Page 11 of Reign of Four

“Wonderful. You’re dismissed.” I look to Riot next. “Would you be a dear and open the door for me? I’d like to bring my husband a little surprise treat.”

Riot hesitates, likely choosing sides. If he’s been ordered to follow me around, he may have been ordered to keep me away from business discussions and the like. But I’m curious whose orders he’s following—Liam’s as the alleged new pakhan, or Katya’s as the Madame.

When he steps in front of me to pull open the double doors, I get my answer.

He’s following mine.

Chapter 4

Valentina

The first thing I notice is that the room is filled with men. Older men, like, as old as my dad would be, were he alive. Some are better matched to my grandmother, with gray hair and deep-set wrinkles carved around their eyes and mouths, one of them even sporting a cane set down by his side. Everything about them screams old money and privilege—from the way they glare at me as I enter the office, to the obnoxious shine on their leather shoes.

The decor matches its guests; dusty bookshelves with ancient tomes line two walls, with a heavy, wooden desk sitting at the far side. Liam sits behind it as leader of this gathering, with the other men lounging on couches or in armchairs around the room.

A dozen men, and one frigid old bitch lurking in the corner.

I enter the room as quietly as possible, but the clatter of the silver serving fork on the equally shining silver tray, combined with the rattle of coffee mugs against a sleek metal carafe, means I fail miserably. Not that it would have mattered with Riot following me inside; the broad set of his shoulders could block out the sun, and he takes up double the space of the older men. If they don’t notice me, they definitely notice the tall, imposing guard disobeying his pakhan’s orders by allowing me inside.

The chatter in the room ceases instantly as all eyes fall upon Riot and me, and I can’t help but imagine this as some all-boys’ party I’ve crashed—like I snuffed out the birthday boy’s huge look at me candle, and now everyone’s waiting to watch him explode at the woman who ruined his big moment.

Liam may have mastered his poker face, but there’s no mistaking the steely glint in his cerulean eyes. He’s pissed.

I smile sweetly at him as I wheel the cart to the center of the room. “I hope you boys will excuse the interruption. My husband left so early this morning—why, I thought he might need a little pick-me-up after such a long night.”

A few of the men smirk, and the sudden rush of heat across my cheeks is one hundred percent authentic. I worked hard to cover the bruise Liam left on my cheek, but it aches the longer I stand here smiling. Carefully, I pour Liam his perfect cup of coffee: black with two sugars, mindful not to make a mess.

Our eyes meet when I look up, and I can feel it—the challenge I’ve presented him, draped across my shoulders like a heavy cloak. Will he entertain this interruption to business, or will he punish me for it?

And, if he punishes me in front of all these men, will I fight back? Can I withstand the humiliation of a public spanking—or worse?

While Liam makes his decision, I carefully lean across the desk to set his coffee in front of him, giving him an ample glimpse of cleavage in the process.

To his credit, he doesn’t even look at my boobs, too focused on holding my gaze.

Were this a normal day and a normal relationship instead of some fucked-up hostage kink-fest, I might be insulted. I’ve got great tits.

“Darling,” I greet, sweetening my smile. “Would you like anything else?”

His nostrils flare, but after a tense heartbeat, he averts his gaze, dismissing me to return to conversation with the man beside him. Still, he clutches his coffee mug, thumbing its side idly, as I take a tour of the room and greet each of its inhabitants with a smile and a sweet treat.

Most of the men pay me little mind, their mouths pinched, their responses curt. When they don’t accept coffee or a bagel, the rejection stings exactly how it’s meant to—as an offense. These men are actively offending me by refusing my generous gift. They want me to know how little they think of me. They want me to learn my place beneath their heels.

I know where they want me. I’ve been trained my whole life on how to be the perfect lap dog—pretty, but insignificant.

But I have better plans for my life.

I take turns giving each man in the room attention, placing my hand on one’s forearm as I ask his coffee preference, bending slightly to address another, murmuring softly as I get the attention of a few at the edges of the room. Of the twelve men, some I actually recognize as my father’s business associates. About half of them are new, with only two of them looking young enough to be in their thirties.

They’re the ones who watch me move around the room instead of listening to the business at hand, which makes it difficult for me to eavesdrop. The good thing about Liam’s present company is that in order for discussion to reach all ears in every corner of the room, Liam needs to speak up—especially as I tinker with stirring cream and sugar into mugs that no one seems to want. It means that I can multi-task, taking mental notes about the conversation as much as I am about who’s in the room.

In addition to all the men, my grandmother’s sitting in the corner, completely unobtrusive as she perches in an armchair by an empty fireplace. She blends in so well with the furniture that at first, I nearly overlook the fact that she’s here—which, I’m sure, is precisely her goal. When I pass in front of her, the look she gives me could freeze hell over. The firm press of her lips matches the stiffness in her posture. I won’t let her win the silent judgement round, so I slather her favorite bagel in cream cheese and bring her a bread plate.

“For you, babushka.” As I hold the plate over her lap, she takes my hand and squeezes tight. My smile pinches as I avoid reacting.

Her eyes search mine, her lips twitching into a frown. “Ditya. I did not expect to see you this morning.” Her gaze sweeps over my outfit, her frown deepening.

“Well, a wife is meant to support her husband.” I lick the fruity gloss off my lips, smacking them. “What better way than providing for his guests?”

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