"I told you. It was a lover," I lie, my chin lifting stubbornly. "He’s waiting for me, Mikhail. He’s coming for me."
Mikhail’s eyes flash. For a second, I think he might actually snap. The silence in the room is deafening, filled only with the sound of our synchronized, ragged breathing.
"Then he’ll die," Mikhail says simply.
He walks out of the bedroom, the door clicking shut behind him. I sink back against the pillows, my lungs finally drawing a full breath.
I’m shaking. My skin is still burning from where he touched me, and the heavy, wet heat between my thighs is a humiliating reminder of how much power he has over my body.
I hate him.
But as I reach into my pocket to make sure the burner phone is still there, I realize something.
He’s suspicious. He knows I’m hiding something. The "lover" lie worked for now, but Mikhail isn't a man who stops until he’s found the truth. I need to be faster. I need that address.
I look at the door.
He thinks he’s the one in control. He thinks he’s the one who’s winning.
I close my eyes, the scent of him still clinging to the sheets, still invading my senses. I think about the "ghost."
I’m coming for you,I think, my fingers curling into the silk pillowcase.
The night is long, and the city lights outside the window are a mocking reminder of the freedom I lost. But as I lie there in the dark, the heat of Mikhail’s presence still vibrating in the air, I realize one thing.
The cage isn't as small as I thought.
CHAPTER SIX
IRINA
I am back in the ivory shroud.
It’s the same dress. Or a perfect replica, stitched together by the same trembling hands that prepared me six months ago. The lace feels like a spiderweb against my skin, and the corset is a cage within a cage, cinched so tight I can feel my pulse thumping against the stays.
Fuck them for putting me back in this same awful godforsaken dress!
The ceremony isn't the grand spectacle it was supposed to be. There are no five hundred guests, no flower-strewn aisles of the St. Regis, no orchestra playing Tchaikovsky. We are in the Morozov’s private chapel—a cold, stone room filled with the scent of old incense and guttering candles. It’s a "correction." A quick fix for a family mistake.
Mikhail stands at the altar, waiting. He’s in a black tuxedo that makes him look like the devil’s favorite son. He doesn't look bored today. He looks focused. Dangerous. When my father leads me down the short aisle, Mikhail’s gaze locks onto mine and doesn't let go.
He’s watching me like I might try to bolt through the stained glass. I would, if I thought I could make the jump.
Boris’s hand is a heavy weight on my arm, his fingers still digging into my skin as if to remind me of the dangers if I try to run again. He hands me over to Mikhail without a word.
Mikhail’s hand replaces my father’s. His fingers are warm, his grip firm. He leans in close as the priest begins the Russian Orthodox rites.
"You look breathtaking, Irina," he whispers, his voice a low vibration that sends a traitorous shiver down my spine. "Even if you do look like you want to murder the entire front row."
"Only the front row?" I hiss back, my eyes fixed on the cross behind the priest. "I was aiming for the whole room."
"Save some of that fire for later," he murmurs, a dark glint in his blue eyes.
The vows are a blur of ancient words and heavy expectations. I say the "I do" because my life depends on it.
I really am his wife now.
"You may kiss the bride," the priest says.
