Page 24 of His Contract Queen

Finally, he says, “As my wife, your access to the outside world is mine to grant. Or deny.”

Rage floods me so violently, it nearly knocks the breath out of my lungs, a white-hot surge that burns through my veins like fire. “You can’t just imprison me forever.”

He takes a single step backward then, putting just enough space between us to observe me without interference. His eyes remain locked on mine, dark and unblinking. “I’m merely enforcing the terms you agreed to.”

For one dangerous second, I consider shoving him. Hitting him. Doing anything to crack that calm, superior mask he wears like armor. But his lieutenants are only three steps away and I know how fast they can move.

I know that if I give him even the ghost of an excuse to restrain me, he won’t hesitate. He will drag me downstairs into whatever dungeon I’m certain exists beneath this mansion and throw me inside before I have time to scream.

He moves then, stepping to the side as if I’m nothing but furniture in his path. When he speaks again, his voice is tight, annoyance flickering beneath the calm. “I suggest finding a hobby to occupy your time with. Perhaps that will keep you from believing you are more than a glorified houseplant.”

A glorified houseplant.

The insult doesn’t just sting. It rips through every fragile layer of composure I’ve been clinging to. Before I can stop myself and before logic or survival instinct can intervene and tell me tostopandturn around before it’s too goddamn late, I lash out.

My hand connects with his face in a sharp, resounding crack that echoes through the entryway. For one perfect, suspended second, the entire world narrows to that single point of contact of my stinging skin connecting with his cheek.

The sound is deafening.

Both guards snap to life like attack dogs released from their chains. Their hands fly to their holsters in perfect, terrifying unison. They don’t draw just yet, but their eyes are locked on me now, waiting for the command giving them the permission to open fire.

Time freezes.

My hand is still raised, trembling violently in the air between us as though it belongs to someone else entirely. The burn in my palm is vicious, pulsing in time with my racing heart. I can still feel the faint ridge of his cheekbone under my fingers, the brief give of skin before the resistance of bone.

Aleksandr doesn’t flinch.

He simply… stops.

His head is turned slightly from the force of the blow just enough that I can see the red bloom spreading across his cheek. It’s vivid against the pale light coming from the chandelier above us. A single bead of blood wells at the corner of his mouth where the edge of my nail must have caught him.

I wait for the explosion.

For the backhand to be returned my way and with much more force. For the guards to rush me and drag me away, to make me pay in ways I’ve only ever imagined in my nightmares. I wait for him to become the monster I’ve always known him as hiding under those tailored coats and tricky smiles.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he turns his head back to face me.

His eyes meet mine again. There is no rage in them, just something deeply more terrifying than anger.

Interest.

A quiet, hungry fascination, as if I’ve just become something new. Something worth breaking.

His tongue touches the bead of blood at the corner of his mouth, tasting it. The motion is deliberate, almost lazy. I’ve seen him amused plenty of times before. I’ve seen him indifferent, too. But this… quiet, predatory stillness is worse than any of them. This is the look of a man who has just been given permission to stop pretending he’s anything but a monster. A man who has been waiting for the right excuse to unleash it.

And that’s exactly what I’ve done.

The corner of his mouth curls into the same half-smile I’ve come to know he only wears when he’s already won whatever battle he’s entered and is merely deciding on how to collect the bounty.

One of his lieutenants shifts his weight, coaxing Aleksandr into raising a single gloved hand at them both. They freeze in place like marionettes waiting for the next curl of his fingers to allow them to move again. He lets the silence stretch over us, lets it congeal in the air until it presses around my neck like an invisible hand.

He reaches up and brushes the back of two fingers across the red mark on his cheek, as though testing the heat of it. His eyes never leave mine, not even for a blink. He’s memorizing this moment, committing my defiance to memory.

When he finally opens his mouth again, his voice is soft, almost gentle.

“Go back to bed, Katya.”

Underneath those softly said words, I hear the real truth.I will decide what to do with you later.