Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Natasha
I woke to warm breath on my forehead. I leaned into the warmth instinctively before my eyes cracked open, reluctant.
The second my vision focused, sleep vanished.
Dante lay on his side facing me, propped up on one elbow, watching. His hair was still damp from a shower, a few strands falling across his forehead.
I had no idea how long he'd been there. I'd never shared a bed with anyone before.
My mind flooded with catastrophic possibilities.
Had I snored? Drooled? Ground my teeth?
Worse—
Had I talked in my sleep?
If I'd whispered "I love you, Dante" or "I've wanted you since I was nineteen"—the kind of thing I'd regret for the rest of my life—I was jumping out the master bedroom window right now.
I held my breath and checked his expression from the corner of my eye. That unreadable look again.
Then I noticed the scratches across his chest.
Last night slammed back. Heat flooded my face.
I tried to pull the covers over my head, but before I could even turn over, Dante leaned in.
His lips pressed against mine. A few seconds later, he pulled back half an inch, mouth curving.
"Morning."
I'd never seen him this relaxed. Never heard his voice this rough with sleep. This version of Dante made my heart skip.
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
Waking up to a kiss from the man I'd been in love with—I hadn't dared dream of this.
I'd never experienced anything like it. Never even been on a real date.
How was I supposed to respond?
What would a normal woman do? Smile and say "good morning, darling" and kiss him back? Invite her husband under the covers for round two?
But I couldn't do that. I didn't know what we were.
I shrank back, pulling the covers to my chin, sinking into the pillow.
"I—" My voice came out hoarse and strange. "I might need time to adjust to all this."
Dante's eyes narrowed.
He didn't speak. Just lowered his arm and slipped his hand under the covers, palm finding the small of my back, sliding up my spine in one slow stroke.
My nightgown was somewhere on the floor from last night, so his hand moved directly across bare skin. I felt the calluses on his knuckles dragging from the base of my spine to my shoulder blade, then back down again.
"Natasha," he murmured against my ear. "We got married in front of two hundred guests."
His thumb traced a small circle at the small of my back.
"So you better get used to kisses and touches from your husband. Starting now."
Husband. He'd used that word. Did that mean he'd accepted what we were? God, my life was flipping pages faster than I could keep up.
"Understand?"
"Yeah." I forced the word out.
Dante made a satisfied sound and kissed the corner of my mouth again. Deeper this time.
I lay frozen, barely breathing.
He seemed to sense things heading somewhere dangerous. He patted my waist and sat up.
The covers slid off him, exposing his bare torso.
I stared at the ceiling. I'd seen every inch of him last night in various moments, but that didn't mean I could look at him in broad daylight without losing my mind.
"Get up."
His tone switched back to pakhan mode in a heartbeat. "You've got things to do today."
I poked my head out of the covers, blinking.
"Me?" I repeated. "I have things to do?" I mentally ran through my schedule.
"I don't have any plans," I said it like it was obvious. "Did you mix me up with someone else?"
Dante finished buttoning his shirt and tapped my forehead with his knuckles.
"Natasha. The interior designer's downstairs in the sitting room waiting for you."
"Interior designer?"
"Yeah." He tucked his shirt into his pants. "I had them clear out that south-facing room in the east wing. You're meeting with him today to go over everything—paint colors, flooring, curtains, lighting. Every detail. Your choice."
I sat up, clutching the covers to my chest.
"Wait." I held up a hand, trying to make my brain catch up. "The east wing room. What are you turning it into?"
"Your studio."
He said it like it was nothing.
My studio?
"Dante, I never told you I liked to paint."
"I looked through your phone," he said without hesitation.
I nearly jumped out of bed.
"When did you—"
"Four a.m. You were dead asleep. I used your fingerprint to unlock it."
"You—" I took a breath. "I can't believe you just admitted that."
Dante turned to face me, completely unbothered.
"Natasha," he said, almost gently, though the words weren't gentle at all.
"You're my wife. Your phone, your bank accounts, your social media, your medical records, your friends, whether you snore in your sleep, when you get your period—as of yesterday, I need to know all of it. So no, I'm not apologizing."
I gaped at him.
Was that pakhan logic? Conflating possession with the right to know everything, packaging it like it was perfectly reasonable?
I should've been furious.
But this bastard.
The bastard who'd snuck through my phone and seen all my secret sketches—he hadn't mocked them like Vera would have. Instead, before dawn, he'd had the best room in the east wing cleared out and called in an interior designer to build me a studio.
"I've never had a studio," I whispered. "Never."
"You do now." He nodded toward the nightstand where a fresh set of clothes sat folded neatly. "Richard left those for you. Downstairs in ten minutes."
I was still half in a dream state, forced into consciousness. I couldn't tell if it was the whiplash from yesterday to today, or just exhaustion.
The designer waiting in the sitting room was a middle-aged man in a charcoal three-piece suit. He practically lunged at me with a smile, launching into rapid-fire introductions—name, credentials, past projects, famous clients.
By six in the evening, we'd finally locked down the plans. Richard knocked at the door.
"Ma'am."
That word still made me freeze every time.
Richard bowed slightly, holding a forest-green velvet box.
"Mr. Romanov asked me to inform you there's a dinner tonight at seven-thirty in Manhattan. Several distant Romanov relatives and allied families will be in attendance. He'd like you to accompany him."
He opened the box.
Inside lay a pair of earrings—two teardrop-shaped emeralds, each the size of my thumbnail. A matching necklace rested beneath them.
I stared at the earrings. Then at Richard.
I was seriously starting to think this was all one long fever dream.
Maybe I was still in the attic on that broken cot, burning up with fever, shaking. Maybe all of this was a hallucination. When the fever broke, I'd wake up and Dante would still be the cold man who walked past the greenhouse without looking, and I'd still be the despised substitute sister.
"Richard, is this real?"
Richard's mouth twitched. He seemed to be fighting back a smile.
"Ma'am, the Romanov family doesn't do fakes."
The dinner was at a private club on the top floor of a Manhattan high-rise. The elevator doors opened, and every eye in the room swung toward us. I tightened my grip on Dante's arm instinctively.
I'd always hated events like this—rooms full of scrutiny. I used to find corners to disappear into. But with Dante as my date, there was no hiding tonight.
I could imagine the labels they were slapping on me—the scheming little sister who'd chased off the bride. God, just thinking about it made me want to bolt.
But Dante covered my hand with his free one, locking me in place.
He'd insisted on bringing me, and within minutes, a crowd swarmed him. Still, he never let go of my hand.
One of the men who'd just finished talking to Dante noticed me. He approached with a polished smile.
"Mrs. Romanov," he said with a slight bow. "I'm Alyosha Volkov."
First person besides Dante to speak to me all night. I lifted my glass and tried to look friendly.
"Hello, Mr. Volkov."
"I heard you have quite the talent for painting," he said, leaning in slightly. "I'd love to hear more sometime—"
He didn't finish.
Dante yanked my hand. Hard. Suddenly, he was looking our way, having somehow escaped the cluster of men around him. He wore a flawless smile. His eyes held none of it.
"Volkov." His tone was pleasant. Every word was coated in ice. "Find something else to do."
Volkov's face stiffened for a split second. Then he raised his glass and retreated smoothly.
"Of course. Pardon the interruption."
Just like that, he melted into the crowd.
I stared at Dante. Dante acted like nothing had happened, threading his fingers through mine and leading me toward the next table. As we passed a server, he tilted his head casually.
"Get my wife some juice."
I stood there holding the champagne they'd taken from me, unsure whether to feel ridiculous or admit that some tiny, forbidden part of me felt... thrilled.
Even with Dante beside me, I still caught groups in corners—men and women huddled together, smirking glances thrown my way. Obviously gossiping about the wedding scandal.
I pretended not to see them.
I was happy enough already. Let them talk.
The event finally ended near midnight. I followed Dante outside and spotted a car parked at the curb.
Standing next to it, frantically waving at me, was Anna.
I waved back, excited. "Anna?"
Anna sprinted over and threw herself into my arms, nearly knocking me back a step.
"Natasha!" She grabbed my shoulders and looked me up and down. Her eyes went huge when she spotted the emerald earrings.
Then she leaned in close and dropped her voice.
"Oh my God, Natasha," she whispered urgently. "Do you know what your husband did to me?"
I blinked. "What?"
Anna pulled me a few steps away from Dante, words tumbling out like machine-gun fire.
"Five a.m. this morning," she said, eyes wide. "Your husband's men dragged me out of bed. They asked me your favorite color. Foods you're allergic to. Your favorite painters. What kind of car you like. What skincare brands you use."
She sucked in a breath. "And what color car you've always wanted."
I turned instinctively toward the deep green car parked at the end of the carpet.
"God." I pressed a hand to my chest. "Anna, why did he—"
"That's what I want to know." Anna stared at me. "The night of your wedding, I went home and cried for an hour. I pictured Dante kicking you to the curb."
She grabbed my wrist hard enough to make me wince.
"Now you're telling me you took down the most impossible man in New York in less than twenty-four hours? How?"
I had no answer.
I couldn't answer her. Because I didn't know how any of this had happened. Yesterday, I thought I'd spend the rest of my life as a ghost in this manor. Today I was standing on a Manhattan red carpet in a custom velvet gown.
My life had been rewritten in twenty-four hours.
I turned slowly toward Dante.
He stood by the green car, leaning against it, hands in his pockets. He wasn't rushing me. Wasn't impatient. Just watching me and Anna with that focused look.
The moment our eyes met, his mouth curved into the faintest smile.