"Mikhail, give them back," I hiss, scrambling to pull my leggings back on. My face is a deep, bruised red. "I can't go back out there like this."
"You can, and you will," he says, opening the door. He doesn't even look at the rumpled bed or the books we nearly knocked over. "Think of it as part of your training. A Morozova knows how to keep a secret under her skirt."
"I hate you," I whisper.
"Liar," he murmurs.
I follow him back to the dining room, my skin burning, my legs feeling like they’re made of jelly. I have to walk past the guards, past the portraits of dead Morozovs, all while feeling my skin where my underwear should be.
We sit back down at that long mahogany table. Vladimir is staring at us, his eyes narrow and suspicious. My father is nursing another vodka, looking bored.
I shift in my seat. Every movement is a provocation, a reminder of what happened in that room. I can feel Mikhail watching me out of the corner of his eye, enjoying the way I’m gripping the edge of the table to keep from squirming.
He’s insane. He’s actually making me sit through lemon tart while he has my underwear in his pocket.
I lean toward him, my voice a barely audible thread. "This changes nothing, Mikhail."
Mikhail doesn't look at me. He just takes a bite of his dessert, his expression bored and regal. But under the table, his hand finds my knee, his thumb tracing a slow, possessive circle on my skin.
"I know," he murmurs.
But as we sit there in the heavy silence of the dining hall, the "Madman" and the "Princess" playing their parts for a room full of monsters, I realize that neither of us fully believes the lie anymore.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
MIKHAIL
I haven't slept a single damn second.
The sun is crawling over the horizon, pouring gray light into the room, and I’m standing in front of the mirror staring at a man I barely recognize. My eyes are bloodshot, my jaw is set so tight it feels like the bone might crack, and I’ve got a permanent, painful ache in my trousers that has been my only companion since we left my father’s dinner table last night.
Stupid. It was a stupid, prideful idea.
I thought I was being clever, punishing her by leaving her wanting. I thought making her sit through dessert without her underwear while I held them in my pocket was the ultimate play of power. But as I watch the pulse jumping in my neck, I realize I’m the one who’s been played. She’s probably fast asleep in thesuite, and I’m over here vibrating like a live wire because I can still feel the way she arched against that desk.
The sound of her cries, her moans. The way her skin felt scorching and slick under my fingers. I can still taste her on my tongue from when I kissed that silver scar on her hip.
God, I’m going to lose my fucking mind.
I let out a low, guttural growl and punch the wall next to the mirror. The wood splinters under my knuckles, the sharp sting of pain a brief, welcome distraction from the hardness in my pants. I need adrenaline. I need a fight. I need something to kill the image of her blue eyes looking at me with that shattered, vulnerable honesty.
I’m supposed to meet Artyom in ten minutes. I’m supposed to be calm and rational and all sorts of fucking organized. But right now, I feel like I’m one wrong word away from burning the city down just to see if the fire is hotter than the want in my gut.
I grab a clean shirt and start buttoning it, my fingers clumsy and aggressive. I yank my tie into a knot that’s probably too tight, but I don't care. I need to be contained. I need to look like a Morozov, not a man who's unraveling because of his Petrov bride.
The door to the study swings open before I can even reach for my jacket. Artyom walks in, looking perfectly composed, perfectly cold. The Pakhan in his natural habitat. He takes one look atme, at the splintered wall, my reddened knuckles, and my foul expression—and he doesn't even blink.
"You look like hell, Mikhail," Artyom says. He walks to the sideboard and pours two coffees. Black. No sugar.
"I didn't ask for a medical evaluation," I snap, grabbing my jacket and shoving my arms into the sleeves. "Let's get this over with. I have things to do."
"Do you?" Artyom asks, handing me a mug. "Or are you just busy chasing your wife?"
"Watch your mouth," I growl. I take a sip of the coffee. It’s bitter and hot, but it does nothing to settle my temper.
Artyom sits behind the massive desk, spreading a map out between us. "We have a problem. A bigger one than your marriage."
Is that even possible? Because my marriage feels like a ticking bomb.
