Mikhail’s expression shifts. For a second, the predator is gone, replaced by something that looks almost like curiosity. Or maybe it’s just a different kind of hunger. "Sixteen? That’s a young age to be an expert in deception."
"It’s the perfect age," I counter. "It’s when you realize that the world is just one big gamble, and you’re the stake."
"I’ll see your two thousand and raise you five," Mikhail says, his eyes boring into mine. "Tell me about Mexico. Why Cancun? Why a spa? A Petrov princess rubbing the shoulders of tourists... it doesn't fit the profile."
I feel the blood hum in my ears. The sexual tension in the room is a physical thing now, a high-voltage current that makes the air feel thick. He’s so close I can smell the smoke on his clothes, the heat radiating off him in waves.
The question is a probe. But the way he asks it—slow, deliberate, his gaze dipping to the open V of my dress—makes it feel like an undressing. "I like the heat," I lie, my voice barely a whisper. "And that’s a lot of questions for a man who’s about to lose hiswedding night," I continue, my fingers curling around my final hand.
I have a full house. Kings over sevens.
My heart is a frantic drum against my ribs. But my face is ice. I look at him, and for a fleeting second, I see it—a flicker of doubt in those dark blue depths. He looks at the massive pot, then back at me. His gaze isn’t on my cards. It travels over my face, down to where my dress clings to my chest, to the slight tremble in my lower lip I can’t quite suppress. He is reading me, not my hand. And he sees my triumph, my fear, my… want.
"All in," I say, pushing my remaining chips forward. The movement makes the silk of my dress whisper against my skin, a sound that seems obscene in the quiet.
The world stops. The city noise vanishes. Mikhail stares. Not at the chips. At me. His gaze is heavy, molten, possessive. It travels from my eyes to my mouth, lingers there, then drops to the hollow of my throat where my pulse is racing, visible. He is seeing a victory, but he is also seeing a claim. His.
He flips his cards. A straight. Not high enough.
"You win," he says. He flips his cards—a straight that wasn't quite high enough.
A surge of pure, unadulterated triumph rushes through me. For the first time in six months—no, for the first time in my life—I’ve won something that matters.
"Then the bet stands," I say, my voice trembling with relief. I stand up, the lace of my dress catching on the chair. I feel like I can finally breathe. "No consummation. You stay on your side of the bed, and you don't touch me."
Mikhail doesn't look disappointed. He doesn't look angry. He just watches me with a dark, triumphant smile that makes my stomach do a slow, nauseating flip. He stands up, his massive frame towering over me, making the suite feel small again.
"You won the hand, Irina," he purrs, stepping into my space. He doesn't touch me, but the heat of him is overwhelming. "And I’ll let you have your victory. It’s the easiest bet I’ve ever lost."
"Easiest? You just lost your 'debt'," I snap, my sass returning.
"Did I?" He leans down, his breath warm against my ear. "Sooner or later,dorogaya, you’re going to beg me for the very thing you’re denying now. You think this distance is going to protect you? It’s only going to make the hunger worse. For both of us."
"In your dreams, Morozov."
"Every night," he murmurs.
I want to push him away, but my body is already reacting to his closeness, my pulse hammering in places I don't want to acknowledge. By delaying this, I’ve only made the air between us heavier, more dangerous.
He pulls back, his eyes glinting with amusement. He picks up his whiskey and heads back to the table, sitting down with a languid grace. "Sit down, wife. The game is over, but the night is young. We still have things to discuss."
I sit, my legs feeling a little like jelly. "There’s nothing to discuss. I won. I get my space."
"You get your space in the bed," he corrects. "But you don't get to keep secrets. How did you manage to disappear for six months without our fathers' men spotting you? My father thought you were in Italy. Boris thought you were dead in a ditch."
"Like I said, I was careful," I say, leaning back and crossing my arms.
"And the humiliation?" Mikhail asks, his voice turning cold, the amusement vanishing. "Did you think about that while you were kneading the shoulders of tourists? Did you think about the fact that I had to stand at that altar for twenty minutes while the whispers started? That my brother had to tell me my bride had climbed out a window?"
"I tried to save you too, Mikhail," I say, my stubbornness flaring. "I tried to give us both the freedom from a marriage we didn't want."
"I don't care about the marriage," he growls, leaning over the table. "I care about the insult. I will never let that go, Irina. Not today, not in ten years."
"Then you should have let me stay gone," I hiss. "You should have let 'Elena' keep her life. I owe you nothing just because you dragged me back and put a ring on my finger. A piece of gold doesn't make me your property."
Mikhail looks at the ring on my finger, then at the one on his. He reaches across the table, his hand covering mine, his grip firm and possessive. The touch is electric, a jolt of raw power that makes my breath hitch.
"You’re wrong," he says, his dark blue eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that makes the room spin. "The ring changed everything."
