"If you finish that motion, Boris, I will ensure you never use that arm to feed yourself again."
The voice is a low, tectonic rumble that shakes the very floorboards. I open my eyes to find Mikhail standing in the doorway. He looks like a shadow come to life—dark, massive, and radiating a level of violence that makes my father’s rage look like a toddler’s tantrum.
Mikhail stalks into the room. He’s across the floor in three strides, his hand shooting out to catch my father’s wrist in mid-air. The sound of bone grinding against bone is sickeningly clear in the quiet room.
Boris winces, his face paling as Mikhail’s grip tightens.
"Mikhail," my father grunts, trying to maintain his dignity even as his knees buckle slightly under the pressure. "This is a private matter. Family business."
"Irina is my business," Mikhail growls. He doesn't look at me, but he steps between us, his broad back a wall of charcoal wool and muscle that completely obscures my father from my sight. "And as of six months ago, she is my wife in every way that matters. No one puts a hand on her. Not even the man who gave her life."
I stand there, frozen, my heart doing a strange, frantic dance. For six months, I’ve viewed Mikhail as the ultimate cage. I’ve viewed him as the hunter, the predator, the man who wanted to reclaim me like a lost piece of luggage. But as I look at the back of his head, at the way he’s shielding me from the man who raised me with a belt and a sneer, something shifts.
He’s protecting me. He’s furious at me—I can feel the heat of his anger rolling off him—but he’s protecting me. He hates what I did, but he won't let anyone else hurt me for it. It’s the most confusing thing I’ve ever felt.
"She is my daughter," Boris says, his voice trembling with a mix of pain and fury. "I was correcting her."
"You were overstepping," Mikhail says. He gives my father’s wrist one final, brutal squeeze before shoving him back. Boris stumbles, clutching his arm, his eyes wide with shock. "The correction is over. If you want to talk to her, you do it with me in the room. Or you don't fucking do it at all."
Mikhail finally turns to look at me. His eyes are dark, swirling with a storm of emotions—frustration, possessiveness, and that raw, intense attraction that has been humming between us since the spa. He looks me over, his gaze sharp enough to feel like a physical touch, checking for marks.
I gulp.
"Are you alright?" he asks. His voice is softer, but it still carries that edge of a man who is one word away from burning the world down.
"I-I'm fine," I whisper, my stubbornness fighting through the shock. I pull the wool coat tighter around me, the scent of him suddenly acting like an anchor. "I didn't need you to play the hero, Mikhail."
A dark, mocking smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "I'm not a hero, Irina. I'm just territorial. Now, get your shoes on. We’re going back downstairs. Everyone is waiting, and I’m tired of playing games."
He reaches out, his hand cupping the back of my neck. His thumb grazes the sensitive skin behind my ear, and a spark of electricity shoots through me, making my breath hitch. The tension is so thick it feels like a third person in the room. He looks at me like he wants to devour me and lock me away all at the same time.
"Don't test me right now," he warns, his voice a low vibration. "I've already had to hold myself back from killing one Petrov today. Don't make it two."
"You wouldn't kill me," I say, my chin lifting. "You worked too hard to find me."
Heaven knows I’m just bluffing.
"Don't be so sure,dorogaya." he murmurs, his eyes dropping to my lips before he pulls away.
We walk out of the room, my father following behind us like a whipped cur, his face a mask of silent, seething resentment. As we descend the grand staircase, I feel like I’m walking into a gladiatorial arena. The foyer is still heavy with the scent of old-world power, but now there are more players on the board.
Vladimir Morozov is still in his chair, looking like a bored deity. Artyom is still by the fire, but he’s no longer alone.
Standing next to him, her hand resting on his arm, is Kira.
My stomach drops. Seeing Kira is like looking into a mirror of everything I could have been and everything I failed to be. She’s beautiful, in that effortless, natural way that makes my polished "princess" act feel like a cheap costume. She’s wearing a simple, elegant dress, her dark hair falling over her shoulders. She looks like a woman who is loved. She looks like a woman who chose her life.
She’s the nurse. The one who broke the Ice King. The one who got the freedom I had to jump out a window to find. I hate that I envy her. And I hate that she’s looking at me with that soft, pitying expression. At this point, I hate everyone.
"Irina," Kira says as we reach the bottom of the stairs. Her voice is gentle, but it carries a weight that tells me she isn't intimidated by the men in the room. "It’s good to see you’re safe."
"Safe is a relative term in this house, don't you think?" I snap, my voice dripping with the sass I use to hide the fact that I want to cry. I move to the fireplace, standing as far away from the fathers as possible. "Though I suppose you’ve managed to turn the fortress into a cozy little home, haven't you, Kira?"
Artyom’s eyes narrow, his protective streak for his wife flaring up instantly. "Watch your tone, Irina. You’re a guest in this house—for now."
"A guest?" I laugh, the sound brittle and sharp. "I’m the sacrificial lamb, Artyom. Let’s not pretend I have an invitation."
"Enough." Vladimir’s voice cuts through the bickering like a guillotine. He stands up, his presence commanding the room. "We are here to discuss the future, not the past. Boris, take a seat. Mikhail, bring your wife to the table."
