"Then you shouldn’t have run," he says. He reaches out, his hand covering both of mine, pressing them harder against his chest. "Artyom is the Pakhan, and he’s soft for his nurse. You were supposed to be the balance. And you ran."
"I ran because I wanted a choice!" I shout, my stubbornness finally breaking through the fog. "I don’t want to marry someone like you!"
Mikhail’s expression hardens, the amusement vanishing. "The world doesn't care about your choices, Irina. It cares about power. And right now, the power is in this room."
He leans in closer, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble that vibrates in the small space between us. "You want to know how I’m going to punish you? I’m going to make you stay. I’m going to make you stand by my side at every gala, every meeting, every dinner. I’m going to make you play the perfect, devoted wife until your jaw aches from smiling. And every night, when the doors are closed, I’m going to remind you exactly who you belong to."
"Y-You think you can force me to love you?" I ask, my voice shaking with a mixture of rage and a heat I can't name. I refuse to let him see the fear—or the arousal—fluttering in my chest.
"I don't need your love," he says, his thumb tracing the curve of my lower lip, dragging it down until I’m forced to part my teeth. "I need your submission. I need the world to see that a Petrov tried to run, and a Morozov brought her back to her knees."
I feel the heat of his body through my thin tunic. My fingers are tingling again—that same traitorous attraction I felt at the spa. I want to push him away, but I also want to see how far he’ll go. My stubbornness, however, is the one thing I have left.
"I'll never do that," I hiss, though the nearness of him is making it hard to think. "I'll never be on my knees for you."
"We’ll see," he murmurs. He leans down, his lips brushing against my ear, his voice a promise of fire. "You’ve spent six months escaping me, Irina. Now, you’re going to learn the difference between escaping me and belonging to me. And I promise you, the second one is much, much harder to survive."
He pulls back, leaving me breathless and reeling against the bulkhead. He finishes his drink in one swallow and walks toward the back of the jet where the bedroom is hidden. He stops at the doorway and looks back, his dark blue eyes glinting with a terrifying, beautiful light.
"Try to get some sleep, wife. We land in four hours. And the second we touch the ground, the 'Elena' act is over. You're Irina Morozova now. And I’m going to make sure you never forget it."
He disappears into the room, leaving me alone in the cabin. I sink into one of the leather chairs, my legs finally giving out. I look out the window at the dark expanse of the Atlantic, the stars mocking me with their distance.
I’m back in the cage. Only this time, the hunter is right next to me.
I touch my lip where his thumb rested, the skin still tingling, still burning. I hate him. I hate what he’s doing, I hate what he represents, and I hate my father for starting this. But as the jetscreams toward New York, I realize the gravity of his words. He doesn't want a bride. He wants a conquest.
I close my eyes, the hum of the engines a low-frequency vibration that matches the thrumming in my own blood. Mikhail thinks he’s won. He thinks he’s brought me back to the board as his pawn.
He has no idea that the second we land, I’m going to start playing my own game. And if he thinks I’m going to be a "dutiful wife" after what he just threatened, he’s clearly got the wrong person.
I lean my head back against the leather, a slow smile spreading across my face despite the tears prickling my eyes.
I hope you're ready for the fire, Mikhail. Because I’m going to burn your entire world down before I let you own mine.
CHAPTER THREE
IRINA
The wheels hit the tarmac of Teterboro with a jarring thud that travels straight up my spine. Cancun was a fever dream, a humid blur of coconut oil and anonymity. This—the gray, smog-choked horizon of New York and the biting October wind whistling against the fuselage—is reality.
And reality currently has a name: Mikhail Morozov.
He doesn't look at me as the jet taxis toward a private hangar. He’s up, buttoning his charcoal suit jacket with a precision that makes my stomach do a slow, nauseating flip. He looks refreshed. I look like a woman who’s been dragged through hell and back, mostly because I have.
The door of the jet opens, and the cold air hits me hard. I shiver, my thin tunic providing zero protection against the Northeast chill. Before I can even take a step, a heavy, wool coat is drapedover my shoulders. It smells of him—expensive whiskey and cologne.
"Move, Irina," he rumbles, his hand settling on the small of my back.
His touch is a searing brand through the fabric. My skin tingles, that same traitorous heat from the spa bubbling up despite the frost in the air. I want to shrug him off, to tell him I’d rather freeze to death than wear anything he’s touched, but my teeth are already chattering.
"So polite," I mutter, my voice raspy. "I’m surprised you didn't just throw me down the stairs."
"Don't give me ideas," he says, his grip tightening just enough to be a warning.
We descend the stairs. I expect a fleet of SUVs, a dozen men with submachine guns, and the usual circus that follows a Morozov. Instead, there is a single, black Range Rover idling on the tarmac. No driver. No guards. Just the car and the silence of the private airfield.
Huh, weird.
