Chapter 8
Elena
"The dress Mr. Morozov picked is perfect on you." Pera—the maid I'd met on my first day—smoothed the hem while she spoke.
"He picked it himself?"
"Yes, ma'am. And he specifically said not to cake your face with heavy powder."
Heat rose in my chest. I stared at myself in the full-length mirror and barely recognized the woman looking back.
Dark green silk fell clean against my body. No extra frills. The waist hit exactly right.
The freckles my father hated were still there. My hazel eyes still didn't blaze the way Isabella's did. But the deep green made my skin look porcelain, and the cut fit me without turning me into anybody's shadow.
My fingertips drifted up to my cheek.
My father had always said freckles made me look cheap. On the day of the engagement, he'd even told me I was only barely presentable with makeup on. Maybe Kiryan just thought thick makeup didn't suit the dress, but that tiny detail still made my pulse trip.
"Do you know what he actually said?" Pera asked when I didn't answer, watching me through the mirror.
"What?" I frowned.
"Don't pile useless crap on her face." She lowered her voice, mocking that cold, hard tone.
I couldn't help it—my mouth twitched.
My body had healed. The banquet day had come. But after that night—after he'd stayed with me and waited for the doctor—Kiryan hadn't stepped into my room again. And he'd been busy. I barely saw him in the living room.
I knew that tenderness had been a fluke. I knew I had no business falling for these little acts of care.
Still, the woman in the mirror smiled—really smiled—for the first time since my mother died.
"That color looks insane on you," Pera said as she fastened my earrings. "Honestly, his taste is way better than his attitude. But you look so pretty tonight; he's probably going to regret letting you wear it."
"Pera."
"I am telling the truth." She looked like a kid who couldn't hold in gossip. "Everybody can see it. If he doesn't give a damn about you, why would he keep your art supplies safer than the stuff in the wine cellar?"
I snapped around. "My art supplies?"
Pera's smile faltered, like she realized she'd said too much.
"When you moved in, I didn't throw them out," she admitted, voice dropping.
"I went against his order and hid them in storage.
Later he found out. He didn't punish me, and he didn't have anyone toss them.
Yesterday he had us inventory everything.
Any ruined brushes, any dried-out paint—we replaced them with the same brands.
Your things are still in storage. Nothing is missing. "
My breath locked in my throat.
So when I'd been out in the rain, digging through trash cans like an idiot, Pera had already hidden them. And Kiryan—he'd found out and let her keep the only things I really owned.
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
"He didn't want me to." Pera pressed her lips together. "He probably didn't want you knowing he changed his mind. But I figured... married people can't just hold on to the shit that hurt."
Warmth filled my chest slow and heavy, like water rising until it was hard to breathe. Kiryan had kept something that was actually mine.
"So I'm telling you," Pera said softly, "he's going to be blown away when he sees you. Maybe one day you'll end up loving each other more than any couple I've ever seen."
"You're getting ahead of yourself." I dabbed carefully at the corner of my eye, refusing to ruin the fresh makeup.
"Fine. Think smaller." She winked. "Like this: he's already downstairs."
When Pera and I came down, Kiryan was in the living room talking low with his right-hand man, Feodor.
Kiryan wore a sharp black suit. Broad shoulders. That steady, dangerous calm a man earned with time and violence. It made the whole room feel too small for him.
Feodor saw me mid-sentence.
"Pakhan," he said to Kiryan, "Madam looks stunning tonight. I thought I should remind you—we should double security at the banquet."
Feodor was often at the Rossi villa with Kiryan. He usually wore the same blank face here, like emotions weren't allowed. I'd never seen him like this.
"Worry about your own job," Kiryan said, cutting him with a look.
Feodor laughed under his breath. "Yes, sir. I'll check the car."
He headed out. Pera let go of my skirt and slipped away too.
Silence settled in. Kiryan looked at me—eyes sliding from my face to my waist, then down the length of the dress. He stared too long, like a warm hand tracing me through fabric. My breathing went shallow, betraying me.
"Is it wrong?" I asked.
"Turn around."
I blinked.
"Your hair is a mess."
I turned. His presence crowded in immediately. Rough fingertips brushed the back of my neck, separating a tangle of strands. The spot he touched tightened instantly, heat streaking down my spine.
"Done," he said, voice lower than usual. His breath landed heavy between my bare shoulder blades.
I turned back and nearly hit his chest. Cedar and cold air filled my lungs. We were close enough for me to see the faint scar along his jaw, close enough to feel the heat of him through his shirt.
"The color looks good," I said, forcing myself not to step back. "Pera told me you picked it."
His jaw flexed. "Pera can't keep her mouth shut. Maybe she doesn't belong in this house."
"You wouldn't throw her out."
"What makes you so sure?"
"Because when she hid my supplies, you didn't throw her out."
The air went still for two seconds.
His eyes narrowed. I caught the flicker of irritation. But my courage ran hotter than usual. I rose on my toes and kissed the hard line of his chin—quick, light—then spoke before he could bite my head off.
"Thank you," I said, looking at him. "Whatever made you change your mind—thank you for not tossing them."
He didn't accept it. He didn't sneer at me for getting sentimental. He just hooked an arm around my waist.
The sudden intimacy made my balance wobble.
"Tonight, don't leave my sight," he said. "And don't take anything from anyone you don't know."
"The banquet isn't safe?"
"A shipping contract and a weapons supply deal are getting signed tonight. Plenty of people want it to fall apart."
Cold slid under his words and tightened my chest.
"What do you need me to do?"
"Stay where I can see you."
Feodor drove. Kiryan and I sat in the back, less than a hand's width between us.
The door shut, sealing the outside world away. I tried not to notice how close his leg was. Tried not to think about the weight of his palm on my waist.
"You're still thinking about your supplies," he said suddenly.
"Maybe they are nothing to you. They aren't nothing to me."
He shot me a look—surprised.
"I bought them after I sold my first painting," I said. "My father never paid a dime for my work."
Kiryan went quiet.
I expected him to ask how much my "little hobby" was worth. Or to mock me the way Isabella would, for treating cheap brushes like treasure. But he said nothing.
The car rolled onto a quieter stretch of road. Streetlights swept past the windows, slicing his profile into alternating shadow and light.
"The car behind us followed for three blocks," Feodor said, eyes flicking to the rearview.
"Confirm if they have backup," Kiryan said. His whole energy shifted.
"Two cars. Same pattern. They are covering each other."
I looked back. Two sets of blinding high beams crept closer.
"Close your eyes," Kiryan said, gripping the back of my neck and pushing me down. "Get low."
The first hit came fast and brutal—our rear end jolted hard. Feodor yanked the wheel, the car skimming the guardrail. Tires screamed against the pavement. Before I could even breathe, the car on the right slammed into us.
Inertia threw me toward the door. Before my shoulder could hit the glass, a solid arm shot across my chest and hauled me into him.
Gunfire cracked outside. He pressed me between the seat and his chest, and I couldn't see anything but him. I heard him return fire—each shot controlled, steady. I clutched his shirt, fighting the shake in my teeth.
"Don't be scared," he said in a gap between shots, glancing at me as he shifted back just enough.
I finally saw how bad it was. Our window was spiderwebbed with fractures, the car shuddering like it could give out any second.
Kiryan kept firing, aiming at the other car's tires. A sharp burst—then the pursuing car fishtailed, skidded sideways, and slammed to a dead stop.
The second car didn't slow. It surged into the curve and punched up on our left, its front end ramming our rear door over and over. Metal groaned with every impact.
"Feodor. End it," Kiryan ordered, his heartbeat so steady it was almost terrifying.
"Got it." Feodor tightened both hands on the wheel. "Ma'am—hold on."
The engine roared. He eased off just enough to let their bumper slide ahead half a length. Then he punched it—hard. Our car surged, dropped left, and smashed into them.
Their car snapped sideways, smoke and burnt rubber stinging the air.
Feodor steadied us and drove out of the kill zone.
Kiryan looked down at me. "Are you hurt?"
I shook my head.
His thumb brushed my cheekbone, like he had to be sure himself. The rough pad scraped lightly across my skin, and my breath stuttered.
"We are safe now," he said.
I should've pulled away from the warmth of his arms. Then I saw the thin line of blood at his ear.
"You're bleeding."
"Just a scrape."
I lifted my hand. He caught my wrist before my fingers reached it, his palm scorching.
"Do you always call bleeding a scrape?"
"Compared to what I've taken, it is nothing."
He sounded flat, like it meant nothing. I thought of the scars on him—knife marks, bullet wounds. Just now, he'd used that battered body to shield me from everything.
"You didn't have to protect me like that."
"I did."
"Because I am Mrs. Morozova?"
"Because you are my wife."
My heart slammed against my ribs.
From the front, Feodor cleared his throat, not exactly sincere. "I hate to interrupt, but we need to switch cars. Backup handled the rest. Any survivors are getting delivered for questioning."
Kiryan finally let me go, his face snapping back into that hard mask.
"Figure out the cars, the guns, the route, the money. Lock this down. No leaks."
"Understood," Feodor said. "The banquet called twice already. Vasily got there."
"I'm going as planned."
I stared at Kiryan. "Someone just tried to kill you."
"Exactly why I have to show up." He wiped the blood at his ear with a handkerchief.
"The deal with Vasily tonight decides Morozov's shipping lanes for the next year.
If I don't walk in, everyone at that table will start recalculating.
And whoever hid behind this will learn that a few bullets can change my mind. "
That kind of calm should've scared me.
But the image of him covering me—taking the danger first—turned fear into something else. Something sharper. Worse.
A new armored car rolled up fast.
Before the door opened, Kiryan checked my face, then the dress. Both were untouched.
"Can you still do this?" His hand paused on my shoulder.
It was the first time he'd asked what I could handle instead of ordering me to.
"I can."
"Don't be tough for no reason."
"I'm not." I hesitated. "You're going to protect me, right?"
His gaze darkened. He didn't deny it.
He opened the door, his palm settling at my lower back again, guiding me into the other armored car.
And I hated myself for wishing his hand would stay there a little longer.