CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
MIKHAIL
My arm sweeps across the mattress, reaching for the heat that was there all night, and finds nothing but cold silk.
I bolt upright.
My heart does a violent kick against my ribs. My vision tunnels as the dim morning light hits the empty sheets.
For a split second, the bedroom disappears. I’m back in the St. Regis dressing room six months ago, staring at the open window, the white veil trampled on the floor, and the suffocating silence of a room where a girl decided she’d rather leap into the dark than stay with me.
She ran.
The thought is a hot knife in my gut. My head roars, my hand reaching instinctively for the gun on the nightstand. I’m ready to call Lev, ready to order the jet prepped and tear New York apart block by block until I drag her back.
Then, I smell it.
Coffee, faint but cutting through the scents still lingering on the sheets, followed by the soft clink of a spoon against ceramic from downstairs.
I let out a long, ragged breath, my shoulders dropping as the panic slowly drains. My body is sore as hell—the bruises on my ribs from the factory blast are deep purple today—but I don't care about the pain. She’s still here.
I pull on a pair of gray sweatpants and walk out of the suite, my bare feet silent on the stairs.
The house is quiet, but as I reach the kitchen, the tension in my chest eases. Irina is standing by the counter, wearing one of my oversized black t-shirts. The hem falls halfway down her thighs, her golden-brown hair a messy, soft cloud. She looks small—smaller than she ever does in designer dresses, her pale legs bare against the dark wood.
She’s staring out the window at the gray woods of the estate, her shoulders set in a rigid, defensive line. There’s no sass on her face today. She looks pale, wrecked, as if she hasn't slept a single minute.
"You're up early," I say, my voice a rough, sleep-heavy rumble.
She jumps slightly as she turns. Her blue eyes are wide, dark circles making her look fragile as she looks from my bare chest to my face.
"I couldn't sleep," she says, her voice lacking the usual sharp, stubborn bite. "The coffee is fresh."
"I don't want coffee," I say, stepping into the kitchen. I stop near the island, keeping my distance because I can tell she’s on the verge of splintering. "What's wrong? You look pale."
She sets her mug down on the marble counter with a soft click. Her hands are shaking. She tucks them into the sleeves of my shirt, her jaw clenching as she looks at the floor.
"I need to tell you something," she says. "And I need you to just... let me finish before you start breaking things."
I lean my hips against the edge of the island, crossing my arms over my chest. Something is wrong, and I already know I won’t like it. "I'm listening."
"The secret meeting," she starts, her voice trembling before she forces it to steady. "The burner phone. Cancun. The fake passport. It wasn't about another man, Mikhail. Not the way you think. I cannot do this anymore, and especially not after last night…"
My blood freezes. Where is this going? “Then what was it about?"
She takes a deep, ragged breath, her eyes finally rising to meet mine. They're watery, but there’s a fierce, desperate light in them that makes my chest tighten.
"When I was sixteen years old," she says, her voice dropping to a whisper, "I was stupid. And lonely. My father... he’d already started treating me like a product he was keeping in storage. I met a man. He was older. Much older. And he was married."
I feel my jaw clench, a dark, hot curl of possessive fury flaring in my stomach. "He made me believe he loved me," she continues, a bitter, self-deprecating smile touching her lips. "Despite how reluctant I was, he kept pushing until I fell for him. I got pregnant, Mikhail. I was sixteen, terrified, and carrying his child."
"What did he do?" I growl, my knuckles turning white where they’re tucked under my arms.
"He told me to get rid of it," she says, her voice turning to ice. "He had a family. A reputation. He didn't want a bastard child ruining his life. He tried to force me to go to a clinic, but I refused. I wanted the baby."
She looks out the window again, her shoulders shaking. "My father found out. He never forgave me for it. He saw me as a spoiled, ruined asset. He hid me away in a private house in Jersey, miles from anyone, so the Petrov name wouldn't bestained. That’s where I spent my pregnancy. Locked in a house with three guards who felt sorry for me. That’s where I learned to play poker. They played with me to keep me from losing my mind."
I stare at her, my throat tight. The image of a sixteen-year-old Irina, pregnant and locked away with nothing but enforcers and a deck of cards, does something to me. The rage in my blood shifts, turning away from her and directing itself entirely at the men who did this.
