Chapter Nine
Audrey
The pain splintering up my arms forces my eyes open, and for a good minute, I struggle to remember where I am.
Squinting, I take in the room that’s three times the size of my apartment in the heart of Miami.
It’s dimly lit, with thick black drapes blocking most of the sunlight and only allowing very little illumination into the room. Still, I can tell everything is monochrome and expensive, which isn’t my style, and I couldn’t afford it anyway.
My memories slowly return.
Igor.
Our marriage.
And the attack last night.
Another wave of pain ripples through my arm, and I bite down on my lower lip to stop myself from screaming.
The sound of gunfire echoes in my head so vividly that I jerk toward the window before realizing it exists only in my memory. My pulse refuses to settle. Every sound reminds me of shattered glass and Igor’s body covering mine.
God, I can’t believe I got married to that handsome, heartbreaking devil, and less than a week later, I have an injury from a bullet. Chloe’s going to be shocked out of her mind when she finds up what I’ve been up to.
I sigh, then with my uninjured hand, I push myself up from the bed. I’m thirsty as fuck, so my first stop is the kitchen. The smell of fried bacon and eggs invades my nostrils before I make it inside, my stomach rumbling.
Turns out I’m so starving I could eat a horse or two.
When I enter the kitchen, I freeze completely, because standing in front of me is something I thought I’d never see.
Igor’s in front of the stove, stirring something in a pan.
My heart stops beating. Heat creeps up my neck and settles on my cheeks. I can’t tell if it’s the sight of Igor looking so domestic or how hot he is in those black sweatpants and tank top that has me hyperventilating.
His biceps flex with each movement, and I imagine him wrapping his arms around me.
The man’s so fucking sexy that I completely forget the throbbing in my arm and how completely dry my throat is.
Fucking God, no one should ever look this good.
He turns around suddenly and his eyes meet mine.
I quickly look away, pretending I wasn’t ogling him and imagining all the ways I could grab his ass while he fucks me.
Damn you, Audrey. You shouldn’t want to fuck him.
But I do. A girl can have fantasies, can’t she?
“Good morning, baby.” His eyes move to the bandage on my arm. I didn’t notice I’d bled through it until now, but he doesn’t look disgusted. “How are you feeling?”
“Refreshed,” I answer sarcastically, making my way to the fridge.
He shakes his head. “Can you be serious for once? I was so fucking worried about you all night.”
I want to shoot back another sarcastic reply, but the concern in his voice makes me completely unable to think of one.
Was he really worried all night?
No way. The Igor Nazarov I know isn’t capable of worrying or showing concern for anyone or anything that’s not directly tied to his business.
Ignoring his question, I take a bottle of water from the fridge and down the whole thing in one long gulp, groaning with satisfaction when I’m certain it’s empty. “I didn’t know you could cook.”
He turns to stir the veggies in the pan, then returns his attention to me. “It’s not something I do very often.”
“Is that so?” I throw the empty plastic bottle in the trashcan before walking to the island. “What’s special about today?”
He shrugs. “You got hurt because of me, so I wanted to do something for you.”
My brow arches in disbelief. “So you’re cooking for me out of guilt?”
“Partly.”
“Okay, and…what’s the other reason?”
His throat bobs, the hardness in his eyes softening for a moment. “Yesterday, you asked if I could give you my heart, and—”
“I know what your answer was.” I’d asked that question to manipulate him, but when he told me straight to my face that I could ask for anything other than that, it felt like it’d been stabbed in the chest. It stung so much that I don’t even want to think about it. “It’s fine.”
He doesn’t look convinced. “I can promise to keep you safe, Audrey. I’d die to protect you. If it’s money you want, or anything else, I’ll give it.”
A bitter smile plays on my lips. “But your heart is where you draw the line?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he just stares into my eyes with a sad look that says he would give me more if he could. I understand it perfectly, and even though a voice inside of me is screaming with sadness from his rejection, I don’t let it show.
“What are you making?”
He turns off the stove, grabs two plates from the cabinet, and fills them with food. “Breakfast. You lost so much blood yesterday, so I thought you’d need something balanced to help you regain some strength.”
He walks the food to the island, setting it in front of me.
I stare down at the plate in front of me, only then realizing I have no idea how I’m supposed to eat any of it.
The eggs and vegetables aren’t a problem, but he cooked steak too, slicing it into thick strips that would require both hands to cut.
Instinctively, I reach for the knife with my injured arm before a sharp stab of pain shoots from my shoulder all the way to my fingertips.
A hiss escapes me.
Before I can even think of trying again, Igor reaches across the island and gently takes the knife from my hand. “Don’t.”
“I can do it.”
“I know you can.” His voice is calm, almost annoyingly so. “But you don’t have to.”
Without another word, he begins cutting the steak into smaller pieces.
I watch him in silence, unable to tear my eyes away.
It shouldn’t affect me this much. It’s such a small gesture, something any decent husband would do for his injured wife.
I know because I grew up watching my dad do the same for my mother.
Except Igor Nazarov isn’t just any husband.
He’s the man who put a bullet between two men’s eyes less than twenty-four hours ago without so much as blinking.
The man whose name makes grown men tremble with fear.
But the same hands capable of snapping someone’s neck without hesitation now handle my breakfast with a gentleness that makes my chest ache.
When he’s done, he slides the plate back to me.
“There.”
I swallow around the strange lump in my throat. “Thank you.”
He simply nods before returning to his own food as if he’s done nothing worth thanking him for.
The breakfast passes more quietly than I expected.
We exchange the occasional sarcastic remark, but most of the conversation is replaced by comfortable silence, something I never imagined could exist between us.
Every now and then, I catch him glancing at me.
Not in the possessive way he looked at me before the attack, but with concern.
Genuine concern. Each time our eyes meet, he quickly looks away, pretending to be more interested in his coffee than in checking whether I’m still in pain.
It’s...sweet.
God, am I really describing Igor Nazarov as sweet?
I must be losing my goddamn mind.
After breakfast, he insists I take my pain medication. I grumble the entire time just to annoy him, but he waits patiently until I’ve swallowed every pill before taking my empty glass from my hand.
“You know,” I mutter as he rinses it in the sink, “you’re becoming very bossy.”
He snorts. “Becoming?”
I roll my eyes. “Fair point.”
By the time I make it upstairs, exhaustion is already creeping back into my bones.
I step into the bathroom and stare at my reflection in the mirror.
My hair is a tangled mess from yesterday, dried blood still clinging to a few strands near my temple despite the medic’s best efforts to clean me up.
The thought of trying to shower with one functioning arm is enough to make me want to crawl back into bed.
I spend several minutes trying to figure out how I could possibly wash my hair without soaking my bandages before the bathroom door opens behind me.
“You’ve been awfully quiet.”
I glance at Igor through the mirror. “I’m trying to work out how to shower without looking like a drowned rat.”
His eyes move from my face to the bandages. “I’ll help.”
A laugh slips out before I can stop it.
“I’m serious.”
“I know you are.” I shake my head. “That’s exactly why I’m laughing.”
His expression doesn’t change. “You can’t get the bandages wet, Audrey.”
“I’ll manage.”
“I won’t let you do that,” he says, more authoritatively this time. “You’re my wife and you’re hurt. The least I can do is help you take a shower.”
I sigh and lean against the vanity. “Do you have any idea how awkward this is?”
“You tell me.”
“I’ve known you for all of...” I pause. “Well, for a year, but less than a week as your wife, and you’re offering to help me shower?”
“I offered because you’re hurt.”
I look at him in the mirror again. There isn’t a trace of amusement on his face. Just concern.
“I won’t touch you anywhere you don’t need help,” he says quietly. “If at any point you want me to stop, I stop.”
Something inside me softens.
The old Igor would never have said that.
Or maybe I’d simply never looked close enough to see this side of him.
I lower my gaze, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. “Okay.”
Without another word, he walks over to the shower and turns on the water before grabbing a clean towel from the cabinet.
My heart twists painfully as a realization dawns on me.
Every single day I spend with Igor chips away at the image I’ve built of him over the last year. The ruthlessness is still there inside him; I saw that with my own eyes yesterday.
But he’s so gentle with me.
He cares, and he doesn’t even bother to hide that he does.
I hate this realization. I hate how complicated things are getting between us.
How am I supposed to destroy someone who’s slowly making me question everything I ever believed about him?
***
How long will it take?
I stare at my phone for a moment too long, my heart thrashing violently against my ribcage as adrenaline courses through me like molten fire.
It’s been two days since the attack. Igor went out to a meeting this afternoon, but before then, he spent the entire day taking care of me. Just like the day before, he made me lunch, helped me wash my hair, and assigned one of his men to take care of whatever I need.
He’s been so painfully kind to me. And now I’m staring at a message about destroying him.
I’m not sure how to reply, and I feel panic creeping up my chest, twisting my lungs until I can barely breathe.
Not certain what answer to give, I reply with a question of my own, one that’s been lurking in the back of my mind.
Me: Were you behind the attack?
He starts typing, and I hold my breath as I wait for his response. I don’t want to think too deeply about what happened, but getting attacked on my first outing with Igor doesn’t make any sense.
If someone wanted to get Igor—one of his rivals—they could’ve attacked before now. Why wait until I was with him? Something’s definitely not adding up.
Him: Yes.
My eyes widen with horror and my pulse quickens. My suspicions were right after all. My hands tremble, my stomach burning with a mix of anxiety and newfound irritation.
Me: But why? Why didn’t I know about it? And why do it when I was with him?
Him: To make it look real.
My heart sinks down to my stomach.
Me: I could’ve died.
I fight the raging urge to call him an idiot. That doesn’t even come close to all the nasty things I’m holding myself back from saying right now, and when his reply comes, I regret not being rude to him.
Him: But you didn’t. Now tell me, how long will it take to demolish Igor’s empire?
I’m completely horrified, and for the first time, I’m reconsidering what the hell I’ve gotten myself into. There’s no remorse or empathy behind his words. The asshole didn’t even give a shit about my safety when he ordered the attack yesterday. At most, I’d be collateral damage to him.
I rake my fingers through my hair, thinking of what to do next. I can’t keep working for this loser. It’s obvious as fuck he wouldn’t hesitate to kill me alongside Igor when he gets the chance, and I can’t exactly fold my hands and wait until he brings death to my doorstep.
What the hell am I going to do now?
I bite my nails as I think. After a moment, I come to a conclusion that there’s only one possible option. First, I need to distance myself from this mission. And secondly, I need to come clean to Igor.
He’s not going to be happy about it. Hell, he’ll be mad as fuck. But I doubt he’s going to kill me. Even if he does, I’d rather die in Igor’s hands than this bastard’s.
If I have to choose between the devil and the deep blue sea, then I’d rather choose the devil. At least there’s a chance I’ll make it out alive.
I heave a sigh, the weight of my decision resting heavily on my shoulders as I type my last reply, a message I should’ve sent long ago.
Me: I think it was a mistake to work with you. I don’t think I can do this anymore.
Him: You’re not going to get away with this. I’ll find you, and I’ll make you pay.
Fear coats my skin like ice as I read the words on the screen over and over again. It’s not just a threat; it’s a promise, and I know he’ll find me. I know next time he orders an attack, I’ll be his biggest target.
I toss my phone on the bed, even more determined to come clean to Igor regardless of his reaction. Telling him the truth is the only way we’ll be sure to make it out of this alive.
With a heavy sigh, I turn around.
My breath catches as I walk straight into a solid chest.
Warm hands instinctively close around my waist to steady me before I can stumble backward. I push away almost immediately and look up, only to find Igor staring down at me, his broad frame towering over mine.
I don’t know how long he’s been standing there. I don’t know when he got home. I don’t know if he saw the messages on my phone.
My pulse slams violently against my ribs as terror crawls beneath my skin. Every drop of blood drains from my face, leaving me rooted to the spot.
“Igor...”
The whisper leaves my lips before I can stop it.