Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I RINA
My skin is crawling.
The grand ballroom of the Pierre Hotel is a sea of black ties, shimmering gowns, and teeth sharpened for the kill. It’s basically a room full of people who hate each other, all dressed up and pretending they don't. The air is thick with the scent of lilies and expensive perfume.
I stand at Mikhail’s side, my crimson silk dress a splash of blood against the monochrome crowd.
His hand is a heavy, permanent fixture on the small of my back, his fingers spread wide, claiming every inch of me that the silk covers.
I can feel the heat of his palm through the fabric, a constant reminder of the man who hunted me down and the ring that now anchors me to his world.
Smile, Irina.
"You're stiff," Mikhail rumbles, his voice vibrating against my ear. He leans in as if sharing a lover’s secret, but his eyes are scanning the room like a sniper’s. "Breathe, wife."
"Easy for you to say," I murmur, my lips barely moving. I tilt my head toward a group of men by the bar who haven't stopped whispering since we entered. "They know I ran, Mikhail. They’re just waiting to see how long it takes for you to lose your patience with me."
"Let them watch," he says, his grip tightening. "I didn't bring you back for their approval. I brought you back for me. But right now, we will go around and play the devoted couple well.”
I roll my eyes. “Yay, fun time.”
He grins but doesn’t say anything as we naturally steer toward the crowd.
They catch the bait almost immediately.
"Morozov," an older man with a gray beard says, stepping into our path.
"Stepan," Mikhail says, his voice surprisingly casual. He pulls me a little closer to him. "You remember my wife, Irina.”
“Ahh yes! She is as beautiful as the rumors say! Why have you been hiding her?” He says in a booming voice and my lips curls in annoyance even as I force it back into a smile.
“That doesn’t concern you," Mikhail says.
"Nice to meet you, Stepan.” I greet because what else can I say?
We move on before he can start digging for details. We stop and talk to a few bankers and a captain from the North End. Mikhail is good at this; he keeps the conversation light while his eyes stay on the room, looking for any sign of trouble.
I can feel people whispering as we pass.
I see my father across the ballroom, standing near the big staircase with his guys.
He doesn't come over to say hi. He just holds up his glass in a silent toast that makes my stomach flip. He’s just watching to make sure his "investment" is performing well, and I resist the urge to flip him the bird.
We’re finally heading toward the food when a guy steps right in front of us, blocking our way.
It’s Viktor. He’s one of my father’s lower-level associates, the kind of guy who always thinks he’s much more important than he actually is. He’s clearly had a few too many drinks, and the way he’s looking at me makes my skin crawl.
"Mikhail Morozov!” Viktor slurs, leaning against a pillar. "The man of the hour! People are still talking about that empty altar. We thought you’d lost your touch. That maybe the little bird had flown too far for a Morozov to catch."
I feel Mikhail’s body go rigid. The hand on my back doesn't move, but the temperature around us seems to drop twenty degrees.
"The bird is home, Viktor," Mikhail says, his voice a low, terrifying calm. "I suggest you find a different topic of conversation before you say something you can’t take back."
Viktor laughs, a wet, unpleasant sound. He ignores the warning, his gaze dropping to the neckline of my dress. "She’s a beauty, I’ll give you that. But six months in Mexico... who knows what happened there? I wouldn't mind a taste of what the Pakhan's brother found in the sand."
He reaches out, his hand moving toward me.
Mikhail moves before I even see him. One second Viktor is reaching for my shoulder, and the next, he’s on the floor. The sound of Mikhail’s fist hitting his jaw is loud enough to stop the music.
Mikhail grabs him by the collar, dragging him up just to shove him back against the buffet table. Plates and glasses shatter as Viktor hits the wood, the sound like a dozen small explosions in the sudden silence of the ballroom.
"M-Mikhail… stop," I whisper, but I can barely hear my own voice over the sound of my heart racing.
Mikhail leans over Viktor, his face terrifyingly still. He picks up a broken champagne flute from the mess on the table and holds the jagged edge just inches from Viktor’s eye.
"No one touches her," Mikhail says. His voice is quiet, but it carries through the dead-silent room like a threat. "No one even looks at her without my fucking permission. If you ever talk like that to her or get within ten feet of my wife again, I’ll make sure you never walk again. Do you understand me?”
Viktor just groans, blood dripping from his split lip.
The entire room is frozen. I see my father watching us from across the ballroom, his face unreadable. Mikhail shoves Viktor aside like he’s nothing more than trash and turns to me. He wipes a bit of blood off his knuckles, his eyes still dark and focused.
He’s a madman. He’s a beast. And God help me, I can't look away.
"We’re leaving," Mikhail commands.
He grabs my hand, his grip bruising, and leads me out of the ballroom. We walk through the lobby, the photographers frantically snapping photos of the "reunited" couple covered in the evidence of a brawl. Mikhail ignores them all, his focus singular and terrifying.
The drive home is a silent storm. Mikhail drives the Aston Martin with a reckless ferocity, the engine screaming as we weave through the midnight traffic. I sit in the passenger seat, my hands trembling in my lap, staring at the dark red spots on the crimson silk.
He almost killed him. For me. Not for the alliance, not for the contract. For the disrespect.
When we reach the estate, Mikhail rounds the car, hauls me out, and steers me toward the house. The guards at the door take one look at his face and melt into the shadows. We reach the suite, and he kicks the door shut behind us.
"Take it off," he growls, pacing the room like a caged tiger.
"Mikhail, I?—"
"Take off the dress, Irina! You have his blood on you. It’s disgusting."
I move toward the bathroom, but he’s there first, blocking the way.
"I can do it myself," I say, my voice trembling.
"I said I would handle you," he rumbles, his eyes fixed on mine. "Go to the tub."
I walk into the massive, marble-clad bathroom, my heart hammering against my ribs.
I feel sick, I feel terrified, and underneath it all, I feel a thrumming, shameful arousal that makes my skin burn.
Mikhail follows me, his movements precise and clinical.
He turns on the water, the steam quickly filling the room, blurring the edges of my reality.
He steps behind me. I can feel the heat of him, the scent of the gala and the violence still clinging to him. His fingers find the zipper at the small of my back. He doesn't rush. He moves it down inch by inch, the sound of the teeth parting loud in the humid air.
The silk falls away, pooling at my feet like a spent emotion. I stand there in my lace undergarments, my skin pebbled from the cold and the steam. Mikhail doesn't touch me yet. He just looks. His gaze travels over my shoulders, down my spine, and settles on the splatters of blood on my collarbone.
"He touched you," Mikhail whispers, his voice thick with a possessive rage.
"He didn't," I say, turning to face him. "You stopped him before he could."
Mikhail reaches for a white washcloth, soaking it in the warm water. He steps into my space, pinning me against the edge of the marble vanity. He’s still in his tuxedo.
He lifts the cloth. His touch is surprisingly gentle, a jarring contrast to the brutality I saw an hour ago. He starts at my collarbone, wiping away the tiny red dots. The warmth of the water and the deliberate, slow motion of his hand make my breath hitch.
"I told you," he murmurs, his eyes fixed on the task. "The ring changed everything. You are mine to protect. Mine to clean."
He moves the cloth lower, over the swell of my breast. My pulse is racing, a frantic drum in my ears. I want to push him away, to scream at him for the violence, but my body doesn’t let me. His thumb brushes the edge of my bra, and a jolt of pure, electric heat zips through me.
I’m wet... for the man who just held a broken glass in another man's face. What is wrong with me?
Mikhail notices. He sees the way my lips part, the way my back arches unconsciously. He drops the washcloth into the sink, his hands replacing the cotton. His palms are large and warm, his thumbs tracing the line of my collarbone before sliding down to my waist.
"You like this," he observes, his voice a low, predatory purr. "You like that I claimed you in front of them."
"I hate that you’re a monster," I whisper, though my hands are already finding their way to his shoulders, my fingers digging into his muscles.
"I’m your monster," he corrects.
He leans down, his mouth finding the sensitive spot beneath my ear. He bites, not enough to break the skin, but enough to leave a mark. I let out a soft, broken whimper, my knees buckling. He catches me, lifting me onto the vanity, his body pressing between my thighs.
The sexual tension is so thick it’s a physical weight, a suffocating heat that drowns out the memory of the gala. I want him. I want him to stop talking and to show me exactly how much I belong to him. I want to bite him back, to leave my own marks on the predator who brought me home.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes roving over my body with a hunger that makes my lungs seize. He moves his hand lower, his fingers tracing the edge of my lace panties, moving toward my stomach.
And then he stops.
The heat in the room evaporates in an instant. I feel his fingers go still, resting on the skin of my lower abdomen. I look down, and my heart stops.
He’s looking at it. The small, jagged line of silver scar tissue just above my hip bone.
No. Not now. Not him.
"What is this, Irina?" he asks. His voice has changed. The hunger is still there, but it’s joined by curiosity. He traces the scar with his thumb, his touch light, searching. "This isn't from an accident. This looks like a surgical incision.
I freeze. The wall goes up instantly with a force that makes my head spin. I pull my legs together, trying to slide off the vanity, but he holds me in place.
"It’s nothing," I say, my voice cold and hard. "A childhood surgery. Appendicitis."
"You're lying," Mikhail says, his eyes snapping to mine. The dark blue is now a piercing, investigative light. "This is lower. This is... different."
"It’s none of your business, Mikhail."
"Everything about you is my business!" he snaps, his temper flaring again.
He grips my waist, his fingers digging into the skin near the scar.
"You spent six months in Mexico.' You have a burner phone hidden in your robe. And you have a scar that you’re terrified of me seeing.
Who did this to you, Irina?" he demands.
"Was there someone else? Some man you're still trying to protect? "
He knows about the burner phone. I try not to flinch, to pretend I am not surprised and terrified at the thought.
"There is no man!" I shout, shoving his chest to put some space between us. I’m shaking, but I refuse to let him see it. "You bought a wife, Mikhail, not a pass to my past. You got what you wanted—I’m here. Just leave it alone."
"Like hell I will," he growls. He doesn't move toward me, but I can still feel the weight of him in the room. "You're hiding something. I’ll find the phone, I’ll find the address, and I’ll find out exactly who did this to you."
"You won't find anything," I hiss, my eyes stinging with tears I refuse to let fall. "There’s nothing left to find."
The heat between us is gone, replaced by a cold, heavy silence. He looks at me for a long beat, his eyes narrowing like he’s trying to see through the lies I’m telling. I realize then that he’s noticed way more than I ever wanted him to.
"Get out," I whisper.
Mikhail doesn't argue. He looks at the scar one last time, a dark promise in his eyes, then he turns and walks out. The door clicks shut with a finality that feels way worse than everything else.
I sink onto the floor, the cold marble a relief against my skin. I pull my knees to my chest, covering the scar with my hands.
What am I going to do?