Page 9 of Reign of Four

It must be part of his plan to win me over. Be nice to me, and maybe I’ll roll onto my back for him. He could easily climb into bed, force me in any position he favors, and claim my mouth in a searing kiss, grinding his cock against my slit until he comes in thick ropes across my stomach. He could do more than stare at me from across the room.

But he doesn’t.

And that makes me even more nervous. I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. For the snap of his sanity. For something to push him over the edge, make him angry.

This soft version of Liam is reminiscent of days past, when we’d shared a bed in his high-rise apartment and overlooked the twinkling city from beneath the sheets, sipping wine and making love intermittently until dawn. But that version of him is a lie. The real Liam stalks me across state lines, threatens me with violence when I say something he doesn’t like, and gets furious and possessive at the idea of another man touching me.

I’m waiting for that man to make his appearance.

The minutes tick by in agony, the sharp cramps in my gut only amplifying my misery. He left a bottle of painkillers on the nightstand—but I don’t dare touch them. He’s drugged me once; I won’t put it past him to do it again.

I’m still waiting when the sun finally rises. He stands, coming round to my bedside to press a gentle kiss to my temple. I hold my breath as he whispers sweetness in my ear.

Sweet dreams, Princess.

I keep holding my breath as he leaves the room, not moving a muscle until I’m sure he’s not coming back.

Then, my planning begins. I throw off the blankets and survey the entire room from top to bottom.

Although the color scheme differs from my room at the Baranova estate, the layout is similar enough that it’s familiar, and I go through everything systematically: the matching mahogany nightstands, the paneled dresser, the walk-in closet, the granite bathroom, the six inches of clearance under the bed, the safe tucked in the corner of the room whose passcode I can’t guess correctly, and the double-wide balcony overlooking the front lawn.

As I step out onto it, warm sunlight paints my skin, but the harsh chill of autumn tears away any comfort it might bring. I shiver and clutch my arms to my chest, peering out at the front drive that curves toward a gleaming silver gate, which leads out into the city. Cars are already zipping by, and despite the barrier of trees at the edge of the property, I can still hear the bustle of the city on its daily commute to work.

Although my life is far from normal, in a way, this fucked-up situation is normal for me. It’s my day-to-day, sitting at the precipice of life and death, waiting to see which one of us falls over the edge first. I would laugh if I wasn’t so upset about it. I’ll never have a normal nine-to-five job, be the soccer mom picking her kids up after practice, or be able to grab my favorite coffee on the way into the office every morning.

For a while during those five years I spent away from my father and the Bratva, I tried to have a normal life. Liam was a part of that attempt, and only now do I see how foolish it was to think my home life wouldn’t follow me outside city limits. Everything in my life has been coordinated, from the dresses I wear to the people I meet.

It shouldn’t be a surprise that meeting—and dating—Liam was yet another string being pulled, a manipulation tactic at its finest. My grandmother has always been a master of the art, it seems, luring not just me, but Liam into her web. We’re both pawns in something bigger, but I don’t yet know what the end game is. I’m likely not meant to know, as is tradition for a mafia wife to remain naïve.

But if I can get Liam to talk, even if he doesn’t know the full scope of Katya’s plans, I can piece them together myself. By the time my men find me, I need to have enough information to be useful. I’m not strong like Ezra, tactical like Andrei, or maniacal like Mikhail. But I am a Baranova, and that gives me more power than I’ve ever tried to use.

Leaving the balcony, I take a quick shower and pick an outfit that exemplifies the princess role—a pale pink sundress with an off-the-shoulder cut and a perfect bow at the back. It’s not in season at all, but I slip on a pair of white flats and braid my hair over my shoulder to keep up appearances. The house should be warm enough to make this work, and if not, everyone will simply have to deal with seeing my nipples hardened to chilly points all afternoon.

Everything I try on fits perfectly. I bet I’m supposed to be grateful for the foresight and planning that went into my wardrobe.

But all it is, really, is another act of control. I’m not able to pick my own outfits—my husband has already chosen the set. I merely get to pick my costume for the day.

It burns me up even more.

The cuts down my chest from last night are still healing, but the dress hides them from sight. I carefully wedge a wad of toilet paper inside my bra to protect the deepest ones from sweat throughout the day, grit my teeth at the sting, and meticulously apply a natural makeup palette and a steady swipe of eyeliner that accentuates my eyes. The deep green of my eyes pops against the pink of the dress, making me look like a spring blossom waiting to be plucked. A brush of gloss across my lips finishes the look.

I take a deep breath and try the door to the hall. To my surprise, it opens without any resistance, and I push through with a startled oh. The first thing I see makes my spine straighten instantly—a guard in full black, his face hidden behind a mask, stands directly opposite me.

“Good morning.” I try for a smile that I hope hides my surprise.

The man inclines his head but doesn’t verbally reply. I try not to stare at the rifle cradled in his arms. This guard isn’t as large as Ezra—likely doesn’t have the muscle mass—but he looks no less formidable when he’s covered head to toe in padded armor and shielded plating. It’s like he’s expecting an army to bulldoze through here or something.

I smile a little wider. “Are you my escort for the day?” I know the guards back at the estate are instructed not to speak, but maybe this one will be different. Maybe, for once, I can have a guard on my side. I don’t have money to bribe him with, but a pretty smile from the lady of the house can go a long way.

To my delight, he nods.

“Excellent.” I clap my hands together. “My name is Valentina. What should I call you?”

He doesn’t respond, which isn’t surprising, so I hum to myself as I think of what to call my masked stranger. “I think I’ll call you Riot. Is that alright?” I was trying to think of something more charming that might win him over, but I’ll never remember it. Instead, I simply pick what I won’t be able to forget: man in riot gear equals the name Riot. It’s not very creative, but it’ll stick.

Now I just have to remember how to pick him out from a crowd of men in matching gear. But maybe that’ll come to me later.

“Do you know where my—” I try not to visibly gag on the next word—“husband is?”

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