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“I don’t need you telling me what to do,” I shoot back.

“Okay.” He shrugs and walks past me, heading to Anya's room.

I watch his retreating back, anger boiling hotter with every step he takes. He tosses over his shoulder, “Calm down and think things through. Being my wife isn't so bad when you really look at it.”

That only pissed me off more.

I'm tempted to trash his entire office, knock the computer off the desk, sweep the papers onto the floor, but then I stop myself. It isn't the office’s fault. The owner is just an asshole.

Instead, I follow him and stop outside Anya’s bedroom door.

Andrei is already sitting on the edge of her bed, his huge, tattooed frame looking strangely gentle in the soft glow of the nightlight. He is whispering something soothing to our sleeping daughter, one big hand gently stroking her hair.

The sight cracks something in my chest.

This massive, dangerous man, covered in ink and scars, turning soft and tender for our little girl. It is almost enough to make me forget how furious I am.

Almost.

I quickly shake the feeling off.

No. This is probably exactly what he wants. To make me let my guard down. Using our daughter… and his dick, of course.

I turn away from Anya’s door and head back to our bedroom, my blood still boiling.

I go through my nighttime routine on autopilot — washing my face, brushing my teeth, changing into a soft silk nightdress.

I’m just rinsing my mouth when Andrei walks into the bathroom and leans casually against the counter, arms crossed, watching me in the mirror.

I ignore him completely, continuing to move around as if he isn’t even there.

After a long silence, he finally speaks.

“You need to get a tattoo.”

I pause mid-motion, toothbrush still in my hand. “What are you talking about this time?”

“You need to get the family crest tattooed on you.”

I turn to face him fully, eyebrows raised. “And why on earth would I want that?”

“Because it’s the rule,” he says simply. “It’s tradition. Getting the crest shows that you’re part of the family. Truly.”

He unbuttons the top few buttons of his shirt and pulls the fabric aside, revealing the tattoo I’ve seen before, a sword with detailed wings spreading from both sides of the handle, inked boldly on his chest.

I’ve noticed the same design on some of his men’s arms too.

I shake my head firmly. “I’m not getting a tattoo. Never.”

Andrei sighs. “Be reasonable, Rosie.”

“Reasonable?” I snap, voice rising. “The only way I will ever get that stupid tattoo is if you drug me first, because I have zero intention of agreeing to it.”

He studies me for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then he pushes off the counter.

“Alright then.”

Without another word, he turns and walks out of the bathroom.