Page 70 of Betrayal and Vows

No, no, no.

I don't turn around. I can't. If I look at him right now, I'll either scream or collapse, and neither option will end well for anyone.

"Don't walk away from me."

Mikhail’s hand catches my elbow, spinning me around. The force of it sends me stumbling back against the wall.

Mikhail's face is flushed, his green eyes glassy with vodka. He's drunk but not drunk enough to be sloppy. He’s too calculated for that.

"We need to talk," he says, pressing closer. Too close. I can smell the alcohol on his breath, mixed with expensive cologne that makes me want to gag.

"I'm tired," I manage, trying to step sideways. "I want to go to my room."

His hand slams against the wall beside my head, trapping me. "Your room. That's interesting. After we're married, it won't be your room anymore, will it? It'll be our room. Our bed."

My stomach lurches. "Mikhail, please?—"

"Please what?" His free hand trails down my arm, fingers like ice against my skin. His fingers stop just short of my throat, hovering there with a promise of violence. Then his hand moves up, gripping my face with bruising force. His thumb presses against my cheekbone, holding me still while his eyes roam over my features with predatory satisfaction.

"After we're married, your bodyguard will be reassigned. Permanently. I don't like sharing what's mine." He says it like he's discussing the weather. Like murder is mundane.

The blood drains from my face. I know exactly what "permanently reassigned" means in his world.

"You're hurting me," I whisper, though the physical pain is nothing compared to the terror clawing at my chest.

"Good," he murmurs, his grip tightening. "Pain teaches lessons. And you need to learn your place."

His other hand slides down my side, fingers tracing the curve of my hip through the obscene dress he forced me to wear. I try to pull away, but the wall behind me offers no escape.

"Such a beautiful wife I'll have," he continues, his voice dropping to a whisper. "So responsive. I saw how you looked at him tonight. How you've been looking at him."

My heart stops. "I don't know what you mean."

"Don't lie to me." His fingers dig deeper into my jaw. "I see everything, Lena. Every glance. Every breath. Every time you forget yourself and let your mask slip."

"Lena!" My mother's voice cuts through the tension like a blade. "There you are. The ladies are waiting for drinks in the blue salon."

Mikhail's grip loosens fractionally, his head turning toward the sound. In that split second, I see the annoyance. Even drunk, he recognizes the power dynamics at play. My mother isn't just anyone; she's the wife of a lieutenant, a woman with connections of her own.

"We were just talking," Mikhail says smoothly, but his hand drops from my face.

"I'm sure you were." Mother's tone is pleasant, but there's steel underneath. "However, the ladies are expecting Lena. You know how they talk when someone is late."

The threat is subtle but unmistakable. Gossip is currency in our world, and even Mikhail can't afford to have the wives whispering about his treatment of his bride-to-be.

Not yet.

Not until after the wedding when such things become private family matters.

"Of course." Mikhail steps back, straightening his jacket. "Don't keep them waiting."

He walks away without another glance, his footsteps echoing down the hallway. Only when he's completely out of sight do I allow myself to breathe.

On shaking legs, I walk to my mother.

She looks me up and down and starts to walk. “You’d be wise not to let yourself get caught alone and unprotected.

I manage to sit through an insufferable hour of small talk while trying to keep my knees closed to avoid flashing the women.