Sofia
I wake up knowing exactly where I am.
That's the strange part. No disorientation.
No panicked second where I have to inventory my surroundings and figure out if I'm safe.
I just know. The sheets smell like him. A delicious spicy aroma with a hint of cedar that I snuggled up against all night.
For so long, that scent has taken me back to that night, but it never brought terror.
I never understood why until last night.
That was the scent of salvation.
I'm in Sergei Sokolov's brownstone, and I slept eight uninterrupted hours for the first time in weeks. In. His. Arms.
I lie still for a moment and let myself be annoyed about that.
I feel the tenderness between my legs. Feel the whisker burns against my chin. I feel him all over me.
And I don’t hate it.
I stare at the high ceiling from my position in the massive bed. There's a painting on the wall I didn't notice last night. Abstract. Dark blues and greens, expensive-looking but not showy. I think about what it means that a man like him chose that painting. The first thing he sees every morning.
It must have meaning.
Then I tell myself I'm not doing that. I'm not reading into his art choices and trying to make him something he’s not.
He’s still a dangerous rival.
And my husband.
Oh, and the man that saved me three years ago.
It’s hard to put all of that together.
I decide not to try before I’ve had some serious caffeine.
His shirt is still draped on the chair. I realize I have no clothes except for my wedding dress.
I’m not interested in seeing my things in his space.
Not yet. That is going to require some getting used to.
That is confirmation that my life as I knew it is over.
It almost feels like admitting defeat. I’m not ready to do that.
I pull on the shirt. It falls to mid-thigh, which is fine. Practical. The fact that it smells like him is annoying and awesome in equal measure.
I find my way to the bathroom and freeze.
I stand in the doorway taking inventory. Marble tile, matte black fixtures, a double vanity that's ruthlessly clean. On one side, there is a bottle of cologne, a razor, and a mouthwash. I pick up the cologne—no label I recognize, which means custom. I put it back exactly where I found it.
And then my eyes are drawn to the assortment of products in a pretty basket on the other side of the vanity.
“What the hell?” I murmur.
It’s all my favorites. The hand soap I love that is foamy and smells like mint. Matching lotion. I jerk open the drawer and find my night cream, a box of the face masks I use and every other thing packed into my bathroom at home.
Except these aren’t mine. They’re all new. Same products.
How?
When?
It’s like he’s been planning this moment.
The question I’m afraid to consider is how long.
I shake off the unease. I’ve never shared a space with anyone. Definitely not a man. It’s unsettling. And intimate.
I sigh and take in the rest of the massive bathroom.
The tub is obscene.
Freestanding, deep enough to disappear into, with a view of the small backyard if you want it. I stand at the edge of it for a moment and let myself imagine it. Hot water. Quiet. No one trying to kill me.
I take advantage of the toiletries before heading out in search of coffee. I didn’t get the official tour, but I’ve been in brownstones before—tall and narrow. The kitchen is always on the ground floor.
I walk down the dark-paneled hall that is devoid of any art, which makes me think the piece in his room is special.
I follow the rich aroma of good coffee. Unlike the second floor, the bottom floor is flooded with natural light. Still plenty of dark features, but the back of the house opens to the backyard.
And then I’m in the kitchen.
He's at the island. Wall Street Journal, actual print, in hand. A coffee mug in the other. He doesn't look up. I notice he’s dressed in slacks and a black button down with the top three buttons undone. His hair is perfectly styled.
How long has he been awake?
There's a French press waiting. And next to it, a small bottle of chocolate creamer. The kind I like. Not a brand that makes any sense in this kitchen. My specific creamer, the one my trainer would lecture me about but I refused to give it up.
I pour a cup and add the creamer and drink it standing up.
My eyes move around the very large and beautiful kitchen with a breakfast nook in the far corner.
Black appliances, white counters and dark cabinets give the place a very modern but comfortable look.
The island could easily seat eight people.
There’s no awkward tension, which I expected. He saw me naked. And I saw him in all his glory.
And I hate that I want another look.
I steal a look. His strong hands. Those fingers that had been inside me. Pleasuring me.
No.
Do not go there.
Sergei sets the paper down, gets up and moves to the refrigerator. I watch him pull out eggs, butter and what looks like fresh herbs. He moves around his kitchen like he does it all the time.
That’s not something I would have expected.
He cracks eggs into a bowl, chops the herbs and tosses them in and then he’s cooking.
I can’t look away.
I have at least three hundred questions but I don’t know where to start. This is all so overwhelming. I choose to leave that for later.
"I have class at ten," I say.
"I know your schedule."
"That's not unsettling at all. Or the fact you have all my toiletries in the bathroom.”
The corner of his mouth moves.
"Yuri is still active," he says. He doesn't stop cooking. "Until I know where he is, I'd rather you stayed close."
"Close meaning here?"
"Close meaning somewhere I can control."
I set my cup down. "I'm going to class."
"Sofia—"
"I'm going." Flat. Final. Not angry. "Yuri doesn't get to stop me from living my life. If I hide, he wins something. I'm not giving him that."
He looks at me then. Those eyes are very blue in the morning light, and I'm starting to understand they're not actually cold—they're just crystal-clear. There's a difference.
"I'll have someone with you," he says.
I want to remind him I have my own guards. Then I remember I don’t. I don’t have confirmation, but I believe they betrayed me. Or maybe Gregor’s dead.
And then I think about Anton. Can I trust him?
Yes.
I refuse to accept any other option.
“I have a guard,” I tell him.
“Anton.”
I roll my eyes. There’s nothing this man doesn’t know.
“Yes. When he’s healthy, I want him protecting me.”
“We’ll see.”
Those blue eyes lock on mine. He’s so fucking bossy!
I want to throw my cup at his head.
He slides the eggs onto a plate and sets it on the island. He opens a drawer and hands me a fork. I snatch it out of his hand and sit down at the island to eat. And dammit, the eggs are perfection. So, my husband kills people by night and cooks by day.
I thought having a father that ran a bratva was weird.
“My clothes. I need clothes.”
His eyes run over my body.
“They’re in the closet.”
I blink. “How?”
“During the wedding I had your things from the penthouse moved over.”
“You could have mentioned that.
“I just did.”
“What about my things at home.”
“You’re home.”
I roll my eyes. “My other home.”
“Your father’s estate.”
He’s not going to give on this. “Yes! My clothes. I have a closet full of stuff I like.”
“You’ll buy new.”
Arguing is futile. That’s fine. I’ll let him think he won.
I finish my eggs, leave the plate on the counter in a show of defiance and stomp out of the kitchen. Childish? Yes. Do I care? No.
I don’t know how to be compliant. That steals my power.
I go back to the bedroom, open the closet and sure enough, the new wardrobe I had delivered a few days ago is now in his closet.
After showering and dressing, I find Nelson waiting for me downstairs.
“Ready?” he asks with that smile I should have recognized way earlier.
He’s a chameleon. Today, he looks like a blue-collar worker. Boots, jeans and worn t-shirt.
This explains why I never picked up on him following me.
I'm going to do better. Be more observant.
Class is abnormally normal, and I am grateful for every tedious second of it. The professor is going through material I know, which means I can sit in the back and consider my life choices. Choice might be a strong word. My hand was forced.
After class, I walk out of the lecture hall to find Nelson waiting for me.
“I’m going home,” I announce.
“Okay.”
“Not Sergei’s home—mine.”
“Your home is Sergei’s home.”
I slowly shake my head. “I’m going to talk to my father, and I’m going to pack as much as I can. I want my things.”
“I can’t allow that.”
I laugh. “Nelson, you’ve been watching me for a while now, right?”
He doesn’t answer.
“I’m going. You can go with me with your balls intact, or you can try and stop me and I promise you, I’ll get at least one before you overpower me.”
He flinches. “You’re mean.”
“I’m determined.”
“I’m going in with you.”
“That’s fine, but I’ll want to talk to my father alone.”
“I’ll be outside the room.”
“Fine.”
“I have to clear this with Sergei.”
The idea that I have to ask for permission pisses me off. I’m not going to be an obedient wife. That’s not me.
“You can tell him I’m going, but I’m not asking for anything,” I reply.
We walk to the parking lot with the waiting SUV. Nelson is on the phone for about ten seconds.
“Sergei wants you in and out in ten minutes.”
I snort but I don’t admit I had zero plans to hang out.
We’re followed by a second SUV. The guards at the gate of my father’s estate try to prevent entry, but my father gives the order to let us through.
At the front door, a guard informs me my father is in the sitting room.
“Stay,” I order Nelson.
I’m not happy Sergei insisted three additional guards accompany me home.
Okay, I’m a little happy because I honestly wouldn’t put it past my father to try and murder me.
That’s a topic for another therapy session.
My father is in the sitting room when I walk in.
He looks worse. He's in his chair by the window. The oxygen tank is visible today. He used to hide it when I came. He's stopped bothering.
That tells me everything.
His time is short. I wait to feel the hurt. Sadness. It’s not there. It probably would have been six months ago. Maybe even a month ago. But now I know he doesn’t love me. I don’t know that he ever did. I was his heir—until I wasn’t.
He sees me and sits up a little straighter. He reaches up to remove the nasal cannula.
“Leave it,” I tell him. “I want you fully conscious for this conversation.”
"Sit down," he says.
"I'd rather stand."
He doesn't like it. Good.
"You got married without telling me. Without my blessing. Without even a phone call."
"Yes."
"Sokolov." He says it with disgust. "You married Sergei Sokolov."
"I did."
"Why."
"Because Yuri was going to kill me," I say, "and you weren't going to stop him."
Silence.
"You could have come to me.”
"I did come to you." I stare at him and see him for the weak person he truly is and always has been. When all the violence is stripped away, he’s just a man. "You told me to handle it. I did."
"You didn't need to hand yourself to Sokolov. He’s our enemy."
"I didn't hand myself to anyone. I made a deal." I take a step toward him. I’m in the position of power. “I’m protecting myself and your legacy.”
"He'll absorb us. Everything I built will fall under him."
“No, it won’t. I made sure to protect the Baranov name.
It’s all I've ever been trying to do. Protect what you built.
Be what you raised me to be." I stop when I hear my voice shaking.
I refuse to show weakness. He will never know that he hurt me.
"You have been very determined to make that impossible, but I didn’t do it to spite you, but in spite of you. "
He jerks the cannula from his nose. His eyes flash with fury.
"He's using you," my father says.
"Maybe." I think about his blue eyes and how gentle he was with me last night. "Or maybe I’m using him.”
I walk back to the door. “I’m getting my things. You’ll never see me again, but I am claiming my seat at the head of the table. Neither you nor Yuri will stop me. Consider yourself dethroned.” I’m about to walk out when I stop. “Send your men after me, and Sergei will kill them.”
My father doesn't tell me to stop. He doesn't call me back.
Nelson is right there. I know he overheard.
“My bedroom,” I tell him. “Upstairs.”
It takes five minutes to collect my personal belongings. I realize I don’t want any of it. I grab the box with pictures of my mother and the few things I have of her. I grab my favorite boots and the leather pouch with my weapons.
I pause to look around the bedroom I’ve been in since I was a baby. I remember the moment I found out my mother was dead. I hid in the closet and cried for hours until my father demanded I stop.
When I was a little girl, my mother had created a little reading nook in there. She filled it with books and a shag pink rug with a purple beanbag. Living in such a massive house, it was hard to feel truly protected and sheltered. That little space had been my safe haven.
And then my mother was gone.
My safe haven was removed when I was at school.
The little girl I was needed it.
I don’t. Not anymore.
That life is over.
I’m Sofia Sokolov, head of the Baranov bratva.