Chapter Seven
Mila’s POV
I lay beneath the weight of the silk duvet, my eyes tracing the intricate plasterwork of the ceiling in the dim glow of the single golden lamp across the room.
The air was cool, smelling of the expensive beeswax candles that had burned down hours ago and the faint, lingering trail of Alexei’s whiskey.
I could hear him. He was a shadow moving in the darkness near the far wall, his movements quiet and steady.
The rhythmic sound of his breathing, the soft rustle of his clothes—it should have been terrifying.
I had spent the entire wedding day braced for the inevitable.
After the ceremony, after that claiming, slow-burning kiss at the altar, I had prepared myself for a battle of wills.
I had expected demands. I had expected the cold, hard reality of a Lobanov taking what he had paid for in blood and protection.
But he hadn’t.
He had come to me, made his hand hover around my face, and then he had simply… stepped back.
That restraint was what was currently unraveling me.
It was a jagged edge I hadn’t prepared for.
If he had been the monster I’d studied in my textbooks—the predatory patriarch—I would have known how to harden my heart.
I would have found safety in my own hatred.
But this quiet distance felt like a different kind of trap, one that made the air in my lungs feel thin.
My mind drifted back to the afternoon, back to the sun-drenched silence of the sitting room where Anya and I had spent the hours leading up to this.
The sitting room was a masterpiece of velvet and light, but to me, it felt like a waiting room for a life sentence.
Anya sat across from me, her legs tucked under her, a porcelain teacup balanced precariously on her knee.
We had been talking for hours, an endless stream of university gossip and old memories that felt like they belonged to another lifetime.
“You’re doing that thing again,” Anya said, setting her cup down with a soft clink. “The thing where you count the threads in the rug so you don’t have to look at the clock.”
“Is it that obvious?” I asked, my voice flat.
“Mila…” She reached across the small marble table, taking my hand. Her skin was warm, a contrast to the chill that had settled into my bones. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re wondering what happens next. You’re wondering if Alexei is going to become the man everyone says he is.”
I looked out the window, watching a pair of guards pace the perimeter. “I don’t know what to expect, Anya. I’ve seen the way people look at him. I’ve seen the way he looks at the world. He’s a collector. He’s a strategist. And now, he’s collected me.”
Anya squeezed my hand. “He’s also my brother.
He’s spent his whole life protecting me, protecting this family.
He doesn’t take things just to have them.
He takes them to keep them safe. Your marriage doesn’t have to be a battle, Mila.
He’s not a man who enjoys causing pain to those he considers his own. ”
“But I’m not ‘his own,’” I whispered. “I’m a Petrov. I’m the daughter of the man who caused the mess he’s cleaning up.”
“You’re his wife,” Anya corrected firmly. “And in this house, that means more than any bloodline. Just… try to see him. Not the name, but the man.”
I hadn’t known how to answer her then. I still didn’t.
Back in the dim light of the bedroom, I shifted, the silk of my slip hissing against the sheets. The sound felt deafening.
“I’m not asleep,” I whispered into the dark. My voice was a fragile thread, easily broken.
Alexei stopped moving. I could see the silhouette of him standing by the heavy oak wardrobe.
He had discarded his jacket and tie, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar.
He looked less like a marble statue and more like a man—a man who was exhausted by the weight of the world he’d built around us.
“I know,” he said. His voice was a low rumble, devoid of the sharp, strategic edge he used with his men.
“Why are you staying over there?”
The question slipped out before I could censor it. It wasn’t an invitation, but it wasn’t a rejection either. It was a plea for clarity.
He didn’t answer immediately. He walked toward the bed, stopping just where the light of the lamp faded into shadow.
The proximity made my pulse leap, a frantic drumming in my throat that I couldn’t blame entirely on fear.
I remembered the heat of him during our dance, the way his hand had felt against the small of my back.
There was an undeniable, terrifying pull between us—a magnetic field generated by two people who should never have been in the same room, let alone the same bed.
“Nothing,” he answered.
“You think giving me space makes this less of a cage?”
“No,” he said again, and for the first time, I heard a flicker of hesitation in his voice. “But it makes me less of a jailer.”
I turned onto my side, watching him. In the low light, he looked devastating. I hated that I noticed the breadth of his shoulders, the way the tattoos on his hands seemed to tell a story of violence and loyalty. I hated that my body, traitorous and confused, was vibrating with a need to be touched.
I was a psychology student; I knew what this was. Transference. My brain was looking for safety in the very source of my danger. But knowing the name of the feeling didn’t make the heat in my blood go away.
He didn’t move any further. He stood there, a guardian and a threat all in one. He didn’t force. He didn’t ask. He just existed in my space, letting the silence do the work.
And that was the problem. By not taking anything, he was making me want to give. By being gentle, he was making me forget the bars.
I lay back down, pulling the covers up to my chin, the internal storm raging. I could hear the faint, distant sound of the guards on the gravel outside—the reminder of the war we were in. But inside this room, under the glow of the golden lamp, the only war was the one between my mind and my body.
I closed my eyes, but I could still feel him watching me. Safe, yet never free.
**********
Another day had passed in a blur. I sat perched on the edge of the mattress, the fine white slip I wore feeling like a flimsy barrier against the sheer gravity of the man standing before me.
The air in the room had changed; it was no longer just the cool, sterile atmosphere of a fortress.
It was thick, charged with the scent of whiskey, woodsmoke, and the impending collision of two lives.
Alexei moved with the silent, predatory grace that defined him.
His jacket was gone, his white dress shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, revealing the hard, tanned skin of his torso and the dark, intricate ink that crept up his throat.
He looked disheveled, his auburn hair mussed as if he’d been running his fingers through it while pacing the halls of his mind.
I wanted to be angry. I wanted to scream at him for the cold efficiency with which he had dismantled my autonomy. But as he stepped into the light, my body betrayed my mind. A slow, honeyed heat pooled in my belly, a visceral reaction to the raw, masculine power he radiated.
“I’m not fragile,” I said, my voice shaking. It was meant to be a warning, a reminder that I wasn’t just another asset to be managed.
Alexei stopped inches from me. He was so close I could feel the heat radiating from his skin.
“No,” he replied softly, his voice a low, rough rasp. “You’re fire, Mila. But I’ve learned how to be careful with fire.”
He reached out then, his hand large and calloused, and trailed his fingers down the line of my jaw.
The touch was agonizingly light, a stark contrast to the violence I knew he was capable of.
His fingertips traced the curve of my throat, pressing gently against the pulse that was hammering a frantic rhythm.
When his thumb brushed over my lower lip, I flinched, my breath hitching.
He stilled instantly. He didn’t pull away, but he froze, watching me with an intensity that felt like he was peeling back my skin to see the soul beneath. He was a predator learning the exact frequency of my fear—and something else.
“I’ve never done this before,” I whispered.
The confession felt like a surrender.
The world seemed to drop away. The hum of the estate, the guards outside, the weight of the Petrov name—it all vanished.
Something fundamental shifted in Alexei.
The restraint he had been wearing like a shroud seemed to crack.
His jaw tightened, and his hands gripped the edge of the mattress on either side of my hips, the muscles in his forearms bulging.
“Then I’ll make sure,” he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, possessive tone, “that the first man who touches you is the last.”
The words sent a violent shiver through me, but it wasn’t fear—it was a dark, unholy thrill. He didn’t wait for a response. He leaned down, his mouth finding mine in a kiss that was slow, deep, and utterly consuming. It tasted of scotch and a hunger that had been suppressed for far too long.
He moved me back onto the pillows with a deliberate slowness that was more overwhelming than any rush could have been.
His hands began to map my skin, his palms hot against the cool silk of my slip.
He didn’t tear it; he slid the straps down my shoulders with a reverence that made my eyes sting.
He touched me like I was a puzzle he had spent his whole life trying to solve, his mouth drawing out gasps and whimpers I didn’t recognize as my own.
Every touch was a claim. Every kiss was a signature.
He traced the line of my ribs, the curve of my hip, his tattoos a dark contrast against my pale skin.
He was meticulous and patient, stoking the fire until I was arching against him, my fingers tangling in his hair, begging for a release I didn’t fully understand.
When he finally moved between my legs, he paused, his forehead resting against mine.
His breathing was heavy, his body rigid with the effort of holding back.
He looked into my eyes, and for a second, I didn’t see a mafia boss.
I saw a man who was terrified by how much he wanted to lose himself in the girl beneath him.
“Mila,” he groaned, my name a prayer on his lips.
When he finally sank into me, the world narrowed to the point of a needle.
It was a sharp, sudden ache, followed by an overwhelming fullness that made me cry out.
He stilled immediately, his eyes searching mine for permission, for a sign to stop.
But I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, needing the weight of him to anchor me to this new reality.
The rhythm that followed was slow and unhurried, the sting of unfamiliarity making way for a sweet pleasure.
He moved with a quiet, devastating power, his eyes never leaving mine.
It was a slow burn, an agonizing ascent that stripped away every defense I had left.
I wasn’t just a bride or a victim; I was his, and he was mine, bound together in the quiet dark by a contract that had nothing to do with paper and everything to do with blood and breath.
When the end came, it was a tidal wave that crashed over us both. I clung to him, my voice breaking as I whispered his name into the hollow of his neck. He buried his face in my hair, his body shuddering with a release that felt like an exorcism.
Afterward, the room was silent except for the ragged sound of our breathing.
Alexei didn’t move away. He pulled me into his chest, his large arm wrapping around me, tucking my head under his chin.
He didn’t speak, but he didn’t have to. The way he held me said everything.
I felt the weight of his ring on my finger, a reminder of the world waiting outside the door.
What I didn’t know, however, was if this was about possession or protection to him.
But I fell asleep in his arms, anyway.