Chapter 6 #2
Dad reaches for me, and I let him pull me into a hug.
His arms are strong, familiar, smelling of brandy and cedar and the particular warmth that has meant safety since I was small enough to hide behind his legs.
I press my face into his chest for one second.
Just one. Then I pull back and straighten my spine.
“If anything happens to me—”
“Nothing will happen to you,” he says firmly.
“If it does,” I repeat, holding his gaze, “you burn them all.”
His eyes soften in a way that nobody else in the world ever gets to see. “That was always the plan, malyshka.”
I nod. I don’t cry. I don’t tremble. I turn away from my father and walk toward the front door, where Laszlo is already holding it open with one hand, his body a dark silhouette against the amber glow of the outdoor light.
Outside, a pair of black Range Rovers sit in the driveway. Laszlo opens the passenger door of one, and I slide in as my suitcases are loaded into the boot. He closes the door quietly and circles the bonnet to climb into the driver’s side.
The boot slams shut, and there is a sharp rap, which must be the signal to drive off; we are right behind you.
Laszlo starts the engine. The Range Rover purrs to life, and we pull out of the driveway in silence. I watch my father’s house shrink in the wing mirror until the gates close behind us, and it disappears entirely.
I don’t look at Laszlo. I look at the ring on my finger instead, turning it slowly with my thumb. The emerald catches every passing streetlight and throws green fire across my skin. It’s heavy. Not uncomfortable, but present. A constant reminder that my hand is no longer entirely my own.
“Stop fidgeting,” he says without taking his eyes off the road.
“I’m not fidgeting. I’m admiring my prison shackle.”
His mouth twitches. “Looks good on you.”
“How would you know? You don’t even know me.”
“I have eyes.”
I turn to look at him properly for the first time since we got in the car.
The dashboard lights carve his profile in blue and shadow.
Strong jaw. Straight nose. Those tattoos creeping up from his collar like dark vines claiming territory.
His hands on the steering wheel are steady, relaxed, the grip of a man who doesn’t need to prove he’s in control because he simply is.
“Where exactly are you taking me?” I ask.
“Mayfair. My home.”
“Your house. Not some Voronov compound?”
“I don’t live in a compound. I’m not a cult leader.”
“Debatable.”
He actually laughs at that. Low, brief, genuine. It catches me off guard because it changes his persona entirely. Then it’s gone, and the mask slides back into place.
“You’re going to be a handful, aren’t you?”
“You have no idea.”
We drive through Kensington in silence after that.
The streets thin out as we head east toward Mayfair, the architecture shifting from grand Victorian to Georgian elegance.
Old money territory. The kind of neighbourhood where neighbours don’t ask questions because the answers are worth less than their privacy.
The Range Rover behind us keeps a steady distance. I can see its headlights in the wing mirror, steady and watchful. Professional. Laszlo’s people don’t cut corners.
“How many men do you have?” I ask.
“Enough.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting tonight.”
A couple walks a tiny dog on the pavement. Normal people doing normal things while I sit in a car with a man who probably killed someone before breakfast.
Then again, I’ve stabbed a man with a dessert fork at a charity gala, so maybe I should save the moral high ground for someone who deserves it.
He takes a left onto a quiet street lined with plane trees, their leaves catching the glow of wrought-iron lamps. The houses here are tall, white-fronted, immaculate. The kind of street where a woman could scream and nobody would hear because the walls are too thick and the residents too discreet.
Comforting thought.
He slows, and the gates of a property at the far end swing inward, revealing a short drive and a house that is understated in the way only truly expensive things can be. Two storeys of pale stone, black-framed windows, a glossy black door flanked by topiary.
The driveway is short but wide and private, shielded from the road by a high wall covered in ivy. A Lamborghini sits to one side, midnight black, aggressive even standing still. The urge to scream with laughter hits me, but I stifle it for decorum’s sake.
I think he knows, though, because he shoots me a narrow-eyed glare before he kills the engine and gets out. By the time he rounds the bonnet, I’ve already opened my own door and stepped onto the red brick. I don’t need him opening doors for me. I don’t need him doing anything for me.
He notices. Says nothing.
The front door opens, and an older man in a dark suit stands inside.
“This is Leonid,” Laszlo says, gesturing to the man. “Leonid, this is Galina Rusanova. My fiancée.”
Leonid blinks once, but takes it in his stride after that.
“Please have her bags carried up to my room.”
My head snaps to the side. “Your room?”
He ushers me inside as I fume inwardly. “Of course. Did you think you were getting your own space, Galina?” he asks, amused, and wickedly so.
“I thought basic human decency might factor in somewhere, but clearly I overestimated.”
“You’ll find I’m full of surprises.”
“None of them good, I’m sure.”
Leonid watches this exchange with the careful neutrality of a man who has survived decades in this world by knowing exactly when to be invisible. He gives a slight nod and disappears up the stairs, following the men with my bags.
I stand in the entrance hall and take it in.
Marble floors, warm lighting, a staircase that curves upward.
The art on the walls is modern, abstract, bold strokes of black and crimson on white canvas.
Not what I expected. I expected taxidermy and weapons mounted on plaques. Maybe a skull or two for atmosphere.
“Disappointed?” Laszlo asks, watching me survey his home.
“Surprised. I was expecting something more serial killer chic.”
“That’s the basement.”
I look at him sharply. He meets my gaze without a flicker, and I genuinely cannot tell if he’s joking. That’s the problem with men like him. The truth and the joke live in the same sentence, and you only find out which one it was when it’s too late.
“Come,” he says, moving through the hall toward a doorway to the left. “I’ll show you around.”
“At ten o’clock at night?”
“Would you prefer to wander around alone in the dark? Be my guest. But I should warn you, the security system is aggressive.”
“And by security system, you mean—”
“My men.”
“Noted,” I murmur.
The ground floor opens up into a series of rooms that flow into one another with the kind of architectural confidence that comes with money.
A living room with deep white leather sofas and a fireplace that looks like it’s actually used.
A dining room with a table long enough to seat twelve, dark wood, candles in iron holders.
A kitchen that is sleek and modern, all black granite and brushed steel, with a coffee machine that looks like it could launch a satellite.
“Do you cook?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“When the mood strikes.”
“And when does the mood strike?”
“When Leonid has the night off, and I’m too stubborn to order in.”
I file that away. A man who can cook. Useless information that I absolutely do not need and will not think about again.
He leads me through a utility room, a boot room, and a door that opens onto a back garden I can barely make out in the dark. What I can see is a fountain, lit from beneath, water catching the light in silver arcs. Beyond it, shadows of manicured hedges and what might be a pergola.
“The garden is bigger than it looks,” he says. “You can use it whenever you want.”
“How generous of you. Outdoor privileges.”
He turns to face me, and in the low light of the corridor, his blue eyes hold something that isn’t amusement. It’s patience. The deliberate, measured kind that tells me he’s choosing not to rise to every barb I throw, and that restraint is more unsettling than if he’d snapped back.
“You done?” he asks quietly.
“Not even close.”
“Good. I’d be worried if you weren’t fighting me on it.”
That catches me off guard. I expected him to shut me down, not invite the resistance. I search his face for the trick, the angle, but all I find is a man standing in his own hallway, watching me with an intensity that makes my skin feel too tight for my body.
I break eye contact first. Again. I’m going to have to fix that habit.
He leads me upstairs. The landing is wide, carpeted, dark and plush, which swallows the sound of my boots. Doors line the corridor, all closed. He doesn’t explain any of them. He walks to the end, opens the last door on the right, and steps aside.
His bedroom.
It’s large. Bigger than my room at Dad’s, which is saying something.
The bed dominates the space, a four-poster in dark wood, dark blue sheets and cover.
The windows are tall, and the curtains are open.
There’s a reading chair in the corner, worn leather, a book face down on the arm.
A door to the left stands ajar, and I can see the edge of a marble bathroom beyond it.
Another door to the right must be the wardrobes.
My suitcases are already lined up at the foot of the bed. Efficient. Too efficient. Like they’ve been expecting me for longer than the few hours since my father traded me across a desk.
“Bathroom is through there,” Laszlo says, nodding to the left. “Wardrobe through there. I’ve cleared space for your things.”
“You cleared space.”
“Leonid cleared space. I gave the order. Same thing.”
“Not even close.” I walk into the room slowly, trailing my fingertips along the edge of the dresser.
His watch box sits on top. Four Patek Philippes, an Audemars Piguet and a Rolex.
All nestled in black velvet like sleeping weapons.
Beside it, a bottle of cologne. I don’t pick it up, but I can smell it from here—something woody and dark that I recognise from when he stands too close.
“Which side?” I ask, nodding at the bed.
“Left.”
“I sleep on the left.”
“Not anymore.”
I turn to face him. He’s filling the doorway, one shoulder against the frame. The posture is casual. The look in his eyes is not.
“Then I guess we have our first marital dispute,” I say.
“And I guess you just lost it.”
“I didn’t lose anything. I’ll sleep in the guest room.”
He lets that land like a grenade before he pushes off the doorframe and walks toward me, each step deliberate, unhurried, closing the distance between us until I have to tilt my head back to hold his gaze.
“You are on the right side. You can have extra pillows. You can have whatever fucking thread count in whatever fucking colour makes you comfortable. But you’re sleeping in this bed.
With me. Tonight, and every night after. On the right side.”
My pulse hammers against my throat. I can feel the heat rolling off him, that cologne wrapping around me like a hand at the back of my neck.
Up close, the tattoos that climb above his collar are intricate, detailed, and I catch fragments—Cyrillic script, a double-headed eagle, something that looks like thorns winding around a blade.
“You don’t get to boss me around,” I say, even though it is useless.
“Wrong, moya zhena.”
“I’m not your wife.”
“Not yet.” He steps back and turns on his heel, striding out of the room, leaving me cold and shaking in his wake.
I stand with my fists clenched at my sides and breathe. In through my nose. Out through my mouth. The way Mum taught me when the world got too loud, and the men got too close, and the only thing standing between me and chaos was my ability to keep my shit together.
The room smells like him. Every surface, every thread, every molecule of air is saturated with that dark, woody scent, and I hate how much my body responds to it. My skin is still buzzing from his proximity, nerve endings firing like they’ve been rewired to react to him specifically.
Moya zhena.
My wife.
The audacity. The sheer, breathtaking fucking audacity.
Grabbing my bag of toiletries, I cross to the bathroom and close the door, locking it with a decisive click that echoes off the marble.
It’s enormous. A freestanding tub sits beneath a skylight, and the walk-in shower is big enough for four people.
His toiletries line one side of the double vanity—razor, shaving cream, a toothbrush in a glass holder.
The other side is empty. Waiting. Like the wardrobe, the space beside it is carved out for me before I even knew I’d be standing here.
I set my toiletry bag on the counter and unzip it slowly. Each item I place on the empty side feels like a surrender. Moisturiser. Cleanser. Serum. Toothbrush. I line them up carefully because if I’m going to lose every other battle tonight, at least my skincare routine will be immaculate.
I turn on the shower. The water blasts out from multiple jets at every angle. I strip off the jeans and cashmere, folding them neatly on the vanity.
Stepping in, the hot water hits my skin, and I close my eyes briefly before I wash quickly, efficiently, using my own products because using his would feel like another concession.
When I step out, I dry off with one of the black towels from the heated rail and walk slowly back into the bedroom.
I will unpack tomorrow, but first I need to find something to sleep in.
Knowing it will drive him mad, I grab one of his navy blue tees hanging in the wardrobe and slip it on.
It drowns me, but at least it covers me.
I slip into bed on the left side with a slow smile and slip the ring off my finger, leaving it on the right side pillow as I turn to face outward and close my eyes.
See if he likes the consequences of ordering me around like some kind of servant girl.