Page 36 of Emperor of Havoc

You’re mine.

That’s all. No signature. No explanation. Just those two words scrawled in heavy black ink. I open the paper flat, my heart thudding as I glance around the room.

Takeshi.

He’s standing near the far side of the hall, talking to someone I don’t recognize. His posture is relaxed, that smug grin still on his face. When his dark eyes flick to me, something inside me coils tight. I can still feel the weight of his hands on me, the heat of his breath in my ear as he whispered things I’d be happy to forget.

Or at least, things I’m trying toconvincemyself that I’d be happy to forget.

Shivering, I pull my eyes away and glance back at the note, frowning. Didheput this here to fuck with me?

I glare at him across the room, willing him to turn and acknowledge the note in my hand, take credit for it. When he doesn’t, I give up and start to make the expected rounds of the party.

Circulating through the guests is a little like walking through a minefield. Every smile I make feels painted on, every answer rehearsed. Papa’s absence is noticed, of course.

“Business,” I keep telling everyone when asked, my expression unwavering. “You know how it is.”

Some nod, accepting the lie without further prodding. Others linger a beat too long, clearly trying to peek behind my carefully constructed mask. I just keep smiling. Keep moving.

Papa taught me well: never let them see your weakness.

“A big day,” a voice mutters in Russian behind me. “But it would appear not big enough to warrant your father making an appearance.”

Shit.

I turn, smiling and bowing to Sergey Vorobev. When plans changed—i.e., when Takeshi crashed that dinner party—Papa reached out to Sergey and politely informed him that the loose plan to marry me to Rodion was no longer on the table.

We never heard a thing back from him. Not a great sign that the message landed well—nor is the sour look on Sergey’s face.

Since Nina is circulating the party on her own, I’ve hung onto the pen and notepad I borrowed from the bartender earlier. I scrawl “My deepest apologies regarding your son, Mr. Vorobev. I know our empires could have done great things as a joined family. But we can still do those great things as allies, wouldn't you agree?”

Sergey reads it with a scowl on his face before grunting dismissively.

“Your father and I had adeal, Ms. Mori,” he growls.

“I appreciate that,” I write. “But my father wanted me to have a say in whom I married.”

It’s bullshit, obviously. But it's a better explanation than “your son is a drunk, rude piece of shit and I’d rather lick a public restroom doorknob than get hitched to him.”

Sergey snorts. “So, instead of my son, you choose to marry a ticking fucking time bomb?!” he spits.

I start to write a reply, but he jerks my hand away from the notepad.

“Where is your father,malen’kaya printsessa.”

Little princess.

Yeah, fuck you too, Sergey.

“Business called,” I scrawl.

“Get him back here,” Sergey mutters. “This insult has gone on long enough.”

I don’t immediately write my reply. I simply hold the pen and paper, letting my gaze stab into him, lingering until the moment becomes unbearably awkward.

“Mr. Vorobev,” I write. “I can apologize again for things not working out between your son and me. But I won’t apologize to you, or anyone else, for the choices I make of my own volition in service to my father’s empire. If you’d like to talk business, I’m standing right here, and I speak for my father. If you’re just here to complain, you can join the group of girlfriends and mistresses at the bar, bitching and moaning about having to share their Yakuza boyfriends tonight with those men’s actualwives.”

His face darkens as he reads my response. When his eyes drag back up to mine, his fury so eager to spill out, I turn around and walk away, leaving him stewing, knowing he won’t actually do shit.

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