“You can open your eyes. We’re done here,” I say, tucking the newspaper out of sight.
Her lashes lift slowly, and she meets my stare for one long second before her attention shifts to her finger. She examines the ink. “What does it symbolize?” she asks, her voice steady. I expect tears or anger, but she surprises me with her composure. Maybe she’s all out of tears.
“The crown stands for strength, loyalty, and the unbreakable bonds of brotherhood,” I explain. My thumb grazes the edge of the tattoo lightly. “And my initials… because you’re mine.”
I expect her defiance, but not the way her hazel eyes meet mine with a calm that throws me off balance. “A tattoo doesn’t make me yours. Neither does a piece of paper.”
Her words slide under my skin, sharp and unwelcome. I didn’t mark her only for Roman’s benefit or to keep the Syndicate in line. I marked her because I wanted to and because the thought of her belonging to anyone else is like a stab to the gut.
“In my world, it does.” She’s my wife, and the tattoo makes it indisputable. Everyone who sees that mark will know I’ve claimed her. She’s untouchable. “And Roman will agree when he sees a picture of your hand.”
“Are you serious?” she growls. “Why? Isn’t stealing me away enough? Do you know what this is doing to my sister? She’s trying to get pregnant after years of trying. Her stress level is probably through the roof.”
A muscle in my jaw ticks, but I focus on gently cleaning the tattoo. “Roman will control the information she’s getting. This is not about your sister. This is about getting the Syndicate to fall in line and agree to a deal. A reminder that pissing me off has consequences.”
She shakes her head, her mouth falling into a straight line. “Tell yourself whatever you need to, Nikolai.”
We’re both quiet as I smooth a thin layer of ointment over the ink and then wrap it in a protective layer of gauze. “You surprise me,” I say finally. “I didn’t think you’d see our deal through.”
“I must have a talent for making bad decisions,” she says tightly. “And what would you do if I didn’t hold up my end of the bargain?”
My lips thin out. I’d probably rather not think about that. Holding her down and forcing ink on her doesn’t appeal to me, but on some level, I knew she wouldn’t back down. Maybe because she’s stubborn as hell, and she’d rather grit her teeth than give me the satisfaction of breaking her word.
After a moment, she huffs out a breath. “Anyhow, it doesn’t matter. I don’t go back on my word. My parents did that enough to me as a child, and every broken promise taught me who I didn’t want to be.”
I tilt her chin upward with a finger, forcing her gaze to meet mine. “Your parents never deserved you.”
Sofiya’s parents sold her to my brother and Anatoly when she was underage. They will never be anything but the lowest of the low in my eyes. Maybe that’s ironic considering everything I’ve done, but I’ve never pretended to be anything other than what I am.
The vulnerability flickering in her eyes sparks something unfamiliar inside me. Before I can stop myself, I lean in, brushing a finger over the corner of her lips. I have the strangest impulse to give her a soft kiss on the lips, but now that the bet is over, I don’t think my touch would be welcome.
Maybe she senses my intention because her hazel-green eyes widen, searching mine like she’s looking for an explanation I don’t have. Her pink tongue darts out, wetting her lips, and she slowly withdraws her hand from mine. “Are we done here?”
I’m far from done with her, but as her lids droop with exhaustion, I exhale and release her. “Keep it wrapped for a few hours, and moisturize twice a day. No getting it wet until it’s healed.”
“Fine,” she whispers, clutching her hand to her chest like it’s a shield.
“Now go to sleep, moya sladost,” I murmur, leaning in close enough to catch her scent. “Because I still have the smell of you on my fingers and the taste of you on my lips. And in those flimsy pajamas… What's the expression? Don’t tempt the tempted.”
Her pulse jumps at the base of her throat. She hesitates, her gaze dipping to my mouth before darting back up to meet mine.
I turn to face the window, gripping the edge of the frame to anchor myself as she leaves the room. It’s the only way to stop myself from dragging her back here and giving her another reason to hate me.
An hour later, I’m at my desk, finishing paperwork, when Roman’s reply to the picture of Sofiya’s finger comes through. I’m not surprised he’s awake at this early hour—men like us don’t sleep, chained to our positions.
Roman: There’s a special place in hell for men like you, Zhukov.
I put down my pen, a sardonic laugh rumbling in my chest.
Me: I’m sure I have reserved seating. But it’s your reluctance to accept the deal that is costing Sofiya.
He can think I’m the monster here, that I marked her against her will. But I don’t need violence to claim her. She can try to fight this pull between us, but her body betrays her. If Roman knew how she came apart on my fingers earlier, he’d understand that she’s already mine.
Roman: I can’t make this decision alone. There are others who need to weigh in.
Me: Help them understand the urgency. I’m sure your wife doesn’t appreciate the delay.
Roman: Never mention my wife again. You have no idea what you’ve done to her.