"If you win..." I swallow hard, my eyes fixed on his. "You get the 'dutiful wife' you bought."
The air between us is so thick I can practically feel it bruising my skin. He looks at the cards, then back at me. He knows I’m a Petrov. He knows I grew up at card tables. But he’s a Morozov, and they don't believe in losing.
Or at least, I’m hoping they don’t believe in losing
"You're bold,dorogaya," he murmurs, his hand reaching out to catch a strand of my hair. He twists it around his finger, pulling me closer until I can feel the heat radiating off his chest. "You really think you can beat me at my own game?"
"Well, we're going to have to see if I can, Mikhail," I hiss, my chin lifting. "Do you have the balls to take the bet, or are you afraid of being humiliated by a woman again?"
Mikhail’s eyes flash with a dangerous, beautiful light. He lets go of my hair and pulls out a chair, sitting down with a slow, predatory grace.
"Deal the cards, wife," he says, a dark, triumphant smile spreading across his face. "Let’s see if your luck is as good as your mouth."
I sit across from him, my heart hammering, the "Elena" in me screaming that this is the biggest mistake of my life. But the "Irina" in me—the one who survived Boris Petrov and the Cancun spa—knows that this is the only way I can keep my soul.
I start to deal.
The game is on. And this time, I’m playing for my life.
CHAPTER SEVEN
IRINA
The silk of my wedding dress rustles as I lean over the mahogany table, the sound echoing like a dry leaves in the quiet of the suite. Mikhail is a dark, heavy presence across from me, his tuxedo jacket discarded on the floor, his white shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest. He’s leaning back, a glass of amber whiskey in one hand, the other resting loosely on the table. He looks like a man who has all the time in the world.
He thinks he’s already won. He thinks this game is just a charming little preamble to his victory lap. He has no idea that I spent months in a room where the only things that moved were the shadows and the cards.
"Your move, wife."
Mikhail's voice is a dark rumble that seems to vibrate in the air between us. The wordwifelands on my skin like a brand.
I don’t look at my cards. I know them. The same way I know the weight of his gaze, heavy and possessive, tracing the line of my neck where the silk of my wedding dress dips. He’s discarded his tuxedo jacket; his white shirt is unbuttoned halfway, revealing a slash of tanned skin and the dark ink of tattoos that coil like serpents over his chest. He leans back in his chair, a glass of amber whiskey in one hand, the other resting loosely on the mahogany table. He looks like a man who owns everything in the room, including me.
But he doesn’t own this game.
God, he looks so good.
"Two thousand," I say, my voice steady. I reach for the bottle between us and pour a finger of whiskey into my own glass. The liquid is golden, lethal. I take a sip, letting the slow, deliberate burn travel down my throat. It is a counterpoint to the other heat in the room—the one radiating from him, the one prickling under my skin.
He matches my bet without blinking. His eyes aren’t on the chips. They are on my mouth, watching the way my lips part after the sip. On my hands, where my fingers tremble not from fear, but from a current of something else—anticipation, defiance, a raw, unspoken need to win.
"You’re confident," he observes, his voice dropping to that low, gravelly register that makes the fine hairs on my arms stand up. "Most people hesitate when they’re bluffing against a Morozov."
"Most people aren't me," I snap, my sass returning as the alcohol hits my system. "And most people don't know that your 'poker face' is just a mask for the fact that you're bored. You're trying to read me, Mikhail, but there's nothing to read but the cards."
He lets out a low, dark laugh and matches my bet. "I’m not bored, Irina. I’m fascinated. I’ve seen you in ballrooms, I’ve seen you in a spa, and now I’m seeing you behind a deck of cards. You’re a chameleon. I’m just trying to figure out which color is your real one."
"None of them," I murmur, dealing the flop. A King, a seven, and a three.
Check your breathing. Keep your shoulders down.
We play in silence for a few rounds, the only sound the snap of the cards and the clink of glass. Mikhail is genuinely impressed—I can see it in the way his eyes narrow when I bait him into a raise, only to take the pot with a pair of sevens. He isn't just indulging me; he’s watching closely, studying the way I think, the way I move when I believe I have an advantage. He’s a hunter, and he’s learning my patterns.
"You're good," he admits, leaning forward. The light catches the dark ink on his forearms, the serpents looking like they’re twisting in the shadows. "Who taught you? Boris? I can't imagine him having the patience for a daughter."
"He’d never have spent hours with his daughter," I say, my voice turning a little sharper. I discard one card and draw another. "Ididn't learn from him. I learned because I had nothing else to do. I spent a lot of time... locked away and the only people I really saw were my guards. They were bored, I was desperate, and we had a deck of cards. By the time I was allowed out, I could out-read any man in New York."
I don't tell him why I was put away. That part of the story stays in the dark.
