Mikhail doesn't wait. He steps into my space, his hands coming up to cup my face. His palms are large, calloused, and heat radiates from them, turning my skin to liquid. He tilts my head back, and then his mouth is on mine.
It’s not a romantic kiss. It’s not a celebration. It’s a claim.
It’s hard, territorial, and shocking in its intensity. He tastes like whiskey. His tongue brushes against mine, a dominant, invasive movement that makes my head swim. I should pull away. I should fight him. But my body, that traitorous thing, leans into him, my fingers curling into the lapels of his jacket. The tension between us snaps like a live wire, filling the cold chapel with a sudden, suffocating heat.
When he pulls back, his eyes are dark, focused entirely on my mouth.
"You’re mine now,dorogaya." he whispers, so low only I can hear.
The dining hall is too quiet. The only sound is the rhythmic clink of silver against china as we sit through a meal no one actually wants to eat. My father and Vladimir sit at the ends of the long mahogany table, discussing shipping routes in voices that are polite but lack any real warmth.
Across from me, Artyom and Kira keep to themselves, though I can feel Kira’s eyes on me every time I reach for my water. Further down the table, Mikhail’s sisters, Calina and Milana, sit like bookends. Calina doesn’t even try to hide her disapproval; her gaze tracks my every move as if she’s waiting for me to spill wine on the lace tablecloth. Milana just stares at her plate, her posture stiff and uncomfortable.
I don't need Kira’s pity or Calina’s judgment. I just need to get through the next hour without snapping or crying.
Don't look at me like that, Kira. You got the Ice King’s heart. I’m just trying to keep mine from being crushed by the predator sitting next to me.
Mikhail eats with a focused energy, his thigh pressed against mine beneath the table again. He doesn't move it. Every time I try to shift away, his hand finds my knee, his thumb tracing slow, possessive circles that make it impossible to focus on the conversation.
"To the union," Vladimir says, lifting a glass of vodka. "May it be more stable than the last attempt."
Pfft.
"To a fruitful and lasting union," Boris adds, his eyes drilling into mine.
I drink the vodka. It burns all the way down, but it’s not enough to numb the dread.
Finally, people depart. Boris gives me one last, cold look before disappearing into the night. Artyom and Kira leave with a quiet "goodnight," Kira lingering for a second as if she wants to say something, but Artyom pulls her away.
"It’s time," Mikhail says, standing up and reaching for my hand.
He leads me up the stairs toward his suite—our suite now. Every step feels like a countdown. The house is quiet, the servants having vanished into the shadows. We reach the door, and Mikhail clicks the lock shut behind us.
The bedroom is bathed in the soft glow of the city lights. A bottle of champagne is chilling in a bucket, and the bed has been turned down, the silk sheets looking like a vast, ivory ocean.
Mikhail discards his jacket, throwing it onto a chair. He starts unbuttoning his waistcoat, his eyes never leaving mine.
"The dress, Irina," he purrs. "I want to see you out of it."
My heart is a frantic drum. I look at him—massive, confident, and absolutely certain of his victory. He thinks this is the part where I submit. He thinks this is the part where he finally claims the "debt."
Not tonight, Mikhail. Tonight, we play by my rules.
"You want to consummate this alliance, Mikhail?" I ask, my voice surprisingly steady. I walk toward the small table near the window where a deck of cards is sitting—a prop left over from his late-night games. "You want to show me who owns who?"
He stops unbuttoning his shirt, his eyebrows arching. "That is the traditional way a wedding night ends, yes."
"I'm not a traditional woman," I say, picking up the deck and shuffling it with a practiced, fluid motion. The snap of the cards is the only sound in the room. "And I don't respond well to being told what to do. So, I have a proposal."
Mikhail crosses his arms over his chest, his shirt hanging open to reveal the dark ink and the hard muscle beneath. He looks intrigued. The predator likes a challenge. "I’m listening."
"We play poker," I say, fanning the cards out on the table. "One game. No limits."
"And the stakes?"
"If I win, I get a wish fulfilled."
Mikhail lets out a low, dark laugh. He walks toward me, stopping just inches away. He smells like the whiskey from dinner and the cold New York night. "And if I win?"
