I keep my eyes fixed on the blank wall, my breathing shallow and loud over the machine's whir. I hear his steps on the rubber matting—a slow, heavy tread I’d recognize anywhere now.
Mikhail steps up to the treadmill. He’s dressed in a clean black suit, his dark hair damp and combed back, though the bruise on his jaw is still a vivid purple. Massive, solid, and completely calm, he reaches out and hits the emergency stop button.
The belt jerks to a halt. I stumble, my hands flying to the handrails to keep from face-planting onto the console. I let out a sharp, irritated gasp, glaring at him with a heaving chest.
"I was in the middle of a mile, Mikhail," I pant, wiping sweat from my forehead.
"You need a break," he says, his voice a low, quiet rumble, hands tucked into his pockets. "Or you’re going to run yourself into the floor."
"It’s better than sitting in the bedroom waiting for you to decide if you’re going to throw me out," I snap, the fear in my throat too heavy to carry. I step off the belt, my legs trembling. "Did you see Artyom?"
"I did," Mikhail says.
"And?" My heart does a hard, nervous thump. "Did you tell him?"
Mikhail doesn't answer immediately. He steps closer, instantly swallowing the distance between us. His large, scarred hand cups the back of my neck, his thumb grazing the skin behind my ear.
"I told him everything," he says, his blue eyes searching my face with quiet intensity.
I freeze, my breath catching. "And what did he say? Is he drafting the divorce papers, or is he just going to have me put in a crate?"
"He told me that the only opinion that matters in this house is mine," Mikhail murmurs, pulling me a fraction closer. "And I already told you my opinion this morning. The truth changes nothing between us."
"Mikhail, my father?—"
"I don't care about Boris," he interrupts, his voice dropping into a rough, firm register. "And I don't care about what happened all those years ago. You are my wife. We are in this together. We are locked in, there’s no other way out. Do you understand me?"
I look up at him, my eyes stinging with sudden, ridiculous warmth. I’m sweaty and wearing a faded grey tank top, but the way he’s looking at me makes me feel like I’m wearing diamonds.
"You're very stubborn," I whisper.
"It’s a family trait," he says, a small, dark smile touching his lips.
He leans down and kisses me. It’s not the punishing, rough kiss from last night, but something slow, deep, and steadying. I close my eyes, my hands coming up to grip his shoulders, my fingers digging into the expensive wool of his suit jacket. It feels like an anchor holding me to the earth while the storm tries to pull me away.
A knock on the gym door breaks the silence.
We both freeze. Mikhail pulls back slowly, his jaw clenching as he looks toward the frosted glass.
"What?" he growls.
The door opens a crack, and Lev’s tense face appears. "Mikhail. We have a situation downstairs."
"If it’s the docks, tell Konstantin to handle it," Mikhail snaps.
"It’s not the docks," Lev says, his voice dropping. "Your father is downstairs. And Boris Petrov is with him."
The temperature in the gym drops. My hand falls from Mikhail’s shoulder, my fingers curling into a fist. Boris and Vladimir.
"T-They're here?" I ask, my voice thin.
"They’re in the dining room," Lev nods. "They brought three guards, but Stefan has them contained in the foyer. They say it’s a social visit."
Mikhail lets out a low, dangerous hiss, his blue eyes turning to flint. "A social visit. Of course." He looks down at me, touching my cheek. "Go upstairs. Change. Stay in the room."
"No," I say, my stubbornness flaring instantly. I pull back, crossing my arms. "I’m not hiding in the bedroom like a naughty child. I’m coming down."
Mikhail studies me for a long beat, a mixture of irritation and pride flickering in his eyes. "You’re going to be the death of me, wife."
