Chapter 39
CHAPTER 39
VIKTORIA
"I 'm not marrying you until I get my degree." My voice was surprisingly steady, but my hands betrayed my rage, trembling at my sides until I balled them into tight fists.
The degree wasn't just a piece of paper to me.
It represented everything I'd fought for, my independence, my worth, my future.
Every class I passed was a victory over my father's legacy, proof that I was more than someone's possession.
I'd clawed my way into that university, earned every credit hour. The thought of giving up that identity, that hard-won achievement, sent panic spiraling through me.
Three weeks.
We'd had three blissful weeks of peace because he was healing and too weak to be a dick.
Now, standing before me in nothing but low-slung sweatpants that revealed the bandages along his ribs and high on his arm, he somehow still managed to look formidable.
"Yes, you are. It's the only way." Artem had healed surprisingly well.
His arrogance had come back in full force, along with the hard planes of muscle that were beginning to redefine his chest and abdomen.
The intensity in his eyes told me this wasn't mere stubbornness.
Something had changed. There was an urgency in his posture, a tightness around his mouth that spoke of deeper concerns.
But I wasn't going to let his fears, whatever they were, dictate my life.
"No." I forced my eyes to stay on his face rather than drop to the enticing V-line disappearing into his waistband. "I don't want to be married until after I finish my degree. This isn't up for debate."
My mother had given up everything for my father.
I'd watched her fade into a shadow of herself, year by year, until she was nothing but an extension of his will.
Then she was gone, and all that remained were whispers of who she might have been.
I couldn't—wouldn't—follow that path.
"You're right," he said, giving me a smug look.
I wanted to slap him and kiss him simultaneously.
"It's not. We'll be married as soon as I can arrange it."
"No!" My scream bouncing off the cabin walls.
The memory of our conversation in front of the fireplace flashed through my mind—his promise, his solemn vow that things would be different. That I would have choices, that he would respect me as a partner rather than a possession.
Weeks ago when we'd talked, we had a real heart-to-heart.
I thought we had come to an understanding. I would listen when he told me we needed to do things, and he would explain why and then give me a choice.
Informing me we were going to get married was not a choice.
"It has to happen like this, Viktoria." His voice softened, but his eyes remained fierce. "I'm sorry if it's not the big lavish wedding you wanted. We can do that when it's safe, but right now, you need to have my last name."
He stepped closer, the heat from his body radiating against mine. "You said you wouldn't fight when it came to your safety."
His proximity clouded my thinking.
My body's instinctive response to him was infuriating; even now, in the midst of my anger, I yearned to lean into his warmth.
I backed away, needing distance to think clearly. "No, I said I wouldn't run from you. I said I'd listen as you explained why certain things needed to happen. You said you would give me a choice."
My body trembled slightly as I recalled the night I'd nearly lost him—the blood soaking through his bandages, the way his eyes had fixed on mine before consciousness slipped away.
I'd promised then that I would stay, that I wouldn't run.
But staying didn't mean surrendering myself completely.
"Are you saying you don't want to marry me?" His jaw clenched, and I caught the flash of vulnerability beneath his anger.
That glimpse of uncertainty tugged at something deep inside me. For a moment, I could see beneath the armor. The man who had been shot protecting me, who had risked everything to keep me safe.
He was afraid.
Not just of external threats, but of losing me. The realization softened something in my chest, but I couldn't let it weaken my resolve.
"I don't want to marry anyone until after I have my degree," I said, running a hand through my hair in frustration. "This is important to me, Artem. I can't just be the obedient wife sitting and waiting for you to come home."
My mother's hollow eyes haunted me.
The way she would sit by the window, waiting for my father's return. How she measured her words, her movements, her very breath according to his moods. How the light had slowly gone out of her until there was nothing left.
His eyes darkened as they tracked the movement of my hand. "No one is asking you to. I'm informing you we will get married so?—"
"No, we won't." I cut him off, my pulse racing. "I want a degree and a career first."
The degree was my shield, my protection against becoming nothing more than an extension of him.
It was the difference between choosing him and being trapped by him.
Why couldn't he understand that?
"Why can't you do that with my last name?" Irritation laced through every syllable as we both paced back and forth in the living room of the small cabin, circling each other like predators.
He reached out to pull me against him, his hand grazing the curve of my waist, but I stepped away and wrapped my arms around my chest.
Hurt flashed in his eyes, quickly replaced with a burning intensity.
I didn't care.
Fuck, I did care.
That was the problem.
His pain affected me, made me want to soothe him, to surrender.
But I couldn't.
Not in this.
This was the line I had to draw if I was going to preserve any part of myself in this relationship.
He wasn't listening, and I wasn't about to let him hold me or comfort me while he was still trying to cage me.
We'd tried staying in Gregor’s lake house while Solovyov was still targeting the Ivanovs. But although all the tunnels were sealed and the traitor who had let the attackers through security had been "dealt with," it still didn't feel safe.
Artem wasn't about to put me in any situation that wasn't completely secure. Especially not before he was completely healed.
He had preferred to stay closer to his family, and I couldn't argue.
Except Pavel was always here.
He was sitting on the sofa while Artem and I argued, watching us like he wished he had a bowl of popcorn. I didn't even know when he'd arrived.
"Because it's not my name," I argued, ignoring Pavel's presence.
I tried not to notice how Artem's chest rose and fell with each deep breath, the muscles in his arms flexing as he crossed them.
A memory surfaced—my father's hand gripping my shoulder as he introduced me to business associates. "This is my daughter," he would say, not "This is Viktoria." I was nothing but an extension of him, a possession without an identity.
I'd sworn I would never be reduced to someone else's appendage again.
"That's what I'm trying to fix." Artem's voice dropped lower, a threatening rumble that raised goose bumps on my arms.
"No, if I'm an Ivanov, then nothing I do will be earned," I insisted, forcing myself to focus. "I'll always wonder if every grade I get, every passing score, is because I deserve it or because they're terrified of my husband."
I thought of Professor Stevens and his cruelty, how easily Artem had removed him.
While part of me had felt a dark satisfaction at his fate, it was also terrifying.
One word from Artem, and people disappeared.
How could I ever trust that my achievements were my own in a world where his influence held such power?
"They should be terrified of me now, regardless of your last name," he growled, taking a step closer. This time I held my ground, our bodies inches apart. "But they won't know until you are my wife."
I threw my hands up in frustration.
This man was impossible.
And impossibly attractive, even in his stubborn rage.
My mind flashed to the day he was shot. How he'd looked on that makeshift operating table, pale and bloody. How my heart had stopped, how I'd known with sudden clarity that I couldn't lose him. That memory warred with my need for independence, creating a storm of conflicting emotions inside me.
"I need to have the freedom to make the decision, Artem," I cried, my voice cracking with emotion. "I need to know the man I love respects me enough to let me choose how I live my life."
His eyes flared at my accidental admission.
I loved him.
We both knew it, but neither of us had said it aloud until now.
The tension between us shifted, charging the air with something beyond anger.
"No, not with this," he said, with deadly calm. "You don't get to bide your time so you can weigh your options with other men."
Other men? Who said anything about other men?
This man was infuriating.
For a moment, I saw us as we could be, partners, equals, building something together instead of this constant battle for control. I wanted that future with a fierceness that scared me. But it couldn't happen if he insisted on making all the decisions.
My legs ached from pacing quick circles around the room, but I was too angry to stand still. The blood was rushing through my veins, every nerve ending hypersensitive.
It took far more strength than I should have needed to stop myself from throwing something at him. I would have probably given in to the temptation if we didn't have an audience.
If I escalated this fight, with or without Pavel here, it would only end one way.
If I let this fight get physical, we'd end up in bed, still arguing about the same points.
But my head would be hazy with hormones, and I would want to give in to him.
And God help me, the thought was tempting enough I almost reached for the nearest breakable object.
"Maybe you two should compromise," Pavel said as if on cue.
Both of us turned on his brother, our irritation uniting against a common enemy. His eyes widened as if he knew what he had done, and he looked around the room, refusing to make eye contact.
"Pavel, I swear to God—" Artem started, the muscles in his back rippling as he tensed.
"Why are you even here?" I finished, equally annoyed at the interruption.
"Because we all know that you two fight and then fuck," Pavel said bluntly, raising an eyebrow. "And Mikhail says Artem needs to heal more before that happens, so I'm chaperoning." He gave us a cheesy smile. "And I heard you yelling, and I was a little worried she was going to finish what Solovyov failed to do."
My cheeks burned at his crude assessment of our relationship, but I couldn't exactly deny it.
"See," I said, pointing at Pavel, deciding to use his obnoxious presence to my advantage. "Do you really want to not consummate our marriage on our wedding night?"
I planted my hands on my hips and looked at Artem like I had won.
A challenge sparked in his eyes, and I should have known better.
For a fleeting moment, I saw understanding in his gaze—a recognition of what this meant to me, what I was fighting for. Something in his expression softened, and I thought maybe, just maybe, he was finally hearing me.
But then his expression changed, hardened with determined.
This was the man who had faced down intruders in his home, who had taken bullets rather than surrender.
He wasn't going to back down now.
Artem's gaze raked down my body, hot and possessive, stirring tingles all over my skin.
Without warning, he closed the distance between us, his broad hand splaying across my lower back as he hoisted me over his good shoulder in one fluid motion.
"Stop! You'll tear your stitches!" I gasped, suddenly far too aware of his warm palm against the bare skin where my shirt had ridden up.
His fingers pressed into my thigh, close to the curve of my ass.
"Where are you taking me?"
"To a priest," Artem growled, the vibration of his voice traveling through my body as he strolled out the door without a single falter in his step. "I'm done arguing, and don't worry, princess, I am well enough to make damn sure this marriage is thoroughly consummated."
As he carried me away, a strange mix of emotions churned inside me, frustration, anger, despair...and beneath it all, an unwelcome thread of exhilaration.
Part of me—a part I wasn't ready to acknowledge—thrilled at his determination, at the unstoppable force of him.
But another part mourned what might have been.
The chance to come to him as an equal, to choose him freely rather than be claimed like territory.
Whatever happened next, I knew one thing with certainty: this battle wasn't over.
Not by a long shot.