Page 8 of Reign of Four

I close my eyes, part of me shriveling up inside at how vulnerable it makes me. I hold on to the feeling, stacking it neatly beside the rest of my emotions. The fear. The anger. The pain. When it comes time to shove my blade through Liam’s wretched heart, I’ll sharpen it first, striking the metal against every single vile feeling he’s given me until it zings, sharp enough to slice through stone.

My voice is soft when I reply. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

Sighing, Liam presses a kiss to my lips, smearing more of his blood across them. He runs his finger through the sticky mess, painting my mouth red with the taste of him. “If I undo your ropes, will you behave?” His eyes narrow as he considers this. “If you fight me, you’re staying here tonight.”

I don’t want to be tied to a hard-ass chair all night. My ass is already threatening to go numb.

“I’ll be good.”

This mollifies him well enough that he carefully undoes every knot tying me in place. It takes longer than it should, because he delicately rubs every single patch of raw skin beneath the ropes, running his palms up my arms, my calves, down my back—everywhere he can touch, as though he’s saying sorry.

But I know better. He’s not sorry at all.

He’s playing the same game I am, trying to win the other one over. The difference between us, however, is that deep down, he believes he can convince me to stay with him. That if he shows enough compassion and generosity after inflicting pain and punishment, that I’ll learn to follow the rules. That he truly can be a good husband to me.

I want none of that bullshit.

I only want freedom, and it’s a price I’ll pay in blood. His. Katya’s. Anyone else’s who gets in my way. I’m under no delusion that this threadbare peace between us will turn into anything permanent. I’m not here to stay.

And I have seven days, at most, to break free.

Chapter 3

Valentina

The upgrade from a concrete prison to the master bedroom is jarring, even more so when Liam casually undoes his tie and steps out of his shoes, like we really are a married couple preparing for bed after a long day. I watch him for any signs of weakness—any physical tells that he’s favoring a leg or got a bullet hole in his arm—but all I find aside from the healing purple and yellow bruises around his eyes, courtesy of Ezra, is a patch over his shoulder. He doesn’t wince when he moves, but he’s more delicate about rotating his shoulder or lifting his left arm.

I’d bet on that being his stab wound from Mikhail.

But if he holds a grudge against me for it, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he studies me just as closely as I’m studying him. “You should shower before getting into bed, Valentina.”

My skin is sticky with sweat, and I desperately want to clean the blood from not only my chest, but between my thighs. I clutch Liam’s suit jacket tighter, begrudgingly grateful for it even though it came from the enemy. It’s all I have to wear now, aside from my bloodied panties.

My wedding dress wasn’t salvageable after Liam took a knife to it. The remnants litter the basement floor, sad strips of fabric and lace, evidence of a dream ruined.

I know Liam has seen me naked a hundred times now, but it doesn’t make it any easier to willingly undress in front of him. Especially after how forceful he was downstairs.

There isn’t a hint of remorse in his eyes as I slowly, nervously, fidget out of my clothes. He must know I’m uncomfortable about being naked in front of him, but my discomfort isn’t what bothers him.

It’s my lack of desire to return his affection that does.

I can see it in the clench of his jaw, the way his muscles tighten as I try to shrink in on myself. His gaze sweeps across my body, but he doesn’t move closer, inclining his head toward the bathroom. “You first, love.”

My heart pangs at the endearment. First, Liam stole the word zhena from Andrei, and now he’s stolen love from Mikhail. I’ll be listening for the moment he takes the word lisichka, the knife in my heart burrowing deeper with it.

Taking a deep breath, I steel my spine and walk tall as I step into the bathroom. I need to pretend this is normal. That being with Liam isn’t gut-wrenching, but something I want. That I’m only a little nervous about it, instead of wanting to crawl out of my skin every time he comes near.

He leans against the bathroom counter as I shower, eyes dark and lidded as I scrub my body clean. The glass door is fogged from the steam, but I’m under no illusion that he isn’t watching close enough to see a peek of nipple or glimpse of creamy thighs beneath the streams of water.

I’m surprised when he hands me a fluffy white towel once I step out of the shower. I’m even more surprised when he shows me where the feminine products are and tucks me into bed when the nighttime routine is done. Teeth brushed, hair rolled up in a towel, matching silk pajamas hanging off our hips, and a gentle goodnight kiss on the lips.

I expect Liam to slip into bed beside me and pull me against his bare chest, but instead he watches me from the couch against the far wall. Not lying down, feigning sleep—but sitting up, elbows perched on his knees, chin resting on clasped hands.

Staring.

It’s because of this that don’t get a single moment’s rest, despite how bone-tired I am. My entire body aches, and despite the water I drank from the bathroom sink, my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. Side effects from the drugs, or the stress, or the struggle I put up when Liam dragged me out of the chapel this afternoon.

It’s all extremely uncomfortable, but somehow my heart is grateful for the shower, the clothes, the bed, and especially the fact that Liam is keeping his distance.

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