Page 44 of The Russian's Revenge Bride
“Executed. Professional job. Someone on the inside.”
She was quiet for a long moment, processing the implications. When she spoke again, her voice was steady. “So we’re at war.”
“We’re at war.”
“And I’m a liability.”
“You’re a target.”
She laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Same thing, isn’t it? In your world?”
I moved into the room, drawn by something I couldn’t name. She watched me approach, wary but not afraid. Never afraid, my Eleanor. Even when she should be.
“I won’t apologize for wanting to keep you alive,” I said.
“I’m not asking you to. I’m asking you to include me instead of just managing me.”
“This isn’t a game, Eleanor. This isn’t something you can design your way out of or charm your way through. People are going to die. Good people. Innocent people. And some of those people might die because they’re trying to protect you.”
Her face went pale, but her voice remained steady. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t understand what it means to be married to you?”
“Do you?”
“I know that you carry the weight of every life lost on your orders. I know that you wake up most nights from dreams you won’t talk about. I know that you’re scared of letting anyone close because everyone you’ve ever cared about has either died or betrayed you.”
The accuracy of her assessment left me breathless. She’d been watching me, studying me, learning my patterns and fears with the same attention she gave to her designs.
“I also know,” she continued, “that you’re using that fear as an excuse to keep me at a distance. You’re so busy protecting me from your world that you’re not letting me be part of your life.”
“Maybe that’s for the best.”
“Says who? You? Because I don’t remember getting a vote in this decision.”
She stood up, setting aside her sewing, and I realized she was wearing one of my shirts. It hung loose on her smaller frame, the sleeves rolled up to reveal her delicate wrists. She looked young and vulnerable and absolutely fucking fearless.
“I chose this,” she said, stepping closer. “I chose you. Not because I was forced to, not because I didn’t have options, but because somewhere between hating you and fearing you, I started loving you.”
The words hit me like bullets, each one finding its mark with devastating precision.
“Eleanor, don’t.”
“Don’t what? Don’t love you? Too late. Don’t fight for us? Also too late. Don’t demand that my husband treat me like a partner instead of a possession? Never going to happen.”
She was close enough now that I could smell her shampoo, could see the gold flecks in her hazel eyes. Close enough to touch, to kiss, to lose myself in the warmth she offered.
Close enough to destroy us both.
“You don’t understand what you’re asking for.”
“Then explain it to me. Stop assuming I’m too fragile or too naive to handle the truth.”
“The truth is that loving me will get you killed. The truth is that I’ve spent fifteen years building walls for a reason, and tearing them down now could destroy everything I’ve worked for.”
“Or it could save you.”
The simple statement hung between us, heavy with possibility and terror.
“You think love makes you stronger,” I said. “But in my world, it makes you weak. It gives your enemies leverage. It creates vulnerabilities that can be exploited.”
