Page 31 of Arranged for the Russian Pakhan

Where bewilderment dissipates, stinging, slicing anger takes its place. My eyes zero in on the smooth, unbothered sheets on the left side of the bed. It’s clear to see that not even the duvet was pulled back on that side. It’s undisturbed. The same can’t be said for me.

But hey, looks like I got the bedroom to myself, after all.

I wait for relief about it. Relief that, for some inexplicable reason, never comes. Maybe it’s because my body is that exhausted, bones heavy and muscles sore from being contorted and stretched to a dance between my desires and a man’s whims. The theory has more and more merit, as the night comes back to me—playing in my head like a film reel, that cut off, the quality blurring, around the time he deposited my body in the bathtub. Right before he walked away from me, his face turned away. Like he couldn’t stand the sight of me.

Like he was horrified he’d let himself fuck me.

The memory alone is enough to make the back of my neck burn from mortification. I feel sick. Sick to my stupid stomach, over the way I’d let him get to me this much. I’d let him get so far under my skin in the haze of a feverish—fine, mind-blowing, but not life-changing—sexual encounter that I’d ended the night crying in a bathtub, more alone than I’ve ever been. Like I’m a slave to oxytocin.

Hell no. That’s not who I am.

I’m not some pathetic woman who’s been sold off like cattle, searching for a bout of lust for romantic subtext. This may be a political marriage, but it’s still one I chose of my own volition, despite having been offered the option to tap out even, and more than once at that. Of course, despite my taunting him last night about my parameters for sharing my bed with a man, I’d considered the possibility of sharing his. I’m no simpleton. He is, however, a man. And I am a beautiful woman. I may not have allowed myself to consider the possibility of a sexual tryst between us, but neither am I entirely surprised that one would occur. That said, sex isn’t without consequence.

Since I doubt someone’s about to go out and grab me a Plan B pill after my wedding night, I’ll have to settle for praying.

Though I suppose a child would secure the damn alliance plenty.

Anton may have believed he had me cornered with his manipulative logic, but he never factored in that my brothers love me more than they ever could the Bratva—that my sanity, my life, my happiness matters more, forever. In hindsight, it’s not surprising that he’d believe otherwise so easily. The man can’t even elicit his own brother’s loyalty—half-brother or not, they were still raised together, weren’t they?—So what does he possibly know about love? It would be foolish to be bothered by his dismissal. There is no point in being stung by his absence.

No matter what, I’m not about to be a victim of his whims.

I’m hell and high water, waiting in his bed. He’s the one who should sleep with one eye open. It isn’t like before, now. I’m not bound by etiquette, respecting my upbringing and an alliance both parties were coerced into. In adopting the Zakharov name, I’ve become a weapon, adorned with my own family’s sigil. It isn’t a frivolous party planner whose sister happens to be married to his half-brother. I am his wife, as he’d reminded me with his head between my legs last night.

He doesn’t get to walk away from me.

At least not without consequences. Not anymore.

Clearly, my husband is under the illusion that our dynamic was one where my hands are tied—in the metaphorical sense, mind you—and he has the upper hand.

He’s in for a rude awakening.

Last night, alone and unraveling, I’d sat in bathwater until it had gone cold. By the time my tears had dried, my mind had been full of ideas. Granted, the first of them may not have been the most sophisticated—though there’s still some merit to slowly weakening him with poison, day by day, until he awoke one morning, just in time for me to plunge a dagger into his cold, black heart—but they’d picked up in quality thereafter.

No contest, that’s who I’d rather be: the one who makes plans and executes them, clear-headed all the way through. A solution-oriented person. An asset. The woman I’ve always been. Who’ll get out of bed, get dressed, have her coffee with a side of some fruit and yogurt, then dive headfirst into her day.

I won’t allow it to change just because it’s a different bed I’m crawling out of, and getting dressed now includes taming sex-wrecked curls I must re-wet and set with copious amounts of hair mousse. Does it truly matter if it’s a Zakharov servant I’m summoning for coffee and breakfast? Not to me. Not to the big picture.

I’ve got this.

Whatever a piece of paper deems, there is Yuri blood in my veins.

And Anton Zakharov is about to find out just what that means for his peace of mind.

***

The team at the atelier itself comprises of four people—my primary assistant and studio manager, Filip; Gloriana, who acts as my second pair of hands with conservation and restoration, though she started as my trainee; my technical analyst, Hanya, without whom I’d struggle to move on a piece without knowledge of what I’m working with, chemically and historically; and sweet Javier, my archivist, who specializes in documentation and record-keeping—and each of them is exceptionally adept, and well-compensated for their skills as much as their discretion.

While it’s indisputably true that it’s not entirely ethical to source my team for this, I recognize the satisfaction that blooms within me when Filip shows up at the Zakharov manor halfway through the morning. With a fleet following after him, laden with fabric swatches, paint samples, and catalogs of antiques, in quantities that have Anton’s security team squirming with anxiety.

It’s delicious. Short-lived, however.

“What on earth is the meaning of this?!” A shriek precedes a body storming out to the foyer. Unfortunately, it’s only my new mother-in-law. She announces herself, arms crossed across her chest.

What a pity that it isn’t Anton.

The act of batting my lashes while taking a hot poker to his restraint is exactly what the doctor ordered for me today.

I’m not nearly as cheered up confronting Galina Zakharov. This woman, whom I’ve crossed paths with a handful of times at events and, of course, the wedding yesterday, has seemed dignified and detached.