"It’s barely six," he rumbles, his eyes scanning me from head to toe, and then darkening. They linger on the swell of my breasts beneath the thin tank, then drop to the curve of my hips. "The city isn’t even awake yet."
"Exactly," I snap, stretching. The movement makes the fabric of my leggings strain. "It’s the perfect time to be alone. You should try it. It’s great for the soul—assuming you haven't traded yours for that hitman’s reputation."
He raises a brow and pushes off the wall, stepping into my space. His heat envelopes me, he smells of expensive tobacco and cold rain. "I’ll call Lev and Viktor. They’ll trail you in the SUV."
"The hell they will!" My anger flares, hot and bright. "I am not a shipment of contraband. I am going for a thirty-minute run on your estate grounds. I don't need a four-ton armored vehicle tailing me and making my life hell!”
"This world is not a foreign one to you, Irina," he says, his voice dropping to that dangerous, quiet register. "The city is full of people who would love to see you disappear again. That will not happen as long as I’m alive.”
I let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "Is that what you're worried about then? Your reputation? Or are you just terrified that if I get five minutes of peace, I’ll remember how much I hate you and keep running until the Atlantic stops me?"
"Very funny,dorogaya," he growls. "Choose. The guards, or I go with you."
I glare at him, my heart slamming against my ribs. I want to tell him to go to hell. I want to scream and punch his face, break his nose and all the expensive things here. But the look in his eyes is that of the mad man and I know he won’t let this go.
"Fine!" I hiss, grabbing a hair tie and pulling my golden-brown hair into a tight, high ponytail. "You come. But stay ten feet back. I need to fucking breathe, and you tend to suck the air out of every room you're in."
"I’ll give you your space," he hums in agreement.
The air outside is crisp, the October chill biting at my exposed arms, but it feels like heaven compared to the house. I start at a slow jog, my sneakers hitting the gravel path that winds through the back of the estate. I can hear him behind me. He isn't wearing running gear; he’s changed to a black hoodie and sweats, but he moves with a terrifying, silent grace that has turned the tables on me.
I wanted to go for a run, feel free, and be able to fucking think but now it feels like I’m being hunted and I have to run for my life.
I pick up the pace. I want to outrun him. I want to hear his breath hitch, to feel him struggle, but the bastard stays perfectly in sync with my rhythm. The gravel gives way to a paved path that leads toward the wooded edge of the property. The trees are skeletons against the gray sky, their damp leaves slick underfoot.
"Isn’t this the part where you tell me to slow down?" I shout over my shoulder.
"Keep going, Irina," he calls back, his voice steady, not even slightly winded. "I’m not complaining.”
"Bastard," I mutter, pushing my legs harder.
I run until my lungs burn. I can feel the sweat beginning to trail down the valley between my breasts, dampening the fabric of my tank. I feel his eyes on me, hot and fiery, tracing a trail of fire over my skin. I know he’s watching the way my body moves, the rhythmic sway of my hips, the way my leggings stretch and pull over my muscles. The thought makes my skin prickle.
I reach the edge of the pond, the water a flat, gray mirror. I turn, intending to double back, but he’s there, cutting off the path. He didn't stay ten feet back. He’s right there, stepping out from the shadows of the trees like a goddamn phantom. I almost slam right into his chest.
I stop abruptly, heaving for air, sweat slicking my forehead. The anger that’s been simmering since I woke up—since I was dragged out of Mexico—finally boils over.
"What the hell is this, Mikhail?" I demand, gesturing wildly at the empty space between us. "Is this going to be the rest of my life? Never taking a step without you or one of your thugs watching? Never deciding what I want to eat, or where I want to go, or who I want to be?"
He stops, his hands shoved into his hoodie pockets, watching me with a stillness that is more unnerving than his rage. "You’re my wife. That comes with a certain set of rules."
"Rules?" I shout, the word tasting like ash. "Fuck that, Mikhail, this is not about your stupid rules! This is just because you’re trying to make my life hell, trying to hold on to your pride and ego.”
"You think this is about my pride?" he asks, taking a slow, heavy step toward me.
"Isn't it?" I counter, my chin lifting. "I get it, you’ve said it over and over, the whole world has not let me forget that you were humiliated. The 'madman' lost his bride, and you had to go on a six-month hunt to prove you still had your teeth. You don't want a wife. You want a trophy you can lock in a vault to show the world you’re still a man."
His eyes flash and for a second, I think I’ve finally gotten myself into trouble, he’s going to snap and break me in half.
I bite my lips and slowly take a step back.
He watches me with those maddened eyes and I’m this close to screaming bloody murder.
"You have no idea what’s out there," he finally says. "You think Boris is the only threat you have? There are people moving against us. People who see you as the weakest link in the Morozov chain."
"I am not a link!" I scream, forgetting the fact that I was scared of this man just a few minutes ago. "I am a person! I have my own thoughts, my own fucking rights and past! You can’t keep doing this to me!"
My lungs burn from the cold air and the shouting. I’m shaking, but it’s not from the cold. Mikhail doesn't yell back. He doesn't even flinch. He just steps into my space, his presence so heavy it feels like the oxygen around us has suddenly vanished.
