He leans in, his mouth hovering just inches from mine. I want him to kiss me. I want to bite him, I think I’m running mad because at the same time, I want to run. I want to stay. The conflict is a roar in my head. The wetness between my thighs make me bite hard on my lips and Mikhail’s eyes zoom in to the action and he growls low in his throat.
"Let's go," he says abruptly, pulling back and releasing me.
He turns and walks toward the door, leaving me gasping for air.
We descend to the garage. I expect a driver to be waiting, or at least a guard to open the door. But the garage is empty except for a sleek, silver Aston Martin.
Mikhail walks to the driver's side and climbs in. He doesn't look at me. He just waits.
Again. No driver. No bodyguards.
It’s weird. A man in his position should be surrounded by a small army. Why is he doing this alone? Is he that arrogant, or is he that good?
I slide into the passenger seat, the leather smelling of luxury and Mikhail. He shifts the car into gear and the engine roars to life—a low, predatory growl that matches the man beside me.
We pull out of the estate and onto the darkened streets of New York. Mikhail drives with a focused, aggressive grace, weaving through traffic with a confidence that borders on reckless. He doesn't use a buffer. He doesn't look in the rearview mirror for tails. He just drives.
"You really don't like company, do you?" I ask, staring at his profile. The city lights flicker across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the intensity in his eyes.
"I like my own hands on the wheel," he says simply. "In everything."
"It's dangerous," I say, looking out the window at the passing city lights. "My father doesn't play by the rules. He’s not going to wait for an invitation if he thinks you're vulnerable."
"Let him try," Mikhail says, his voice flat and unapologetic. He reaches over, his hand covering mine in my lap. His grip is firm, a constant weight that I’m starting to expect. "I’ve been looking for a reason to end the Petrovs for years. If he wants to be the one to start this, that's fine with me."
I look down at our joined hands. The gold band on his finger catches the light. I bite my lips, forcing myself to remember this situation.
I need to stay focused. This isn't a romance; it’s a cage, no matter how much he tries to make it look like something else.
"You're too quiet, that’s suspicious." Mikhail says, his thumb tracing slow circles on the back of my hand.
"I'm practicing my 'happy wife' face," I say, giving him a sweet, fake smile. "It takes a lot of work to look this thrilled about a kidnapping."
Mikhail laughs, a short, dry sound that feels way too genuine and I find myself staring at how handsome this man is. "Keep practicing. Because once we walk through those doors, everyone in there is going to be looking for a crack just because you're now a Morozov."
"I'm Irina," I mutter, mostly to myself.
"You're mine," he says.
The car pulls to a stop in front of the hotel. The red carpet is a mess of flashes and reporters, a wall of noise waiting to swallow us up. Mikhail gets out and rounds the car, opening my door. He offers me his hand, and I take it, the heat of his palm grounding me against the chaos. He pulls me close, his arm wrappingaround my waist, acting like a shield as we head toward the entrance.
Time to play the dutiful wife.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IRINA
My skin is crawling.
The grand ballroom of the Pierre Hotel is a sea of black ties, shimmering gowns, and teeth sharpened for the kill. It’s basically a room full of people who hate each other, all dressed up and pretending they don't. The air is thick with the scent of lilies and expensive perfume.
I stand at Mikhail’s side, my crimson silk dress a splash of blood against the monochrome crowd. His hand is a heavy, permanent fixture on the small of my back, his fingers spread wide, claiming every inch of me that the silk covers. I can feel the heat of his palm through the fabric, a constant reminder of the man who hunted me down and the ring that now anchors me to his world.
Smile, Irina.
"You're stiff," Mikhail rumbles, his voice vibrating against my ear. He leans in as if sharing a lover’s secret, but his eyes are scanning the room like a sniper’s. "Breathe, wife."
"Easy for you to say," I murmur, my lips barely moving. I tilt my head toward a group of men by the bar who haven't stopped whispering since we entered. "They know I ran, Mikhail. They’re just waiting to see how long it takes for you to lose your patience with me."
