
She stiffens but doesn’t pull away.
Her eyes meet mine—green fire meeting steel. There’s anger there, yes, but also something else. Something that looks almost like curiosity.
“Try it your way,” I murmur, my thumb tracing a slow path along her jawline. “See how far you get.”
The touch is deliberate. Calculated. I’m testing her reactions, mapping the boundaries of her control. Her skin is warm beneath my fingertip, soft in a way that contrasts sharply with the defiance in her expression.
She doesn’t flinch. She only holds perfectly still, like a rabbit caught in a snare, waiting for the right moment to bolt.
“I will,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I know.”
I release her chin, but I don’t step back. Instead, I let my hand fall to my side, my fingers grazing her shoulder in a touch so light it might be accidental.
It isn’t.
“Tomorrow,” I say, moving away finally. “Six o’clock. Wear something appropriate. Anna can help you select an outfit if you’re unsure.”
“I can dress myself.”
“Can you?” I raise an eyebrow. “Breakfast suggests you can’t be trusted.”
A flush creeps up her neck, but she doesn’t take the bait. “That was intentional.”
“I know.” I walk back around my desk, putting distance between us. “That’s what made it interesting.”
She stares at me, clearly thrown by the response. She expected anger, maybe. Or disgust. Not… this.
“You’re insane,” she mutters.
“Probably.” I open a folder on my desk, dismissing her. “Tomorrow at six. Don’t be late.”
For a moment, I think she’ll argue further. Her hands are still clenched at her sides, her body vibrating with unspoken objections.
She turns and walks to the door instead. Her spine is straight, her steps measured.
At the threshold, she pauses.
“Nikita?”
I look up.
“I’m not going to break,” she says quietly. “No matter how much you push.”