I find Roman in the kitchen the next morning, drinking coffee. He pauses when he sees me, the mug hanging halfway between his lips and the counter, his eyes briefly assessing my appearance.
“Good morning,” he says.
Oh. It wasn’t exactly a typical wedding night, but I expected him to either ignore me or come up with a remark to piss me off.
“Good morning,” I mutter, turning away from him to the fridge. I grab a bottle of water and tuck it under my arm, heading back toward the door. Since I can’t leave the house and I’m not in the mood for breakfast, my only solution is to get more sleep.
“I’ve asked Sergei to drive you.”
I hesitate, looking over my shoulder with one foot out the doorway. Is he talking to me? I blink slowly, confused. “Drive me?”
He nods. “Yes. You want to leave the house, don’t you?”
“Ah,” I scoff, clicking my tongue. “Now you think I want to leave? It didn’t occur to you when I tried to escape, or when you threatened to have your men shoot me, that I wanted to leave this place?” The last words come out with frustration as I grit my teeth.
Roman places his mug on the counter. He doesn’t respond for a minute, working on the cuff links of his sleeves. The expensive silver glints against the crisp white fabric stretched over his forearms, showing them off in a way that makes my chest flutter.
Wrong feeling. I push it away, focusing on my ire. “What changed?”
He lifts his head, gazing at me through half-lidded lashes. “You said it yourself. You were going to run away.”
Huh. What bullshit. I thrust my hands onto my hips, ignoring the thud of the water bottle as it falls to the floor. “And now? What makes you think I won’t do it again?”
He shrugs, eyes narrowing lazily. His voice thickens as he speaks. “Because you’re mine. You’re mine before the law, and no matter how far you run, I have a claim to you.”
In other words, I’m property. Branded property. It should make me livid, but my thoughts race back to his bedroom after he brought me home. When he touched me and used me and I craved more.
A shiver pulses through me, twisting low in my belly. Before I can process my actions, I clench my thighs tight, desperate for friction, for something to dull the surge of memory coursing through me.
Roman notices.
Of course he does.
His gaze drops, and I hear a low sound. Like a growl. A grunt. The last time I felt him make that sound, it was against my skin, and he was inside me, stretching every inch of my body.
“You’re a cruel man,” I say.
“I don’t disagree,” he replies.
My fingers grip the bottle as I pick it up, distorting the shape of the plastic. He’s insufferable to the point where I want to pick him apart and watch him struggle to find his ego.
“If I can’t go wherever I want, I won’t accept your offer,” I say with a toss of my chin.
“You want to meet your father?” he throws back, not missing a beat.
It takes me a moment to recover, not because I’m thinking about what he suggested, but because I remember my conversation with Nico last night—their plan to break me out and what they intend to do to Roman.
I stare at him, wondering if he knows. Maybe I’m the one in the dark, and he has people monitoring calls between my dad and Nico. Maybe he knows they’re laying a trap for him, and he’s already one step ahead.
Or, he doesn’t. For all his cockiness, Roman Volkov might have a blind spot.
“I have a question.”
He tilts his head, asking me to go on.
“Do you think you’re untouchable? Do you ever wonder if maybe, like your father, you might be trusting the wrong people?”
The change in his demeanor is immediate. I see the muscle twitch in his jaw and the slight flare of his nostrils. His father, I realize too late. I shouldn’t have mentioned him.
But it was worth seeing him rattled. If I need to find his weakness, I know where to probe.
I’m basking in my temporary victory, and he walks toward me. My brain screams flight, but I stand my ground, forcing my thoughts to remain silent. He halts a few feet away and I let out the breath I was holding. It leaves my body like a betrayed whoosh.
Roman’s voice, when it comes, is low and clipped. “You don’t get to talk about my father,” he says. “Not when you’re in the middle of lying to me.”
“A lie?” I push through the croak that follows the first word, squaring my shoulders. “I merely asked a question. You said my father was responsible for your father’s death. And yet, from what I’ve heard, he was a tough man. The only way he would’ve been set up was if he trusted the wrong people.”
“Like your father?” Roman drawls. “It sounds to me like you’re finally accepting that your father is a dishonest coward. Good for you.”
I knew I was walking into a trap. I refuse to back down, taking a bold step forward. There’s nothing between us now, not a hair’s breadth or a finger length. I ignore my thoughts as they spiral, facing him squarely. “Sure. He might be dishonest and sometimes a coward. It’s not as though you haven’t run away from a fight before. But you see…” I sigh pitifully. “The difference between you and I is that you’re not ready to accept that you might be backing the wrong horse. It’s a recipe for disaster, Roman Volkov.”
This time, his silence makes me feel empowered. “A recipe for disaster,” I repeat, clicking my tongue. “But good luck. I’m sure you can handle it. You’re big and strong, after all.” A swift flashback hits me, and I go pale for a moment. I remember when I said those exact words—big and strong. Tucking it away before it becomes a weakness he can pounce on, I flip my hair and turn, leaving him standing there.
My lips crack in a splitting grin as I climb the stairs. It feels good to be the one walking away. I’m sure my streak won’t last, but for now, it’s amazing.
I said I wouldn’t accept his offer, but I’m out of the house in an hour, slipping into the back seat of a sporty Audi.
“Just drive,” I tell Sergei as I lean back, closing my eyes. I can’t risk Roman knowing about Nico, so I can’t arrange a direct meeting. It doesn’t mean I won’t try, though. My dad has people everywhere—bars, clubs, and the most inconspicuous of places, like auto shops and cafes. There’ll be someone there to deliver my message.
Our first stop is a vintage shop, and Sergei waits in the car as I walk into the shop. The smell of old stuff hits me—dust, age, and wear—and I clear my throat as I approach the front desk, drawing the attention of the man behind the counter.
“Hi?”
He looks up from polishing a weird-looking piece, and his eyes widen when he sees me. “Miss…Miss Ricci?”
Thank heavens. “Hi, Mickey.” I smile, slapping my hand on the counter. “How’s it going?” My dad found Mickey peddling, gave him a shop, and uses the shop to launder money. He never told me outright, but he brought me along a few times, and it didn’t take long to see that he wasn’t buying any antiques. Mickey’s my age, but he lives and looks like he has no idea how the world works.
“Ah.” He scratches his hair, falling over his forehead. “It’s fine, I guess. I heard…” He purses his lips, reluctant to finish his statement. I don’t know if it’s true, but I heard something.”
“That I almost got married, but I was kidnapped?” I say.
His head bobs. “Yeah, but…but you got married again, right?”
Roman. It’s not surprising. We got married yesterday—a small ceremony that would’ve remained unknown if we were two other people, but the news has spread like wildfire.
“Yes,” I say flatly. “That isn’t going to be a problem, is it?” He might hesitate to help, especially if he’s heard that Roman has a bounty on my father’s head. “You owe us, remember?” I lean over when he doesn’t respond, pinning him with a glare. “What was it you told my dad? That no matter what, when we came calling, you’d drop everything to help?”
“Y-yes,” he stammers. “I was shocked, that’s all. And Mr. Ricci missed his last appointment, so I have no idea what’s going on.”
I see. “Can you reach him?”
He shakes his head. “No. He told me he’d contact me first to set a time and date. That’s the way it’s always been.”
Again, not surprising. If my dad were worried about Mickey selling him out, he’d want to hold all the cards. It also means I’m back where I started without knowing what he’s up to. I know Nico won’t tell—his relationship with my father might have frayed in the past, but it sounds like they’re back in business. And his loyalty is to Marco Ricci, not me.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
“Sure. If you’d like me to do anything else for you—”
I’m already turning away, dismissing him as the door swings open, closing behind me.
When I get home, the house is quiet, and I climb the steps slowly, dragging my feet to my bedroom. The door remains ajar as I walk to my bed and climb on, tucking my feet under the covers. I’ll deal with it later.
Or maybe not. Maybe I’ll sit back and let things play out. If I know how my father intends to trap Roman, I might—somehow—summon a shred of pity for him.
Pity that he doesn’t deserve.
“Go away.” I kick my feet out when I feel something on my foot, too sleepy to be bothered with identifying whatever it is. But it doesn’t go away and I feel the tapping again, firmer this time.
In retaliation, I kick harder. “Leave me alone. I’m trying to sleep.”
“Mrs. Volkov, dinner’s ready.”
Mrs. Volkov? I almost snort. Why would anyone call me that? As if I’d ever get married to Roman—my eyes fly open as it hits me. I am married to him. And it’s Polina, standing at the foot of my bed.
“What?” I ask, simmering with fury. I didn’t need to be reminded that I made the worst mistake of my life yesterday or that I had the chance to avoid it, but I fucked up.
“Dinner,” she says with no emotion in her tone, and her face is flat. “Mr. Volkov is downstairs, waiting for you.” Then she turns, low heels tapping on the ground and her hands behind her back, walking out of the room.
“Close the—” I start to remind her that she left the door ajar when it dawns on me that I was the one who did it. I left the goddamn door open because I was too tired to be bothered with it.
Groaning, I drag myself into a sitting position, sweeping my hair away from my face. Dinner with Roman? Count me out.
If I could trade half a decade of my lifespan so I didn’t have to see him anymore, I would. Even if I had five years left, I’d do it with no regrets.
“Bad riddance,” I mutter as I flop back on the bed, yanking the covers over my head. As I close my eyes again, my stomach lets out a loud grumble.
Nuh-uh. I’m not hungry. I am perfectly capable of going till morning without eating, even though I’ve only had water all day.
“It’s a mindset,” I mutter, attempting to convince my mind. My stomach grumbles in protest, louder the second time. “Please,” I moan, slapping both hands over it. “Could you just spare me for one night?”
Another grumble.
Maybe if I lie still and act like I can’t feel anything, it’ll go away.
I last seconds, maybe minutes, before I leave my bed and head downstairs in a sweatshirt and loose-fitting shorts. It’s just dinner, I tell myself. I don’t have to make conversation with him or acknowledge his presence.
I can simply sit at the table, eat, and leave.
From a few feet away, I see Roman hunched over his phone. His eyebrows are drawn tight in concentration, and his fingers are supporting the phone while his thumb dances on the screen. His other hand sits on the table, tapping idly. He doesn’t notice my presence, giving me ample time to slip in, but my steps slow the closer I get.
He looks like he just got in, and it shows in the way his brown dress shirt clings to the hard lines of his chest and arms. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbow, showing off more skin…or enough skin for my thoughts to make a hard left in the wrong direction.
Firm. Warm. Hard.
My mind floods with a vivid recollection of being cradled against his chest and held in his arms, the heat from the body slowly replacing the cold clinging to my clothes. My gaze dips back to his hand on the table…and I remember that hand grabbing my hips and marking my skin.
Heat floods my face, and I slap my hand on my cheek, shocked at how warm it actually feels.
Sensing my gaze, Roman looks up from his phone, quietly assessing me with eyes that drift from my sweatshirt to my shorts and back in a slow, unhurried motion. There’s nothing sexual about the way he looks at me. It’s detached, like I’m something to be observed without much interaction, but it lights the end of a fuse in my mind, fogging it up quickly.
I hear myself inhale audibly, and his eyebrow quirks with mild curiosity. “Is there something wrong?”
“No,” I reply sharply, breaking out of my very aware trance. “Nothing.” Berating myself silently, I look away as I hurry to the table, taking the seat furthest away from him.
Whose idea was it to have dinner together, anyway? Not his, I’m sure, because he’s gotten what he wanted. A wife.
And an heir.
Never. I’m not going to be a breeding tool.
It has to be Polina’s idea, and she’d only do something like this because she’s trying to play mediator.
“Dinner’s ready,” she announces, bringing in covered dishes. I watch as she places them gingerly, taking her time to adjust their position.
Huh. I tilt my head, watching her with questions brewing in my head. Why would she play mediator? To appease me, after I asked her why she’d agree to work for someone like Roman? Or maybe she’s trying to show me what she sees in him?
If it’s the former, her efforts are about to go down the drain, because I know what I think about Roman Volkov. Manipulator. Selfish. Greedy. Egocentric. Entitled. Brute.
“I could think of more words,” I mutter under my breath as I glance at him through half-lidded lashes, “but I’ll run out at some point.”
“What?” he asks, looking up at me.
I ignore him, digging into my food. He doesn’t push for a response, turning to his food instead. For some reason, watching him eat annoys me. I know it’s because of how unbothered he is by everything. I’m here, seething, and he’s at ease.
It should be the opposite.
“I went out,” I say, dropping my spoon. He nods half-heartedly without looking at me. “You must know, because you have Sergei reporting to you. He probably told you everywhere we stopped and who I spoke to. And then you went and interrogated them, probably to find out if they know anything about my father.”
His prolonged silence to my statement only infuriates me further. I cross and uncross my arms, glaring at him. “You might as well put a tracker on me,” I say, “or a communication device under my skin so you can record every single conversation I have with anyone who isn’t you. I’m sure it’ll help find my father since I’ve had no luck getting through to him.”
I realize my slip a little too late, and panic floods me, but I bite my tongue, hiding it away.
Roman lifts his head slowly, his spoon dangling from his fingers. I can barely tell what he’s thinking. “I didn’t assign Sergei as your driver to spy on you,” he says calmly. “It was to keep you safe. As for Marco Ricci, I’m aware you have no idea where your father is. If you did…” His mouth twitches with a ghost smile. “I’d have found out already.”
“How?” I ask. “You’ve only asked, what, once? And I never said I didn’t know where he was. You assumed that because you think of me as weak and incapable.”
He looks down at his spoon as silence passes between us. Then he lifts his head again, and his eyes are different. It’s almost inexplicable, but they dig into mine, unwavering, as if peeling back every layer I’ve spent years perfecting.
It’s the same way he knew how to touch me the right way. It’s how he had me crumbling in his arms when I should’ve been fighting against his touch.
“I don’t think of you as weak,” he says, his voice quiet but dense with intensity. “Not once. Not even for a second.”
The words make my breath catch. There’s no arrogance in his tone. No smirk. Just raw, searing honesty.
“You’re the one underestimating yourself, Isabella,” he adds, his voice roughening slightly. “And if you think I don’t see every damn crack in that armor you wear, you’re wrong.”
I swallow hard, but the lump in my throat doesn’t move. I should say something—fight back, push him away, deflect—but the way he’s looking at me has every word dying on my tongue.
“I know you have no idea where your father is because if you knew, you wouldn’t have run to some farm. You’d have gone to him. And…” He lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “I know he’s a terrible father. He was willing to give you away for the sake of an alliance, and when it didn’t work, he wasn’t rushing to save you from my hands. Know this, printsessa—any other man would burn down my house to free you.”
It’s cruel.
It’s so cruel that he manages to praise me and then make me feel horrible in a span of seconds. He didn’t have to talk about my father. He didn’t have to remind me how much I’ve been betrayed by the man I gave everything to.
And god, I hate him for it.
“You know nothing about my father.”
Roman chuckles under his breath, the sound full of disdain. “You think you do? Tell me, Isabella Volkov—”
“Don’t call me that.” I grit my teeth as my eyes flash with anger. “Don’t you dare call me that. I didn’t agree to take your last name. You forced it on me.”
“It doesn’t make a difference,” he continues smoothly. “You’re mine. I can call you whatever I want. But tell me, do you know that we took him in after he fled from Italy?”
He leans forward, and the black in his eyes turns to slits. My breath slows, the air turns heavy, and a shiver runs down my spine.
“He ran to us for help, pledging his life alliance. If you say you know your father better than I do, you should know about these things. Then you also know that the price for breaking a blood oath is death.”
I didn’t.
I had no idea my father sought refuge from the Volkovs and swore his life to them. It explains why he never agreed when I asked, as a child, if we could return to Italy.
Even for a summer.
His response was a stiff no, and that was the end of it.
“There are rules, Bella,” Roman adds quietly as he settles down, “and he broke them. If you think he doesn’t deserve to face the consequences, then you’re as much a hypocrite as your father is.”
His words cut me to the quick, and the urge to defend myself crawls through my chest.
But I remain silent. I don’t know if I can trust the words that come out of my mouth, because everything I know no longer holds true.
How much more did my father hide from me? How many times did I believe his words, unaware that he was feeding me lies?
My stomach churns, and the food makes my stomach sick. I push my chair back noisily and stand up.
“Isabella.”
“I’m sorry.” I shake my head, the words catching on a sob. “I have to go.”
I hurry away from the dining area, my steps picking up pace as I get closer to the stairs. I take them blindly as my vision blurs, fighting back tears as I race to my room. I kick the door open and slam it behind me before my knees give out, plunging me to the ground.
God.
I bite down on my knuckles as my shoulders shake. The sobs dig through my body as they force their way through my fingers. It feels like death. Like I crawled through mud, and it got under my skin and into my blood.
Bile creeps to my throat, and I taste it on my tongue—it’s desperation for an exit. I crawl to the bathroom, bracing my arms on the toilet seat as I throw up. It comes out over and over until my insides feel hollow and my limbs feel like jelly. Then I let go, curling into my arms as my clothes soak up the dampness of the tiles.
I don’t care anymore.
My father. His plans. Reaching out to him. I don’t care what he intends to do if his plan for Roman involves saving me from a hellhole.
If this ends, I know where I’ll be going.
Far away from everything I’ve known to begin a life of my own.
