Chapter 8 Yuri
YURI
Isign the last shipping manifest and push it aside.
The numbers check out—territory secure, revenue steady, no unexpected losses from the docks.
Business as usual, except for the wedding scheduled in three hours.
Dimitri walks into my study and drops into the chair across from my desk.
My brother looks every bit the businessman in his tailored suit, but I know better.
The thick eyebrows, the calculating stare—he's not here with congratulations.
He has an agenda I know will make me furious, but I can't just throw him out.
"You look tired," he says, settling back in the leather chair and unbuttoning his suit coat.
He looks so much like my father, I'd fear the old bastard had been reincarnated if I didn't know better.
"I've been working."
Ignoring his penetrating stare, I stack the papers into one pile and straighten them, just to give myself something to do so I don't let my temper out of its locked cage yet.
"On your wedding day?"
He glances at the stack of papers, then back at me. "How romantic."
I don't respond.
Dimitri didn't take the early train from St. Petersburg to discuss my sleep schedule or my work habits.
He's here because the old families are asking questions, because power shifts make everyone nervous, because marrying Inessa looks like a desperate attempt to survive.
That may be true in some ways, but if I survive this with my empire intact, I won't care what they say.
"The Kozlov situation is contained," I tell him before he can ask.
"Is it?" He leans forward.
"Because from St. Petersburg, this looks chaotic. Your son dies in a botched arms deal, and now you're marrying his fiancée to salvage the alliance. The families are wondering if you've lost your edge."
There it is.
The real reason for his visit.
"The marriage serves the organization's interests," I say.
"Her company provides legitimate revenue streams. Fashion moves money across borders efficiently. And Dominic's death had nothing to do with the arms deal. They are trying to stop the very alliance this marriage would secure."
Dimitri's eyebrow ticks up as if this is news to him, but he's not that thick.
He's playacting while the truth is being buried just to make me look bad.
"And the girl herself?"
My jaw tightens.
Last night floods back—Inessa at my dinner table, her pulse racing under my palm, the way her lips parted when I traced her mouth.
The memory burns through me, searing my better judgment.
She's the same age my son was.
It's inappropriate, but God, do I find myself wanting her.
"She's part of the arrangement."
Dimitri laughs.
"Part of the arrangement… Of course."
He stands, smoothing his jacket.
"I hope you know what you're doing, Brother. Any sign of weakness, any hint that you're making decisions with your cock instead of your brain, and they'll tear you apart."
His warning comes with a sinister laugh as he steps back out of my office.
I return to the reports, but the words blur on the page.
All I can see is Inessa's gray-green eyes, defiant and frightened.
The intercom crackles.
Rosa's voice carries worry I rarely hear from her.
She's normally as steady as the rising sun.
"Mr. Gravitch? I need to speak with you about Miss Mirova."
"Of course, Rosa. Come in." My shoulders straighten as the door opens again.
She enters, silver hair slightly mussed, kind brown eyes tight with concern.
Rosa has managed this house for fifteen years, has seen bodies carried out in the dead of night and never asked questions.
What could rattle her now?
"She won't eat," Rosa says.
"She threw the breakfast tray at the door. The hair stylist came and went—Miss Mirova screamed at her until she left. Now she's locked herself in the bathroom and won't respond. I fear she's going to harm herself."
It makes sense.
The only thing that would upset me more than my brother trying to ruin my plans would be if someone harmed Inessa and made it impossible to go through with them, even if it was she who did it to herself.
I'm already moving, storming across the house to the guest wing kept under lock and key.
The room sits at the end of the hall, with heavy drapes drawn against the morning light.
Water runs behind the bathroom door, but underneath it I hear scraping—metal against metal, rhythmic and determined.
"Inessa."
Normally, the authority in my voice makes grown men weep and wet the bed, but this woman is determined and hardened against me.
There's no response from the other side of the door and the scraping continues.
I try the handle but it's locked.
A new sound joins the scraping—the squeak of hinges under pressure, the groan of metal being pried loose, and I know what she's done.
I slam my shoulder against the door, splintering the wood around the lock.
The second impact sends it flying open inward and startling her.
Inessa crouches on the tile floor in a white slip, long, dark hair falling around her shoulders.
The bathroom window—though small and barred—is partially open.
She's removed two of the metal bars with what looks like a hairpin, blood streaking her knuckles where the metal cut her skin.
She looks up at me, eyes blazing with trapped fury.
"Get out," she hisses, and she presses her back to the tiled wall of the shower.
"Move away from the window."
"No."
She turns back to the third bar, fingers working at the screws while smearing her own blood on the metal.
I cross the bathroom in two steps, my hand closing around her wrist before she can react.
Her skin is ice-cold, and she's trembling.
"Let go of me."
The nails of her free hand dig at my skin, but I squeeze harder and pull her upright.
Her body collides with mine as she tries to twist away, the silk slip thin enough that I feel every curve pressed against my chest.
Her pulse hammers under my palm, and her breathing comes short and fast.
Heat shoots through me.
She's nearly naked, skin flushed where it touches mine, and I can smell soap and something floral that makes my hands ache to explore her.
I want to pin her against the wall, show her exactly what this marriage will mean, claim her here and now before the ceremony even makes it official.
Instead, I step back, keeping my body between her and the window.
I loose her wrist, but my hand still burns, fingers itching to touch her again.
"The car leaves in an hour," I growl, "with or without your cooperation."
She rubs her wrist where my fingers left marks, eyes never leaving my face.
"I'd rather die than marry you."
"Death is permanent. Marriage can be a compromise."
Her laugh cuts through the small space between us.
"Compromise. You mean once you get what you want, you'll discard me."
"What I want is stability. Your father's will ensures a smooth asset transition. My money keeps your fashion lines running while my operations provide legitimate revenue streams."
"Your operations."
She steps closer, fury flashing in her eyes.
"You mean your criminal empire. Money laundering, arms dealing, whatever else you do in those back rooms."
"I do what's necessary to maintain power, and power protects what belongs to me."
"I don't belong to you."
The light in her eyes dims as she glares at me.
The words snap through me, igniting something dark and possessive in my chest.
"You will. In one hour, you'll stand in front of a judge and promise to honor and obey. You'll take my name. You'll live in my house. You'll sleep in my bed."
Color floods her cheeks.
Her hands curl into fists at her sides.
"I'll see it all burn first. My company, my father's legacy, all of it—I'll watch it turn to ash before I let you control it."
The defiance in her voice should anger me.
Instead, it sends heat coursing through my blood, awakening something I buried years ago.
She's magnificent in her rage, deadly and beautiful and completely unbroken despite everything being taken from her.
"Your father built nothing," I tell her, stepping closer until I can see the gold flecks in her gray-green eyes.
"He managed what you created. Every design, every line, every success—that was you. And you think I'd let it burn?"
Her breath catches.
For a moment, uncertainty flickers across her face.
"I've seen your sketches," I continue, voice dropping lower.
"The ones you hide in your room, the designs you work on when you think no one is watching. You have vision, talent that goes beyond what your father ever understood. I won't let that disappear because you're too stubborn to see what this marriage protects."
"Protects?" The word comes out sharp and mocking.
"This isn't about protection."
"Kozlov wants Dominic's arms deal completed, and he's not the type to accept failure gracefully.
My own brother questions whether this alliance shows weakness.
Without the marriage, without my backing, your company becomes a target because Dominic failed and because your father was ready to get in bed with him.
The Kozlovs will come right after that pretty throat of yours, and there will be no one standing between your flesh and their blade. "
I move closer, backing her against the wall until her spine presses against the cold surface.
"You think you're strong enough to face all of that alone? Your company will be picked apart by creditors within months. Kozlov will make sure you can't rebuild."
Her chin lifts in challenge.
"Then let it happen."
We're inches apart now, close enough that I feel the heat radiating from her skin, can see the rapid rise and fall of her chest beneath the thin silk, the press of her nipples through the flimsy fabric.
Her lips are slightly parted, and I remember how they felt beneath my thumb last night, soft and warm and trembling.
She sees the hunger in my eyes—I don't try to hide it.
Her breath hitches, color spreading down her throat, disappearing beneath the deep neckline of her slip.
"This is what you want, isn't it?"
Her voice is barely a whisper, but it carries accusation.
"Not the company, not the alliance. You want me."
I can't deny it when she's this close, when every breath I take fills my lungs with her scent, when the sight of her bare shoulders and the curve of her throat makes my hands ache to touch her.
"What I want," I say, voice rough with restraint, "is to keep you alive. Everything else is secondary."
"Liar."
The word is soft, but it hits deep.
"You want to own me."
"Yes."
I don't even hesitate to admit it.
"I want to own you. I want to mark every inch of your skin. I want you to carry my name and bear my children and never look at another man the way you look at me."
Her eyes widen, pupils dilating despite the harsh bathroom lighting.
"But first," I continue, stepping back before I do something we'll both regret,
"I want you alive and safe and free to create the designs that make you who you are. The rest can wait until tonight."
The distance between us feels charged.
She presses her palms against the wall behind her, as if she needs the support to remain standing.
"I hate you," she whispers.
"I know."
"I'll never forgive you for this."
"I don't need your forgiveness. I need your cooperation."
She pushes away from the wall with aggressive movements, then moves past me toward the bathroom door, her shoulder brushing mine as she passes.
The brief contact sends fire shooting down my spine, and I grip the edge of the sink to keep from reaching for her.
Tonight, she'll share my bed.
Tonight, I'll show her exactly what this marriage means, what belonging to me entails.
The thought sends anticipation coursing through my veins.
But first, the ceremony.
First, the legal bonds that will tie her to me permanently.
I straighten my tie and head downstairs, leaving the scent of her behind but carrying the memory of her skin against mine.
Inessa Mirova will become Inessa Gravitch.
Whether she's ready or not.