Chapter 33
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
M IKHAIL
My arm sweeps across the mattress, reaching for the heat that was there all night, and finds nothing but cold silk.
I bolt upright.
My heart does a violent kick against my ribs. My vision tunnels as the dim morning light hits the empty sheets.
For a split second, the bedroom disappears. I’m back in the St. Regis dressing room six months ago, staring at the open window, the white veil trampled on the floor, and the suffocating silence of a room where a girl decided she’d rather leap into the dark than stay with me.
She ran.
The thought is a hot knife in my gut. My head roars, my hand reaching instinctively for the gun on the nightstand. I’m ready to call Lev, ready to order the jet prepped and tear New York apart block by block until I drag her back.
Then, I smell it.
Coffee, faint but cutting through the scents still lingering on the sheets, followed by the soft clink of a spoon against ceramic from downstairs.
I let out a long, ragged breath, my shoulders dropping as the panic slowly drains. My body is sore as hell—the bruises on my ribs from the factory blast are deep purple today—but I don't care about the pain. She’s still here.
I pull on a pair of gray sweatpants and walk out of the suite, my bare feet silent on the stairs.
The house is quiet, but as I reach the kitchen, the tension in my chest eases.
Irina is standing by the counter, wearing one of my oversized black t-shirts.
The hem falls halfway down her thighs, her golden-brown hair a messy, soft cloud.
She looks small—smaller than she ever does in designer dresses, her pale legs bare against the dark wood.
She’s staring out the window at the gray woods of the estate, her shoulders set in a rigid, defensive line. There’s no sass on her face today. She looks pale, wrecked, as if she hasn't slept a single minute.
"You're up early," I say, my voice a rough, sleep-heavy rumble.
She jumps slightly as she turns. Her blue eyes are wide, dark circles making her look fragile as she looks from my bare chest to my face.
"I couldn't sleep," she says, her voice lacking the usual sharp, stubborn bite. "The coffee is fresh."
"I don't want coffee," I say, stepping into the kitchen. I stop near the island, keeping my distance because I can tell she’s on the verge of splintering. "What's wrong? You look pale."
She sets her mug down on the marble counter with a soft click. Her hands are shaking. She tucks them into the sleeves of my shirt, her jaw clenching as she looks at the floor.
"I need to tell you something," she says. "And I need you to just... let me finish before you start breaking things."
I lean my hips against the edge of the island, crossing my arms over my chest. Something is wrong, and I already know I won’t like it. "I'm listening."
"The secret meeting," she starts, her voice trembling before she forces it to steady. "The burner phone. Cancun. The fake passport. It wasn't about another man, Mikhail. Not the way you think. I cannot do this anymore, and especially not after last night…"
My blood freezes. Where is this going? “Then what was it about?"
She takes a deep, ragged breath, her eyes finally rising to meet mine. They're watery, but there’s a fierce, desperate light in them that makes my chest tighten.
"When I was sixteen years old," she says, her voice dropping to a whisper, "I was stupid. And lonely. My father... he’d already started treating me like a product he was keeping in storage. I met a man. He was older. Much older. And he was married."
I feel my jaw clench, a dark, hot curl of possessive fury flaring in my stomach.
"He made me believe he loved me," she continues, a bitter, self-deprecating smile touching her lips.
"Despite how reluctant I was, he kept pushing until I fell for him.
I got pregnant, Mikhail. I was sixteen, terrified, and carrying his child. "
"What did he do?" I growl, my knuckles turning white where they’re tucked under my arms.
"He told me to get rid of it," she says, her voice turning to ice. "He had a family. A reputation. He didn't want a bastard child ruining his life. He tried to force me to go to a clinic, but I refused. I wanted the baby."
She looks out the window again, her shoulders shaking.
"My father found out. He never forgave me for it. He saw me as a spoiled, ruined asset. He hid me away in a private house in Jersey, miles from anyone, so the Petrov name wouldn't be stained. That’s where I spent my pregnancy. Locked in a house with three guards who felt sorry for me. That’s where I learned to play poker.
They played with me to keep me from losing my mind. "
I stare at her, my throat tight. The image of a sixteen-year-old Irina, pregnant and locked away with nothing but enforcers and a deck of cards, does something to me. The rage in my blood shifts, turning away from her and directing itself entirely at the men who did this.
"I gave birth," she says, her voice cracking.
"A little boy. But my father didn't let me keep him. The second he was born, Boris had him taken. He forced me to sign adoption papers. He told me the boy was lost to the system. He told me if I ever tried to find him, he’d make sure the baby disappeared for good. "
"And the man?" I ask, my voice sounding like a rusted gate.
"Boris killed him," she says simply. "He shot him in an alley two weeks after I gave birth. Not to protect me. To clean up the mess."
The silence in the kitchen is absolute, the ticking of the wall clock heavy. I’m frozen as the puzzle pieces finally snap into place—Cancun, her hiding under false names to follow leads, the burner phone.
"I’ve been looking for him," she whispers, a single tear tracking down her pale cheek. "For seven years, Mikhail. Every lead, every scrap of paper, every dollar I could steal from my father’s accounts... I used it to find my son. That’s why I ran from the wedding.
I found a lead in Mexico, a clinic record, and I knew if I married you, I’d be locked in a cage I could never escape from. I had to go."
"And the secret meeting?" I ask.
"The person I paid found a record," she says, her hands coming out of her sleeves to grip the edge of the counter.
"A transfer sheet. Seven years ago, a child was moved to a private residence in New Jersey. The papers were signed with the initials PB. Petrov Boris. My father has him, Mikhail. He’s been keeping him as a secret insurance policy. He lied to me for seven years."
She takes a step toward me, her face pale, her lips trembling.
"Yesterday... Boris called me. He knows I found the record. He knows I’m close.
He told me if I don't give him the locations of your new weapon storage by tomorrow night, he’s going to tell you everything.
He thinks you'll throw me out. He thinks you'll leave me on the street, used and broken.
And he threatened... he threatened my son.
He said the next explosion won't be at a factory.
It will be wherever he is keeping my son. "
She stops, standing raw in front of me, her chest heaving as she waits for the blow. She’s waiting for the rage, expecting me to call her a liar, a traitor, a Petrov whore who brought a bastard’s ghost into my bed. She looks ready to be broken.
My brain vibrates with a shock so intense my fingers tingle. A son. She has a seven-year-old boy who has her eyes, her hair, her blood—kept in the dark by Boris Petrov like leverage.
I think of the silver scar on her stomach. The one I kissed. The one she said was appendicitis.
"The scar," I say, my voice a quiet, flat rasp. "That’s what it’s from?”
Irina swallows hard, her head dipping in a small, miserable nod. "A C-section. I was sixteen. They didn't want to wait for a natural birth. They wanted the baby out so they could move me."
The cruelty of it hits me like a physical blow.
Sixteen. They sliced her open, took her baby, and locked her back in a box.
And Boris—that miserable snake—has been holding that boy over her head like a whip, using a mother’s heart to bend her to his will.
My chest tightens. I’m a Morozov; I’ve seen the worst of what men can do across the globe, but this is a different kind of rot.
"Mikhail," she whispers, her eyes wide with terror as she watches my face. "Say something. Please. If you're going to throw me out, just... do it now."
I look at her. I see the tears, the way she grips my shirt as if it’s the only thing keeping her upright. I see the woman who took my seat at a table of wolves and won. The mother who walked through hell for her child. I don't want to burn the world down anymore. I want to burn Boris Petrov.
I close the distance in two strides, my hands framing her face to wipe the tears from her cheeks. Her skin is hot, her breath hitching as she searches my eyes for the disgust she's so sure is coming.
"I’m not throwing you out, Irina," I say, looking directly into her eyes so she knows I mean it.
I’m never letting her go.
"You're... you're not angry?" she gasps, her hands coming up to grip my wrists.
"I’m furious," I growl, my blue eyes flashing with a jagged, wild energy. "But not at you. If there is one thing, I am certain of in this godforsaken world, Irina Petrova... it is that I am going to help you find your son."
She lets out a broken sob, her head falling against my chest. Her body shakes with a relief so powerful it threatens to break her. I wrap my arms around her waist, pulling her tight as I rest my chin on her head.
"But I also need time to think," I murmur, my hand stroking her soft hair. “This is… it’s a lot.”
"Mikhail..."
"Shh," I say, squeezing her tighter. "I've got you. We’re going to find him, Irina. I promise you."