Page 25 of Crimson Sin
Then he walks out, his footsteps echoing down the hallway until they fade into the vast silence of the estate. But he leaves behind the chill of his attention and the bitter aftertaste of unspoken threats.
I exhale shakily, only now realizing I'd been holding my breath. My hands are trembling as I sink back into the chair, my legs suddenly unsteady. The coffee has gone cold, the breakfast untouched and unappetizing. The dining room feels differentnow, tainted by Viktor's presence and the questions he has left behind, like poison.
Lex doesn't move from where he stands or ask if I'm okay. He doesn't offer comfort or explanation. He just watches the doorway Viktor exited through, like he expects him to double back and finish what he started.
“Thank you,” I whisper into the silence.
Lex glances at me, and I see a flash of concern on his face. But then it's gone, replaced by that same neutral mask. “Don't thank me.”
There's no warmth in his voice, just warning, low and certain as thunder.
I meet his eyes, searching for something human in those gray-blue depths. “Do you always follow him?”
“I follow threats.”
The words are simple, but they settle in my chest like lead. “And am I one of those?”
His stare sharpens, and I feel like he's seeing straight through me, cataloging every weakness and every secret I've ever kept. “Not yet.”
Then he turns and walks away, his footsteps as silent as his arrival. I'm left alone again in the vast dining room, but the solitude feels heavier now. Filled with implications I don't fully understand but can feel edging into my consciousness like a headache waiting to bloom.
I sit in the dining room long after they're both gone, the coffee ice cold in my cup, the breakfast congealing on its silver tray. Ididn't sign up for this. When I agreed to Daniil's proposition, I thought I understood the parameters. A business arrangement. A temporary inconvenience. A means to an end that would benefit us both. I didn't know the cost of playing Daniil's wife would come with men like Viktor, questions that have knives hidden inside them, and a right-hand man who speaks like a soldier and watches like a sniper trained to kill.
The estate feels different now, like I’m in a gilded cage. Every shadow might hide watchers. Every footstep might herald another confrontation. Every moment of peace might be the calm before a storm I can't see coming.
I'm not safe here. Not really. The thought should terrify me, should send me running for the nearest exit with nothing but the clothes on my back. Instead, it settles in my chest with a strange sort of acceptance. But what terrifies me more than that knowledge is how little I want to leave. Because, for all the danger, intimidation, and power games, I still find myself wondering about the man who left a breakfast tray and walked away. Daniil Zorin, who kisses like he's drowning and I'm air, and who stares like he's trying to memorize the way I breathe.
Why didn't he warn me about Viktor? The question circles in my mind like a bird trapped against glass. Did he trust Viktor not to cross certain lines? Or did he simply not care enough to prepare me for what I might face in his absence? And more importantly, why does it hurt that he didn't?
The ache in my chest has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the growing realization that somewhere in the space between his careful distance and stolen kisses, I've started to care. Despite every rational thought, logical argument, and wall I've tried to build around my heart, Daniil Zorin has found his way inside.
9
DANIIL
I find her standing in the center of the guest suite, barefoot in a blue cotton dress that brushes the top of her knees, her arms crossed as she stares out the window. The mid-morning light curls around her, illuminating the auburn strands that have escaped her loose bun and highlighting the graceful curve of her neck. She appears still and silent, but tension radiates from her small frame. I recognize the signs of her processing more than she expected to handle.
Viktor's presence in this house burns through me like acid. Lex's brief report was enough to paint the picture. My cousin had cornered her during breakfast, when she was alone and vulnerable, testing boundaries that should never have been approached. The rage that follows threatens to consume what remains of my tightly held composure.
She turns before I say a word, already aware that I’m in the room. She takes off her glasses, and her brown eyes lock onto mine. Questions linger there, a mix of confusion and caution that weren’t there yesterday. Viktor's visit has altered somethingfundamental in how she views this arrangement and the world I've pulled her into.
“We have an event tonight,” I tell her, keeping my voice deliberately neutral. “A major business gathering. We need to keep up appearances.”
No mention of what business specifically. No details about the men and women who will be evaluating every word she speaks and every gesture she makes. Just the information she requires to fulfill her role. Her eyes narrow slightly, her lips parting as though she wants to probe deeper, but instead she exhales slowly and waits for more.
I study her face, noting the faint shadows beneath her eyes that suggest sleep eluded her as thoroughly as it did me. Moving across the room, I place the black garment bag on the pristine cream-colored bedding. Next to it, I set down a velvet-lined jewelry box that has remained locked in my safe for the past seven months. My fingers hesitate on the lock before I force them to open it.
“This was my mother's,” I murmur, my voice stripped of its usual authority. The words are rough with more emotion than I usually permit myself to reveal. “Wear it with the gown.”
Naomi approaches cautiously, her bare feet silent against the Persian rug. Her gaze slides between the box and my face, as though she's trying to read the significance of this gesture. When she reaches out, her fingers tremble slightly as they trace the velvet edges. The careful way she handles the box tells me she understands she's touching something sacred and irreplaceable.
The antique diamonds inside absorb the morning sunlight and explode into a thousand points of fire. The necklace isa masterpiece of craftsmanship from another era, each stone perfectly cut and set in platinum that has aged to a warm, lustrous sheen. The matching earrings rest beside it, their teardrop design echoing the gentle curve of her jaw.
She gasps audibly, the sound sharp in the quiet room. She stares at the shimmering pieces with an expression of awe and apprehension, her academic mind no doubt recognizing the historical significance and monetary value of what she's looking at.
“I can't wear this,” she whispers.
“You can,” I counter without hesitation. “You will.”
