Mikhail walks me to the passenger side, opens the door, and waits until I’m inside before walking around to the driver’s seat. He doesn't wait for a subordinate to handle the luggage or checkthe perimeter. He just climbs in, shifts the car into gear, and pulls away.
He really doesn't trust anyone with his 'property,' does he? Or maybe he just wants me all to himself so he can enjoy the way I’m breaking.
"No driver, Mikhail?" I ask, leaning my head back against the leather. I try to sound bored, but my pulse is a drumbeat in my ears. "Did the Morozovs go broke while I was away, or are you just that paranoid?"
He keeps his eyes on the road, his large hands steady on the steering wheel. The veins on the backs of his hands are prominent, tracing a path of raw power down to his knuckles.
I can still feel those fingers in my hair, pulling my head back. My scalp still stings. My skin still burns.
"I don't need a driver to take my wife home," he says, his voice a low, dangerous hum. "And I don't need bodyguards to protect me from a girl who thinks she can run in sneakers."
"I did run, didn't I? For six months."
"You wandered," he corrects, glancing at me. The dark blue of his eyes is like the ocean before a storm—deep, cold, and ready to swallow everything in its path. "I let you wander."
"Youletme?" I let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Your pride is even more delusional than I thought. You didn't let me do anything. I outsmarted you. I outsmarted my father. I was free."
"You were a target," he says, his voice dropping an octave. He reaches over, his hand closing over my thigh. He doesn't squeeze, but the weight of it is enough to make my breath hitch. I can feel the heat of his palm, a slow, thrumming vibration that makes my traitorous body ache. "You were a Petrov princess in a town full of people who would have sold your head back to Boris for a discount. You weren't free, Irina. You were lucky. And your luck just ran out."
I stare at his hand on my leg.I should move it. I should slap him. I should bite him.Instead, I stay frozen, mesmerized by the sheer possessiveness of the gesture.
"Is this the part where I’m supposed to be grateful?" I whisper.
"This is the part where you stay silent," he says, removing his hand only to pull the car into the long, winding driveway of the Morozov estate.
Fucking psycho.
The house looms out of the mist like a gothic nightmare. Stone, ivy, and the weight of a hundred years of blood. My heart sinks. This is a fortress. And the guards at the gate don't look at me with sympathy. They look at me like I’m a package that finally arrived.
Mikhail parks the car and rounds the side, opening my door. He doesn't wait for me to get out; he reaches in and hauls me to my feet, his hand locking around my upper arm.
"Let go, Mikhail, I can freaking walk."
"You’ve done enough walking,dorogaya." he growls.
He leads me through the massive oak doors. The foyer is vast and the atmosphere is anything but welcoming. It’s ugly. It’s heavy with the kind of tension that precedes a shootout.
They’re all there. Waiting.
Fuck my life.
Vladimir Morozov sits in a high-backed leather chair, looking like a king presiding over a court of ghosts. He’s older, his face a map of ruthless decisions, and he watches us with a cold indifference that makes me feel like an invoice being settled.
Artyom stands by the fireplace, his arms crossed over his chest. He’s the Ice King, colder and more measured than his brother. He looks at me and I see the calculation in his eyes. He looks at me like a problem that’s finally been solved.
And then there’s my father.
Boris Petrov is standing near the window, his back to the room. When he turns, the fury in his eyes is so potent I actually take a step back, bumping into Mikhail’s chest. Mikhail doesn't budge. He just wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me flush against him. It’s a claim. A statement.
"So," Vladimir says, his voice a dry rasp. "The runaway returns."
"She didn't return," Mikhail corrects, his voice booming in the quiet room. "I brought her back."
"You look like hell, Irina," Artyom says, his voice devoid of warmth. "I hope the vacation was worth the scandal you caused. Our father has had to spend the last half-year cleaning up your mess."
I hate him. I hate the way he looks at me, like I’m a bug under a microscope. He chose a nurse. He chose love. And now he expects me to be the sacrificial lamb for the 'family structure.'
"It was lovely, Artyom," I snap, my sass returning the moment I see their smug faces. "The weather was perfect, the drinks were strong, and best of all, there wasn't a Morozov in sight. You should try it sometime."
