Page 30 of Crown of Hate

Husband.

I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that word.

“I'll give it a try.” I try to play it cool, but my voice lands somewhere between breathy and desperate.

Smooth, real smooth.

I wrench my gaze away, only to lock eyes with Annabelle who’s watching me in a way that makes it look as if she’s trying to kill me with her eyes.

Or maybe it’s just my imagination.

“Where’s the fitting room?” I ask, eager to escape the tension.

“I’ll have someone take you.” She snaps her fingers, and one of her assistants whisks me away to the fitting room.

As I slip into the gown, the fabric cascading around me like a waterfall of silk, I step out of the fitting room and catch sight of Mikhail's reflection in the mirror. His eyes widen, a hint of genuine admiration flickering in their depths.

He whirls around to face me, his pupils dilating. “You look breathtaking,” he murmurs, voice husky with emotion.

I swallow hard, suddenly feeling vulnerable. “Thank you,” I whisper back, unable to tear my gaze away from his.

For a moment, we stand there in silence, the air charged with magnetic energy. And then, as if unable to resist the pull any longer, Mikhail steps forward, his hand reaching out to brush against the delicate fabric of the gown.

“It suits you,” he says softly, his touch sending a shiver down my spine. “But then again, everything looks beautiful on you.”

I meet his gaze, my heart thundering in my chest. “I know I’m a knockout, Mikhail,” I reply, my voice dripping with confidence, even as my insides are fluttering with nerves.

He leans in closer, his breath warm against my ear. “Do you? Because I could spend an eternity telling you how beautiful you are and it still wouldn’t be enough.”

Before I can process that, his lips are on mine, soft and teasing. When he pulls back, his eyes are dancing with mischief and dark promises.

I lick my lips, savoring the taste of him. My breath hitches, my body slowly coming awake. Through the corner of my eyes, I see Anabelle glaring daggers at me. Her assistants are trying not to look.

“We’re in public, Mikhail,” I remind him, though my body is screaming for more.

“I don’t give a damn,” he says with a cheeky smile.

Flattening my palm on his chest, I gently push him back, my fingers pressing against his abs. They’re so hard. “Well, I do, Mr. Zirkhov. I’ll try on the other clothes now.”

Four hours later, I’m finally done trying on the endless array of stunning dresses and shoes. I’m now wearing the final gown, but I’m struggling to reach the zipper.

I step out from the fitting room, ready to ask for Mikhail’s help, when I see Anabelle being all touchy with him, despite his obvious disinterest.

My chest heaves with rage and jealousy. I may not be in love with Mikhail, but he is mine. No one touches what is mine; it’s an attitude I got from my papa.

“Annabelle?” I call out, my voice sweet as antifreeze.

She snaps her neck to me, glowering at me like I’ve been a thorn in her side since the moment we arrived. “Yes, Mrs. Zirkhov?”

“I need help with this dress.”

She starts to turn to one of her assistants. “How about?—”

“You. Help. Me.” I cut in, not even trying to keep the edge out of my voice.

“Um…” She swallows so hard I can almost hear it. Then she plasters a fake smile on her face. “Alright.”

Back in the fitting room, I don’t waste time with pleasantries. “What the hell was that about?” I ask, glaring at her through the mirror hanging on the wall.

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