Chapter 12
Elena
"Where the hell do you think you're going?"
His low voice rolled in from behind me just as one foot hit the carpet.
Golden sunlight leaked through a crack in the curtains, lighting up a strange charcoal-gray rug and those cold, minimalist touches.
This wasn't my room.
Last night slammed back into me all at once. The studio. Kiryan's naked body. And those eyes on the sketch paper—like they'd been staring straight at me. I remembered leaning on his shoulder, talking, my lids getting heavier and heavier. After that—nothing. Blank.
Lately that sudden, crushing sleepiness had been hitting more and more.
A strong arm hooked around my waist and yanked me back into the warm blankets. His chest pressed to my back. Even through thin fabric, I felt the hard line of his muscles and the steady, brutal thud of his heart.
"Kiryan." I fought him. "Let go of me."
"Answer me first." He leaned in by my ear, his just-woke-up voice rougher than usual. "You are my wife. Why are you running from your husband's bed?"
Wife. Husband.
The words landed, and my face went up in flames. I didn't remember leaving the studio. I didn't remember how I ended up in this bed. Not a single second.
"I'm not running." I braced a hand against his forearm. "I just want to go back to my own room."
"This is your room."
"You didn't say that before."
I hadn't forgotten how he'd dumped me in the farthest room from his and ordered me to stay out of his sight unless it was necessary. Even after his apology last night, it still felt fake. Like a trick I hadn't figured out yet.
He went quiet for a beat, then loosened his hold. The second I tried to move, he planted an arm and caged me between him and the mattress.
Morning light cut across his jaw, caught the faint scar there, and lit the soft lines at the corners of his eyes. His mussed brown-black hair took the edge off his usual ice-cold severity—didn't do a damn thing to soften the pressure of him.
What rattled me more was the way he looked at me.
Too tender. Too damn gentle.
"So I am changing it," he said. "You fell asleep last night. I carried you in here. And you slept wrapped around me all night. Now you want to run? Kinda late for that."
My heartbeat skipped.
His fingers slid along my wrist to my ring finger. That was when I saw it—Isabella's custom diamond was gone, leaving a pale red groove behind.
"Where is my ring?"
"I took it off." His thumb brushed the mark. "It didn't fit you."
"So you stole it while I was asleep?"
My finger felt bare. So did my chest. The ring hadn't been meant for me, but it still had been proof—something that said this marriage was real.
"It was cutting you." His tone left zero room for debate. "I had someone make you a new one. One that actually fits."
He dipped his head and pressed his lips to my ring finger, soft as a promise.
Heat shot straight up my spine.
"Do you measure every woman like that when they need a new ring?"
"I only have one wife." He held my gaze. "You."
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
"What I told you last night, I meant it." His fingers stayed wrapped around my ring finger. "I am done with the asshole shit. I am going to learn how to be a husband you can live with."
I stared at him, my eyes burning. The promise wasn't pretty. It was blunt and rough around the edges—pure Kiryan. And that was exactly why it felt real.
"You said marrying you would be the biggest mistake of my life."
A muscle jumped in his brow. "I take that back."
"You can take back something you said?"
"Most people can't. I can." He paused, those dark-gray eyes locking on like a trap. "Because you agreeing to marry me is the best luck I ever got. I just figured it out too damn late."
It felt like he squeezed my heart in his fist—yet my mouth betrayed me and lifted at the corner.
"Has the great Mr. Morozov run out of apologies yet?"
"Not even close." He leaned in. "But if you keep pushing, I find another way to shut you up."
His gaze dropped to my lips. His breath brushed my skin. The threat in that line was so obvious my body lit up like live wire, my fingers curling against his chest.
He kissed me—hard, like he'd finally been given permission. I tipped my face up and took it. His stubble scraped, a sharp little burn. When his tongue pushed past my teeth, he stole my breath clean.
Under my palm, he was all hard heat. My hand clenched without thinking. He felt it and deepened the kiss, his other hand sliding down my waist, then lower—between my thighs.
I was already soaked.
His fingers circled over my panties and the sensation made my back arch. A sound broke out of me before I could swallow it.
Kiryan muttered a curse. He yanked my clothes off, fast. A second later I was bare, and he ground himself up my thigh, searching—finding me.
He started to pull at his pants—
The doorknob turned.
Kiryan moved like a weapon. He snatched the blanket and covered me completely. Darkness dropped over my head. I only heard the door swing open and Olga's big, no-nonsense voice.
"It's already two in the afternoon, ma'am—" She cut off.
Two?
I'd begged Olga to wake me early these next couple of days. Kiryan's birthday was less than ten days away. The seating chart, the cake, the wine list—I still had to sign off on everything. If I dragged this out any longer, the surprise I'd planned for him was going to turn into a disaster.
"Olga. Get out," Kiryan said, and for once he sounded more tired than angry.
"I knocked three times. You two were the ones who didn't hear it.
" She sounded amused. "Elena said she'd be up early to go over a few arrangements with me.
Everyone downstairs has been waiting on her call.
She didn't show, so I came to check." The smile was in her voice now.
"Well. Now I know why. I'll shut the door for you. Nobody's coming back up."
I shut my eyes. My face burned even hotter.
Olga finished, then the door clicked closed.
Kiryan lifted a corner of the blanket, and light spilled back in. His mouth twitched like he couldn't stop the grin.
"This is all your fault," I muttered.
"Yeah?" His voice went low. "Who was the one holding onto me like she wasn't letting go?"
I yanked the blanket over my head again. He wrapped an arm around me, and his laugh rumbled through the fabric, vibrating right through my chest.
Last night's apology. This morning's promise.
For a second, I actually believed God might have decided to cut me a break.
Time disappeared in the rush of planning Kiryan's birthday party.
Kiryan didn't care about parties. He never had. I still thought he needed warmth sometimes—something real, even if he pretended he didn't.
He hated flashy decorations. He didn't touch anything too sweet. I had them take down the gold flower wall and swap it for simple greenery. The cake stayed rich but not cloying. The wine followed the years Olga recommended.
"You know what he wants better than he does," Olga said.
I only smiled.
I didn't tell her I'd memorized those details back when I'd been quietly in love with him.
He never drank dessert wine at parties. He couldn't stand people showing up late.
When someone laid on boring compliments, he tapped the side of his glass with his knuckle like he was counting seconds until he could leave.
Back then, I'd watched him from across crowded rooms.
Now I stood beside him.
The night of the party, the second Kiryan came downstairs, the chatter in the ballroom dropped like someone had turned a dial. He wore a black suit, his brown-black hair slicked back. That hard, grown-man presence made people part automatically, like they didn't even realize they were moving.
Kiryan stopped in front of me, his eyes hot on my body.
"You look beautiful tonight."
"Thanks." Heat flared in my chest, uncontrollable. "Happy birthday, Kiryan."
He held out his hand. When I put mine in his, his thumb slowly stroked across my knuckles.
I'd had his gift ready for days, waiting to give it to him after the party, alone. It was a custom watch. The price nearly wiped out everything I'd saved from selling my paintings. I hadn't hesitated when I swiped the card.
And on the back, I hadn't picked some generic shop engraving. I'd designed it myself—a simple line drawing of Kiryan. I thought he'd like that. Something quiet. Personal.
The first half of the night went damn near perfect. When he introduced me, he smiled. His arm stayed around my waist the whole time.
It might've been the happiest I'd ever been.
Then, while Kiryan and I stood with champagne, making polite rounds, the ballroom doors swung open.
The people closest to the entrance went silent first. Then the quiet spread outward in ripples, rolling toward the center until the whole room stared at the doorway.
I looked.
And there she was.
Isabella.
She wore a long white dress. She still looked elegant, composed—only now she carried something fragile, like she might crack if someone breathed wrong.
Kiryan still held my hand, but his grip loosened.
My blood went cold.
Under everyone's eyes, Isabella walked toward us, step by step. When she stopped in front of us, her eyes were already red.
"Kiryan... you two are together?" She looked at our joined hands and forced a smile that didn't reach anywhere.
I waited for his answer. I pictured him saying it—claiming me in front of her, in front of everyone.
Instead, he let go.
My palm went empty. So did my heart. A sick premonition crawled up my throat, and all I could do was pray it was wrong.
He stepped toward her. "Why did you come back?"
"Was I not supposed to?" Tears slid down Isabella's cheeks. "I thought I could forget you. I couldn't."
The guests kept their faces polite, but their eyes fed on it—sharp, hungry, gleeful. A bride swapped at the last minute. Isabella vanishing, then returning in full view. They'd dine out on this for months.
Isabella turned her gaze on me.
"Elena. Congratulations. You got everything."