Page 80 of Unleashed

What is going on here?

I remember vestiges of my past that don’t resonate with my present, but it’s like looking at a puzzle that’s only partially assembled—a few more pieces need to fall in place before I get the whole picture.

I’m scared I’m trapped in a relationship built on a house of cards. Deception. But even in the darkness, shrouded in fear and uncertainty, there’s one thing I can’t doubt: he loves me.

It’s written in his kiss, in the way his control slips when we’re together… like I’m the only one who has the key to his vulnerability. I’m the only one who can undo him. It’s not something he says, but something I feel in the way he touches me, the way he looks at me.

I see it in the way his brow furrows when he’s watching me as if I’m an enigma he needs to solve. He carries the weight of the world on his shoulders and, in his own way, has done his level best to carry mine. I feel it in the steady beat of his heart against mine, the grounding pressure of his palm on my back when I’m in trouble, a silent reminder that I’m not alone.

I feel it when he tucks my hair behind my ear and places a tender kiss on my forehead. The way he tucks the blanket around me in the middle of the night and wordlessly holds me when I wake, shaking and panting, from another dream.

He loves with the fierce protection of a warrior, and I’m his victory prize.

But is it… is it enough?

Can it be?

Can I love a man who thrives on control, who makes me feel like both a prisoner and a queen? Can I love a man whose every touch makes me feel owned, even if I don’t truly belong to him?

Can I love a man who’s lied to me?

Has he?

Rafail ends the call and shoves his phone in his pocket. I’ve been so wrapped up in my thoughts and fears that I didn’t hear a word of the call. I’m not sure it would’ve made much of a difference if I had.

I still have no idea what’s going on.

“And?” I ask, hoping for a shred of light on what’s happening, even though I know he probably won’t tell me anything.

He only shakes his head, his shoulders drooping. “We need to meet with my family. With everyone.”

“Um, about that…” I gesture to the bed. He looks over his shoulder at me and realizes with a grimace he’s destroyed my clothing.

“Fuck.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “Popov had a fucking liquor cabinet, you think he has clothes here?”

I shrug, still wrapped in the sheets. “I have no idea.” I go to push myself out of bed to explore the room but Rafail shakes his head, his voice firm. “Stay there. I’ll look.”

I don’t protest. This is very much apick-your-battlessituation.

He rummages through the closet and dresser, muttering to himself and making a few low hums of approval.

“Good. Here we go,” he says, tossing a generic pair of gray sweats and a white tee at me. They’ll be too big, but they’ll do. When I pull them on, the clothes hang awkwardly on my frame, the waistband sliding down my hips, and the shirt wears like a sack. They’re not just too big, either, but scratchy and uncomfortable.

Rafail notices me tugging and fidgeting, his eyes narrowed on me as he watches me try to make it work. Stepping toward me,his gaze softens for a fraction of a second before he curses under his breath again.

“Those aren’t going to work,” he growls before he tugs his own black tee over his head. “Take those off.”

Before I can argue, he’s pulling his soft, worn, comfortable tee over my head. It falls past my hips but feels better. Familiar. I inhale deeply, enveloped in his rugged, masculine scent. He eyes me for a second, then tugs the other backup clothes on.

“There,” he says with a nod of satisfaction. “That’s better. Not that you’re going outtherelike that until I find something more suitable for you, but it’ll do for now.”

I sit up in bed and cross my arms on my chest. “You think I’m going to sit in this bed while you and the rest of your family have a meeting, or eat dinner, or whatever the hell you’re planning on doing?”

I glare at him, fully aware that my threatening look is about as effective as a miniature Chihuahua growling at a Great Dane. But still, I try.

Shaking his head, he levels me with a look, reminding me that he isn’t just my husband. He’s the head of the Kopolov family dynasty and very likely one of Moscow’s most feared. I should hate how naturally he takes control. But even as the weight of his power bears down on me, a part of mecravesit. Craveshim.I should be running from him, not aching for him.

“Do you thinkI’mallowing my cousins, brothers, and uncle to see my wife’s body, barely covered by my tee?”

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