Chapter 10 – Konstantin
Night presses in around the mansion, thick and heavy. The grounds are crawling with guards, their flashlights cutting through the darkness, but the intruder has vanished—slipped away like smoke, leaving nothing but tension behind.
I return to the secure room where I left Raelyn hours ago, my hair mussed, shirt unbuttoned at the throat, fingers still tingling from the adrenaline that hasn’t yet drained. The echo of alarms, the pounding of boots—it all lingers in my veins.
She’s sitting curled in the armchair, a blanket draped around her shoulders, pale in the dim light yet unyielding. Her eyes are fixed on me, unwavering, measuring, calculating.
I close the door behind me and lock it—not to cage her, but to keep everything else out. To keep the world, and its dangers, at bay for just a few minutes.
She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t move. She just watches. And I feel it—the weight of her gaze. Sharp, unflinching, almost defiant.
I cross to her slowly, fighting the instinct to pull her into my arms. Her fear had gutted me earlier. Now, I mask it behind austere calm, but my heartbeat hasn’t settled since the moment I read the note.
I kneel beside her again—just as I did the night she cried after the wedding—and she meets my gaze with wary eyes.
“This isn’t just about hiding you,” I say quietly, voice low, careful. “Your father…he wasn’t simply a good man who vanished. He betrayed the wrong syndicate. He infiltrated Markov’s network. He uncovered information so dangerous that I’ve spent two years tracking its echoes.”
Her eyes widen slightly, disbelief and fear mingling.
“And then…he disappeared,” I continue, voice tighter now, controlled but raw underneath. “Not by accident. Not by choice.”
I don’t tell her everything. Not the worst part—the suspicion that he was tortured before death—but I know she sees something grim in my expression anyway.
“Do you…think he’s still alive?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.
I don’t answer. The silence stretches, heavy, painful, and honest. My chest tightens. I let her absorb it. She doesn’t speak again. She just leans back slightly, shivering under the blanket, and I let the quiet fill the room.
Her voice breaks the tension softly. “I…I’ve spent years hoping for a message. A clue. Anything.”
I place my hand over hers, steadying, grounding. My thumb brushes across her knuckles. “I promise you,” I murmur, low, deliberate. Not as a captor…not as a husband…but as the man who is becoming dangerously attached to her. “I will uncover the truth.”
She doesn’t pull away. Her fingers twitch, almost hesitantly, but she leaves them in mine.
I rise slowly and extend my hand, drawing her up with me. “You’re too exposed in this wing of the mansion,” I say quietly, my voice firm, leaving no room for argument. “Tonight, you’ll sleep in my room.”
Her eyes flash defiance, but the fear still lingering in the corners of her gaze softens it. She doesn’t resist. Not fully. Not tonight. She follows me, a reluctant but necessary compliance settling between us like a fragile truce.
I lead her into my room and close the door behind us.
The space feels different with her in it—smaller, charged, too intimate.
I move to the bed and sit on the edge, elbows braced on my thighs.
She stays near the doorway, arms wrapped around herself, eyes darting like she’s measuring exits that don’t exist.
“Rest,” I tell her.
“No,” she says immediately. Her voice is steadier than I expected. “I’m done being moved around without answers.”
I exhale through my nose, slow and controlled. Frustration curls tight in my chest. “Raelyn—”
“I want to understand,” she cuts in. “What’s happening. Why this is escalating. Why everyone keeps circling me like I’m already dead.”
Silence stretches. I drag a hand down my face and look up at her. Really look. Pale. Exhausted. Furious. Still standing.
“Markov is circling you,” I say finally. “Not guessing. Not watching from a distance. Circling. He’s testing my perimeter because he believes you’re leverage.”
Her jaw tightens. “So I’m bait.”
“No.” The word comes out sharp. I stand before I realize I’m moving. “You’re prey.”
Her breath catches.
“He doesn’t want you dead,” I continue, voice low. “He wants you afraid. Isolated. Dependent. And if he can’t get to you directly, he’ll destabilize everything around you until you break.”
She swallows. “And marrying me stopped that?”
“It slowed him down.” I hesitate, the next words pressing hard against my teeth. “It told him you’re under my protection. That touching you is a declaration of war.”
“And that’s all?” she asks quietly.
I should stop here. I don’t.
“I married you because I couldn’t allow another man to own your future.”
The words land between us like a strike.
Her eyes widen. “That’s not strategy.”
“No,” I say, just as quietly. “It isn’t.”
I see it then—the confusion, yes, but beneath it something darker. Awareness. Heat. The same dangerous pull coiled tight in my own chest.
“You didn’t have the right,” she whispers.
“I know.”
“Then why?” Her voice wavers. “Why say that to me?”
Because I’m tired of lying. Because the truth has teeth.
“Because the thought of someone else deciding what happens to you—hurting you, breaking you, claiming you—makes something inside me go feral,” I say. “And I don’t trust that part of myself. But I trust it more than I trust Markov.”
I step closer before I can stop myself. Close enough that her breath stutters. Close enough that the space between us disappears. My fingers lift, almost hesitant, and then I touch her jaw—carefully, with the same ruinous tenderness that undid me last night.
“You’re safe now,” I tell her.
She swallows. Her eyes don’t leave mine. “Safety isn’t the same thing as living.”
Something hardens in my expression. Not anger. Resolve.
“You will live,” I say quietly. “And you will live with me.”
Her lips part, but no argument comes. Just exhaustion. Fear. Too much adrenaline burned away. I open my arms, not commanding, not forcing—just offering.
“Come here,” I murmur.
She hesitates for a heartbeat. Then she steps into me.
She melts against my chest like she’s been holding herself together with sheer will alone. My arms close around her automatically, anchoring, steady. Her forehead presses into my shoulder. I feel the tremor run through her body, deep and involuntary.
I guide her to the bed, slow and careful, and ease her down. When I lie behind her, I keep my distance at first—my body rigid with restraint. But when she shivers, when her breath turns shallow, I reach out.
I draw her back into my chest.
She fits there too easily.
Her back settles against me, her head tucked beneath my chin. My arm wraps around her waist, firm but protective, my hand resting flat against her stomach as if I can keep the world out by sheer force of will.
She relaxes. Slowly. Finally.
Outside, boots move along stone. Radios murmur. Guards patrol the perimeter as shadows press closer to the estate walls. I don’t sleep. I listen. I calculate. I plan.
Danger is tightening.
Markov is getting bold.
And anyone who tries to take her again will die.
Because Raelyn Hart is no longer collateral.
She is mine.