Chapter Eight
Mikhail’s POV
It would probably count as an obsession, but I didn’t care.
Neither did it make me want to stop. My eyes couldn’t leave her sleeping form, not that I wanted them to.
They took in how her dark lashes formed a beautiful hood over the skin beneath her closed eyes.
They took in the way her lower lip was fuller than the upper one.
The dark red that covered her lips the previous night only left a very light tint behind, and the natural dark pink color pulled me in.
My eyes took in the two tiny birthmarks that dotted the olive skin around her middle back, where the covers lay against her.
She was so calm when she slept, just like when she laughed.
There was defiance or intrigue in the way her ribs moved along with her soft breaths.
I almost chuckled at the contrast between her fire when she was awake and the calm angel in my bed right now.
She lay on her stomach, and her dark brown hair splayed around her left shoulder and the bed, away from her face.
I had to drag myself off the bed to resist tracing her skin with my fingers just to feel her against me again.
The fact that she had been untouched before last night made a possessive pride swell in me as I quickly freshened up. I had made her mine in every way.
Yesterday had gone surprisingly well, better than I would have thought. However, that was the source of my nagging confusion. She didn’t bend or break; she gave in like someone who was in control.
That was not normal.
As I left the room silently and closed the bedroom door, I stalked around the penthouse, from the hallway to the living room, trying to understand what exactly was going on with Isabella.
Saying I was restless might be a mild understatement.
I knew better than to celebrate her calmness as good news.
There had to be something behind it. Something behind the control she held on to even as she gave herself to me.
I would have to find it out. It would’ve been simpler if that were all I had to wonder about.
But, it wasn’t. I craved Isabella even more.
The vibration of my phone brought me back to the present, and I pulled it out of the pocket of my black joggers. It was Roman.
“Yes?”
“Did you travel to Cuba with your bride?” he asked.
“Come up,” I instructed.
“Should’ve thought of that,” he mumbled, clearly to himself.
Ending the call, I went into the kitchen.
There was a low knock on the entrance door, to which I answered, “Come in.”
“Had to be sure I wasn’t walking into a smooching scene, seeing as you’re cozied up here on your first night together,” he remarked, walking into the living room.
“Needed some privacy,” I pointed out, clenching my jaw at the sudden thought of our mingled moans just a few hours ago. “Coffee?”
“What a question. Of course,” he answered, approaching the four-seater dining table which sat between the sitting room and the kitchen.
I carried the two mugs of steaming hot coffee to the dining table and took the seat to his right, where I could be the first to see Isabella if she happened to come out—all I would have to do is look to my left, while Roman would have to turn all the way around.
We took our first sips in silence. I was about to ask why he came when he spoke.
“Congratulations, brother,” he remarked, dropping his mug. “On joining the married men's society. I wouldn’t have thought this day would come in five years.”
“You know how the marriage came about,” I dismissed.
“Yes, Bratva business,” he concurred. “But you’re now a married man. That’s not changing.”
“I am,” I agreed, sipping more of my coffee.
“To a gorgeous bride, at that,” he uttered. “I could swear I caught you getting lost in her eyes two or three times yesterday.”
“Bullshit,” I retorted, chuckling at his ridiculous attempt at teasing.
“Jokes aside, brother,” he started, sitting more upright, his expression like the one he wore at Bratva meetings. “It all went down too easily. With her, I mean.”
“How do you mean?”
“Her reaction towards the whole marriage idea,” he stated, as if I was physically draining him with my question.
“It’s not how someone who was pulled into a marriage they didn’t plan two days earlier reacts.
She seemed so ready for everything at the wedding yesterday.
Yuri told me how she lashed out at you at Giovanni’s funeral.
So, her being so cool during the wedding is suspicious, you’ll agree with me.
And now, you two are up here, in your penthouse, like a normal couple on a normal honeymoon. ”
“You think your brother isn’t good enough to make a bride change her mind?” I joked, emptying my mug.
His insinuation was the exact thing that had kept me restless since I’d gotten up. But I’d rather not dive into how suspicious Isabella’s behavior was. It just rubbed me the wrong way.
“Come on, Mikhail,” he answered. “Isabella Moretti isn’t as docile as she seems. You know this.”
“This isn’t about being docile. She has probably seen that fighting the situation is pointless,” I reasoned, waving a dismissive hand.
“Well, I just had to warn you.”
“And it’s Isabella Lobanov now,” I corrected.
“Yeah,” he drawled, smiling.
He got up. “I come to congratulate you. And I just did that.”
I rose to my feet. “Thanks, I guess.”
Instead of going straight to the doorway, he looked around the sitting room.
“It’s been a while since I last came up here, but the change in your decor shows,” he remarked. “A bit brighter. I like it. Almost looks like mine.”
“Shut up, you arrogant prick,” I retorted, laughing.
“Well, it’s nice to see my brothers’ styles evolve so I don’t have to keep dragging them along as myself and fellow trendsetters define class,” he explained, an amused expression on his face as he moved toward the door. “I have a crazy feeling that your wife has something to do with this.”
“Just get out,” I instructed, chuckling.
“Extend my regards to the newest Mrs. Lobanov.”
“Bye, Roman,” I uttered before shutting the door.
I strolled towards the drapes, picking up the remote control on the stool and pressing it to open them. Standing just a few feet from the windows, I let myself slip into the memory of the first time I saw Isabella.
“Your face could use a little smile, you know,” I told Konstantin as we walked past the velvet rope behind Viktor and Roman.
He rolled his eyes at me, clearly not inclined to take my kind, albeit playful, advice.
“Your choice,” I muttered, more to myself, considering he was already headed for the VIP sitting area, catching up with Viktor.
It was one of those Bratva events that were more of a show of power than a celebration—not showing was always seen as a sign of weakness, something Viktor would never tolerate.
While none of us loved such events, Konstantin liked them the least, and Roman tolerated them the best. For Viktor and me, it was just work. No more, no less.
Roman and I went straight to the bar on the opposite side of the long hall.
“The music is the worst part. Three out of ten. Hans’ cousin is the DJ, I bet,” he joked, pouring champagne into our glasses.
Grading every aspect of events, from the music to the decor, was Roman’s wheelhouse. Not that any of us could argue his stances. As the one who handled our legit businesses, he went to more corporate balls and galas than the three of us put together.
The event was a fundraiser ball for Hans’ sports outreach and a vow renewal event for him and his wife.
But, more than half of us attendees didn’t give a shit about what Hans was or was not celebrating.
It was not about him; it was about his father.
Julius, the German mob boss overseeing the biggest drug syndicate in Germany, was the person of interest.
“Why are we drinking champagne, of all things?” I inquired after a sip.
“Because we might have to move around the hall. It’s too early to smell like vodka or gin.”
I lifted my glass again and was about to tease him about him going all serious again, like he was the older brother, when I saw her.
Standing several feet from the bar was a sight I couldn’t take my eyes off.
She was in an animated conversation with a petite lady, both of them holding champagne flutes.
The other lady was in a bright yellow dress, but it was her presence, her body clad in a red dress that pooled in ruffles that formed roses just above her knees, that dazzled me.
One thing stood out: she looked too bold for her surroundings.
My glass moved slowly to my lips as I drank in her sweet yet fiery aura.
She threw her head back in laughter, and I had to swallow my desire to walk up to her. Her olive skin looked creamy against the tiny straps. Even though I only had a side view, I knew without a doubt that she was beautiful.
My champagne glass met with the wooden bar again, and I looked back in her direction.
Then, still laughing, she turned towards where I sat. It was too late for me to look away; my eyes were locked on her dainty face, on her red lips. My eyes moved upward again, and I was nothing short of starstruck as her brown eyes met mine.
She didn’t immediately look away or pretend to be looking at the lights or the bar. Neither did I; I couldn’t. Her gaze held mine for a moment before she looked away, resuming her conversation with the other lady.
That moment when our eyes locked had lived in my head ever since.
I pressed the remote control as I came back to reality. A reality where Isabella was now my wife. A reality where she was also a puzzle I was still looking to solve. Well, in that same reality, I had work to attend to.
Dropping the remote control on the center table, I went down the hallway, thumb-printed the automatic lock, and went in.
Just the sight of the files on my desk was enough to make all the paperwork I had to go through overwhelming. With a determined sigh, I went around the desk to sit in my leather chair, grabbing the small rectangular case at the edge of the desk.
The vibration of my phone took my attention off the records I had been knee-deep in.
It was Viktor.
“Hello, brother.”
“Mikhail,” he called. “How are things going there?”
“Okay, I guess,” I answered, chuckling and realizing it was a mistake.
Whether physically or over the phone, Viktor could pick the tiniest gestures apart and tell what they implied. Just like Konstantin.
I didn’t need to be inside my older brother’s mind to know I had just given away the fact that I was probably enjoying married life too much. It, in itself, wouldn’t have been a problem had I not been the one complaining about having to marry Isabella.
“I shouldn’t have to, but I will, just in case,” he started. “This marriage isn’t about lust; it’s about debt and punishment.”
“Of course, brother,” I affirmed.
“Good,” he replied. “Send my greetings to her.”
The call ended.
I was lying. Isabella had gotten under my skin; I could feel it. The mere thought of her breathing a few walls away from my office gave me some kind of exhilaration.
The office suddenly felt suffocating. I needed to just step out, maybe purge myself of thoughts of Isabella before coming back to work.
My eyes landed on Isabella the second I stepped out of my office. It wasn’t a sight I had ever seen before, nor was it one I was prepared for.
She was in my white shirt, its sleeves rolled up, her hair in a low, messy bun, as she went towards the kitchen.
She moved with the confidence of someone who owned the place, not someone who hadn’t set foot here before yesterday.
Hell, if that didn’t make me want to give her everything I owned.
No other indication was needed for me to know that that was a problem.
I would have thought she was oblivious to my presence, but then she turned around, her pretty face sporting a small smirk.
“Morning,” she greeted, entering the dining space.
“Morning,” I answered, my voice more gruff than I would have wanted.
“Two mugs?” she inquired, grabbing them from the table.
“Roman came by.”
“Oh, you should have asked him to stay for breakfast,” she said casually as she went into the kitchen.
Like I was being pulled, I headed into the kitchen.
“Where are your domestic workers?” she asked, washing the mugs in the sink.
“They only come up here once in a while. I like my privacy,” I explained,
“I like that,” she revealed. “Where do the mugs go?”
“The drawer…” I uttered, finally uprooting my feet and going to open the drawer against the wall to the right. Our fingers brushed as I took the mugs from her, and the smell of my scent on her turned me on. She must have felt the heat, too, because she moved over to the marble island.
I went over to the island, across from her.
“Pancakes?” she asked, looking up at me. “Typical breakfast.”
“Fine by me.”
“Alright,” she breathed.
“You can just ask me where everything is,” I pointed out, going ahead of her to the second cupboard against the wall.
“Right,” she answered.
We had every ingredient we needed on the marble island in a minute. She grabbed the whisk and bowls and was starting to mix the dry ingredients. All the while, I stood beside her, passing her spoons and whatnot.
“You don’t have to…”
“I’m helping because I want to. I’m tired of saying it every minute. Can we actually start making the pancakes? I mean, frying.”
She picked up the pan I had placed by the sink and went past me to the gas cooker. My eyes followed her, catching the way her movement showed off her hips despite the fact that my shirt wasn’t see-through.
She glanced toward the island and caught me staring. Something heated passed between us as she returned my stare, mouth slightly parted like she was about to say something.
She suddenly cleared her throat and pointed towards the supplies on the kitchen island. “Pass me the butter, please.”
“Yeah,” I answered, doing her bidding.
As she greased the pan and I passed her the batter, I couldn’t bring myself to step away from her.
So I casually moved behind her.
“Have to make sure nothing is burning,” I remarked, making her chuckle as she turned it over in the pan.
She moved the first pancake to the flat plate. Interrupting my thoughts of needing to step back before she started to feel awkward, she turned around, her butt brushing my body as she did.
I wasn’t just surprised; I was stupefied.
But I craved her more than anything I could think of in that moment. So my hands automatically moved to her waist.
“It’s getting cold,” she pointed out, looking up at me with an amused expression and a fork of pancake.
I didn’t even see her cut it.
I opened my mouth, and she brought the fork to my lips, her eyes on mine.
I forgot how to chew for a second.
“How’s it?”
“Very good,” I answered before swallowing.
“Hm.”
She turned around, her attention back on the pancakes she was making.
As we carried the meal to the dining room, our hands found every excuse to touch each other, from my dusting a speck of flour from the side of her face to her brushing her hand against me to pick up the honey jar.
Isabella was already controlling my life in a way I didn’t like. And I had no idea how to stop it. Worse, I couldn’t read why she was doing what she was doing.
Well, I’d play along until I could figure her out.