“I know.”
She stepped closer one last time.
“And if you ever try to force yourself on me again,” she said quietly, “Romanov or not, I will chop your dick off while you sleep.”
There it was, the line drawn clearly, and I inclined my head once and nodded even though I almost wanted to burst into laughter at her threat.
“Understood.”
The war outside these walls was inevitable for both of us, but inside them, the situation between us was something else entirely. And for the first time since I made the decision, I understood exactly what I had done. I didn’t just bind her legally to me, but I had tied myself to the only woman who refused to bend. And I knew she was not going to make any of this easy on me.
Good.
I had never wanted easy anyway.
Chapter 9 - Elisse
I did not sleep. Instead, I lay in the farthest corner of the bed, fully clothed, staring at the ceiling while the city lights shifted across it in slow and indifferent patterns. The vows replayed in my head on a loop. My name spoken clearly and confidently.
Elisse Chernykh.
Then his.
Fyodor Romanov.
The moment had split my life cleanly in two. A perfect line drawn between a before and an after. I must have drifted off sometime near dawn because when I opened my eyes again, sunlight was already filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse bedroom, and for one fragile second, I didn’t remember any of it.
But just when I turned my head, my gaze fell on him. He was there on his back, right beside me. His right arm was beneath his head, while the sheet barely covered his waist. I could see how he was asleep like a man without consequences.
My husband. The word felt like acid.
I had no idea when he had come into the bedroom because he hadn’t been there while I was awake. I would have died before lying beside him otherwise. He must have only come to sleep after I had already drifted off. The thought of sleeping beside him filled me with a new round of anger that I didn’t even know I was capable of possessing.
I pushed myself upright carefully, watching him for any sign of movement. His face in sleep was different, less carved, and less controlled. He looked younger and almost human.I hated that my mind supplied that softness, but I ignored everything and slipped out of bed without waking him and stepped into the hallway.
The penthouse was quiet. Too quiet. Until I heard movement in the kitchen, and for a moment, my pulse spiked. It sounded like another ambush, another controlled variable I hadn’t anticipated. But just as I rounded the corner, my gaze fell on an elderly woman who stood at the stove, stirring something in a saucepan. She wore a pale blue cardigan over a modest dress, her silver hair pinned neatly at the nape of her neck. The air smelled like butter and fresh bread.
She turned when she sensed me.
Her eyes, kind, sharp, observant, took me in immediately.
“You must be Elisse,” she said gently.
Her accent was faint but unmistakably Russian, and I didn’t answer right away. She wiped her hands on a towel and approached slowly, as if I were a startled animal.
“I am Anya,” she said. “I have worked for the Romanovs for many years.”
Of course she had.
“Did he tell you to come?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Did he tell you why?”
Her expression faltered slightly.
“He explained enough.”
