Page 12 of Auctioned to the Russian Pakhan
“I’ve been wandering around this city my entire life without incident.” Irina rubbed her wrist, noting the way his eyes followed the movement. “I think I can manage a shopping trip.”
“That was before you became my wife. Before you became a target.”
“I became a target the moment I was born a Nikolai.” The words came out harsher than she’d intended, carrying years of frustration and resentment. “At least now I’m a target who can make her own choices about how to handle it.”
Something flickered across his expression, too quick to interpret. “Your brothers called you.”
It wasn’t a question, and she didn’t treat it like one. “My brothers think I’m incompetent. They think I need protection from big, scary men like you.” She stepped closer, close enough to see the flecks of amber in his golden eyes. “They’re wrong.”
“Are they?” His voice was soft, almost conversational, but she could hear the steel underneath. “Because from where I’m standing, you look like a sheltered little girl who’s playing with fire and doesn’t understand she’s about to get burned.”
The condescension in his tone was like a match to gasoline. All the years of being underestimated, all the times she’d been pushed aside or spoken over or treated like a decoration instead of a person, came rushing back in a wave of pure fury.
“You want to know what I understand?” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper that somehow carried more menace than a shout. “I understand that you married me to get leverage over my family. I understand that you think I’m just a pawn in whatever game you’re playing with them. And I understand that you’re about to learn just how wrong you are about me.”
Before he could respond, she grabbed the black corset she’d been admiring and held it up between them, the delicate lace and ribbon creating a barrier that was somehow more intimate than armor.
“What do you think?” she asked, her tone shifting to something light and conversational. “Too much for a new bride?”
The question hung in the air between them, loaded with implications that had nothing to do with lingerie and everything to do with power. She watched his eyes track over the garment, imagining it on her body, and felt a dangerous thrill at the way his breathing seemed to quicken.
This was what Rhiannon had taught her, what all her sisters-in-law understood instinctively. Sometimes, the most effective weapon a woman possessed was her ability to make a man want what he couldn’t have.
“I think,” Matvei said carefully, “that you’re playing a dangerous game.”
“I think you’re right.” She stepped closer, close enough that the corset was almost brushing against his chest. “But here’s the thing about dangerous games,husband. Sometimes the most dangerous player is the one no one sees coming.”
The endearment was deliberate, calculated to remind him of exactly what he’d gotten himself into when he’d forced that marriage license on her. But as the word left her lips, something shifted in the air between them, transforming the space from battlefield to something far more treacherous.
His hand came up to touch the lace, his fingers brushing against hers where she held the garment. The contact sent electricity shooting up her arm, and she had to fight not to shiver at the unexpected intensity of it.
“Irina.” Her name on his lips was rough, almost pained, and for a moment, she saw something vulnerable flash across his features before his mask slammed back into place.
“Yes?” The word came out breathier than she’d intended, and she cursed her body’s traitorous response to his proximity.
Instead of answering, he took the corset from her hands, his fingers deliberately brushing against hers as he did. The touch was electric, sending heat racing through her veins in a way that made her suddenly, acutely aware of how close they were standing.
“Turn around,” he said softly.
The command sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the dark promise in his voice. She should refuse, should maintain the upper hand she’d worked so hard to establish. Instead, she found herself complying, turning so her back was to him.
His hands settled on her shoulders, warm and solid through the thin fabric of her new blouse. She could feel his breath against her neck as he leaned down, his voice a whisper that seemed to bypass her brain and go straight to her nervous system.
“Hold your hair up.”
Her hands moved without conscious thought, gathering the dark strands and lifting them away from her neck. The position left her feeling exposed, vulnerable in a way that had nothing to do with physical danger and everything to do with the way he was looking at her.
The corset appeared in her peripheral vision as he held it up against her, the black lace a stark contrast against the pale silk of her blouse. His hands were steady as he positioned it, butshe could feel the tension radiating from his body, the careful control he was exerting over himself.
“It would look beautiful on you,” he murmured, his lips close enough to her ear that she could feel the warmth of his breath. “But then again, I think you’d look beautiful in anything. Or nothing at all.”
The words sent heat pooling low in her belly, and she had to bite back a gasp at the unexpected intensity of her body’s response. This wasn’t supposed to happen. She was supposed to be in control, supposed to be using his attraction against him, not falling victim to her own.
“Matvei.” His name escaped her lips before she could stop it, and she heard him inhale sharply at the sound.
His hands tightened on her shoulders, and for a moment, she thought he might spin her around, might close the distance between them and take what the air between them was practically screaming for. Instead, he stepped back abruptly, the sudden absence of his heat leaving her feeling bereft.
“We should go,” he said, his voice rough with suppressed desire. “Now.”
