The door clicks shut behind them, leaving me alone in the sunroom. The silence returns, but it’s different now. It’s heavier.
I reach into the pocket of my robe, my fingers brushing the hard, plastic edges of the burner phone. I think about my responsibility.
I’m not one of you.
My resolve hardens even as my heart feels like it’s being squeezed.
I’m not a Morozov, and I’m not a Petrov asset.
But as I stare at the empty doorway, I realize that the cage isn't just made of stone and guards. It’s made of these people. Their loyalties. Their fractures. Their terrifying, human mess.
And for the first time, I wonder if I can really burn this house down to find the truth without catching fire myself.
CHAPTER TEN
IRINA
I’m still standing by the window when the door to the suite opens—Mikhail walks in like he owns the place, and of course he does.
I turn slowly, leaning my hip against the mahogany dresser. Mikhail is shedding his jacket, tossing it toward a chair with a violence that suggests he’d rather be throwing a person. His tie is already gone, his collar yanked open to reveal the pulse thrumming at the base of his throat. He looks too tense, too controlled, like a spring wound so tight it’s starting to warp.
"How was the board meeting, Mikhail?" I ask, my voice dripping with a casual sass I don't actually feel. "Did you and Papa decide who gets to play God with the Queens docks today, or are you still arguing over the percentages of my soul?"
Mikhail doesn't answer. He walks to the bar cart, pouring a glass of whiskey with a hand that is terrifyingly steady despite thestorm rolling off him. He downs it in one go, the ice clinking sharply against the crystal as he sets the glass down.
"It is none of your concern, Irina," he rumbles. His voice is a low, dangerous warning. He finally looks at me, and his dark blue eyes are almost black, focused on me with an intensity that makes my breath hitch. "Don't poke me today. I’m not in the mood for your games."
"Games?" I push off the dresser. I’ve spent my whole life being told to stay in the corner while the men decide my future, and I’m done with it. "You drag me back here and put a ring on my finger, then tell me your meetings with my father aren't my business? That’s not how this works, Mikhail. If I’m supposed to be the link between these families, I need to know what’s actually going on."
He walks toward me, stopping so close I can smell the whiskey on his breath. I don’t move. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.
"You want to know what happened?" he asks, his voice dropping to a rough quiet. He reaches out, his hand closing around my waist and pulling me against him. "You want to know what your father brought to the table?"
My pulse jumps, but I keep my eyes locked on his. "T-Tell me."
"He wants to move flesh, Irina," Mikhail says, his grip tightening. "He wants the Morozov docks to be the main port forevery fucking stolen girl he can find in Eastern Europe. He wants to turn this business into a pimp's paradise."
I freeze. I expected weapons or drugs, but this? My father is a lot of things, but the thought of him selling women like livestock hits a nerve I didn't know I had left.
"And?" I ask, my voice sounding thinner than I want it to. "What did Vladimir say?"
"Vladimir saw the profit margins," Mikhail snarls, his face inches from mine. "But I told Boris that if a single shipment of his cargo touches my territory, I’ll fucking burn his world to the ground with him inside it."
I stare at him and both my brows shoot up in incredulity, searching those dark blue depths for the lie, but I find only a brutal, uncompromising truth. This man—this volatile, dangerous predator who kidnapped me—just drew a line in the sand that my own father wouldn't.
He has a code. He’s a monster, but he’s a monster with a line he won't cross. Why does that make my heart race more than his threats do?
"You refused him," I murmur. "You turned down millions."
"I don't traffic people, Irina," he says, his voice a low vibration that I feel in my own chest. His hand leaves my waist to cup the back of my neck, his thumb dragging across my jawline.
The anger morphs into a heavy, suffocating hunger that has me gasping. He looks at me like he wants to devour the very soul he claims to own. I want to push him away for the things he’s done, and I want to pull him closer for the man he just showed me he is.
"You're full of surprises, Morozov," I whisper, my chin lifting defiantly even as my body betrays me by leaning into his heat.
"Don't get used to it," he murmurs. He leans down, his lips brushing against my ear, his breath hot and intoxicating. "We have a gala dinner tonight. A charity event for the 'Old World' donors. We are going to attend as the happy, reunited couple. Your father will be there. Mine will be there too, unfortunately. You are going to put on the most expensive dress in this house and you are going to remind everyone why a Petrov bride is worth a war."
He pulls back, his eyes tracing the line of my throat. "Start getting ready. I want to see you in red."
