Chapter 8
ARTUR
Cherry opens the bedroom door, giving me access to my wife in front of the mirror.
Katie wears a dark green gown with no back, its satin following her hips toward the floor before opening along her left thigh whenever she shifts.
The front rises high across her collarbones, though the sides curve inward to expose the outer edges of her breasts.
The back is considerably worse.
Bare skin begins below the clasp at her neck and continues to the base of her spine, narrowing through her waist until the dress gathers over the upper curve of her ass. Brown hair lies over one shoulder, leaving every exposed inch available to my attention.
Cherry has pinned one side of Katie’s hair away from her face, leaving the other to fall in a dark wave over her bare shoulder.
Liner sharpens her brown eyes, muted red makes her mouth appear fuller, and small diamonds burn at her ears whenever she turns.
The gown covers more skin than the borrowed club costume, yet its dark green satin follows her waist, opens down her back, and gathers over her ass with a precision that makes concealment feel far more dangerous than nudity.
Katie chose every exposed inch. Knowing that turns the sight of her into a deliberate provocation.
She wears thin black heels under the hem, and when she turns toward the mirror, the slit opens high and shows the muscles along her thigh. I remember those legs around my waist and the way they held me inside her as I came.
Cherry holds out the loose ends of the neck clasp. “You can finish this. She threatened me when I suggested a less dangerous dress.”
“I said the blue one made me look upholstered,” Katie replies.
“That was the threat.” Cherry takes her makeup case and walks into the hall. “Try not to start the war before you leave the house.”
The door closes behind her as I approach Katie, whose eyes meet mine in the mirror when I take both ends of the narrow satin collar. The metal hook should require one second.
I take longer.
My knuckles move over the warm skin under her hair, sending a faint shiver down her spine. I secure the clasp, then trace the dress edge from her ribs toward her waist. The satin leaves her sides bare enough for my thumbs to reach the lower curves of her breasts.
I can see her nipples tighten under the fabric.
“The dress stays on tonight,” Katie says. Her voice is steady, but her breathing has changed.
“At the fight, yes.” I bend until my mouth touches the back of her neck. “When we come home, I’ll open this clasp with my teeth and put you over the bed before the dress reaches the floor.”
Heat colors the skin above the green collar. “That sounds hard on the stitching.”
“I’ll buy the designer.”
Katie turns between my hands. “You can’t solve every problem by purchasing the person responsible.”
“Then I’ll buy the company. Put on your shoes.”
At the order, her amusement fades slightly, a change I notice before continuing anyway.
As soon as I remember where we are going, desire recedes because the invitation came from a man who already sent killers through my club; tonight Katie will be surrounded by his soldiers.
In keeping her close to prevent another failure, I never consider how much that protection resembles possession to the woman being positioned.
The private fight occupies the ground floor of a converted textile warehouse south of downtown.
Its industrial bones remain visible above the black curtains—brick columns, rust-dark trusses, windows sealed behind heavy fabric—but white work lights draw a square ring out of the gloom with the ruthless clarity of an operating table.
Around it, linen-covered tables and cut-glass tumblers lend ceremony to the violence while men conduct business as two fighters bleed for their attention.
Money and brutality have dressed for the same evening.
Cigar smoke hangs beneath the rafters, disinfectant rises from the canvas, and each glove striking flesh carries past the ropes with a flat crack that turns conversation quiet for half a breath.
Near the bar, bills and chips change hands before the blood has time to darken.
Although Pasha calls the gathering neutral, his men control the loading doors and upper walkways, their silhouettes appearing whenever the work lights flare against the curtains.
Down the freight corridor, Dymov guards wait with the vehicles running.
Only after Boris checks every route does he signal that we can enter.
Refusing the invitation would have looked fearful; walking beneath those lights requires us to trust rules written by men who profit when rules fail.
Boris enters first, with Katie at my left as security checks the freight corridor. Ivan follows several steps behind us with two guards, drawing little notice because every important face turns toward Katie.
I introduce her to the neutral captains as my wife. The title changes the way they look at her. Curiosity stays, but nobody mistakes her for entertainment or reaches for the bare skin along her back.
Katie handles each introduction without borrowing my authority, and she remembers names and asks direct questions about the fighters. When a server offers champagne, she waits for Boris to confirm the bottle before accepting. The new wealth around her produces no visible awe.
Recognition crosses one captain’s face when he sees her from Velvet Fortune.
His attention pauses at her face, then drops toward the gown before he remembers the ring on her hand.
Katie notices the correction but, lifting her chin, continues asking about his wager as if his judgment has no effect on the conversation.
The correction pleases me, and I place one hand against the bare base of her spine, where every man watching can see it.
Pasha Saranov arrives before the first bout ends, and the men nearest the aisle create space before looking up to see why.
Silver touches his dark hair at both temples, age displayed as another form of wealth rather than something to hide.
His black suit contains no color except the red stone on his left hand, which catches the merciless ring lights whenever he gestures.
Although he is shorter than I am, the silence traveling ahead of him supplies all the height he requires.
Sergei walks at his right shoulder, younger than both of us, with dark blond hair and a fighter’s body under his dinner jacket. His face has the easy symmetry photographers prefer, though he notices Katie before Pasha reaches our table.
Pasha offers me his hand. “I was sorry to hear violence interrupted your wedding week. A man should enjoy peace with a new bride before discovering what she costs him.”
“Your concern arrived with impressive speed.”
His attention moves to Katie. “Mrs. Dymova, congratulations. Artur has always preferred efficient acquisitions, but choosing a wife from a private room sets a new standard. Most men rent before they purchase.”
Katie’s fingers tighten around the stem of her untouched glass.
“The private room paid better than your condolences,” she says. “I recommend improving the offer before you insult another working woman.”
A neutral captain coughs into his drink, but Pasha’s smile stays fixed as Sergei looks openly amused. I step between her and Pasha. “You’re speaking to my wife.”
“I know exactly who she is.” Pasha smiles without warmth. “The entire city does.”
The men nearest us have stopped pretending to watch the ring by the time Katie touches my arm. Her pressure is light, intended to tell me she can answer for herself, but I cover her hand before she speaks again and guide her away from Pasha’s table.
Her spine stays stiff under my palm; I know the touch is unwelcome and keep it there until Boris joins us.
“Stand with Boris,” I tell her quietly. “Don’t accept a drink from anyone else. You won’t speak to a Saranov man unless I’m beside you.”
Her hand leaves my sleeve. “I’m your wife, Artur. I’m not luggage you place beside whichever guard has a free hand.”
“Tonight you’ll stay where I know you are.”
Anger brings color into her face. “Try asking.”
Pasha watches the exchange with open interest, making any further argument careless.
“Stay near Boris,” I say, then turn toward a neutral captain waiting at the next table.
The anger in Katie’s face follows me, and she obeys for less than ten minutes.
I discuss shipping access with the captain as I track her through the polished steel behind the bar. She leaves Boris beside the bar and crosses to the edge of the ring, where Sergei stands alone.
He smiles before she reaches him, then bends closer to answer something I can’t hear near her ear. Katie laughs, letting her fingers rest on his sleeve with unmistakable deliberation.
Her eyes find my reflection once, then return to Sergei’s face. When he offers his glass, she refuses it, but she stays beside him as the next fighters enter the ring.
Sergei gives her the easier version of a dangerous man. Handsome and without scars visible above his collar, he bears no outward sign of sleepless nights or guarded houses; no dead brother’s photograph controls his decisions. He can flirt without turning the room into a threat assessment.
Katie may prefer that ease after a marriage that began with a gunshot and a contract; the fear isn’t imaginary. She chose my bed once, but one night of wanting me doesn’t promise she will keep choosing the life around me.
My chest contracts, my pulse hammering harder as pressure forms under my ribs near the scars the car bomb left behind.
My breath shortens as Katie gives another man the smile she used in my bed.
Sergei hasn’t earned it, though without chance and violence pushing Katie toward me, I may not have earned it either.