Page 47 of Auctioned to the Russian Pakhan
He wasn’t going to let anyone use her as a pawn in their games. Not anymore.
Even if it meant going to war with a man who knew enough of his secrets to bring his entire empire crashing down.
Chapter 17 - Irina
The grandfather clock in the foyer chimed three in the morning, its deep resonance echoing through the mansion’s empty corridors. Irina pulled the silk robe tighter around her body and paced the length of the living room for what felt like the hundredth time. The Persian rug beneath her bare feet had become as familiar as her own heartbeat over the past few hours.
Where was he?
Matvei had been acting strange for days now. Distant. Preoccupied. She’d catch him staring into space during dinner, his golden brown eyes clouded with something she couldn’t decipher. Phone calls ended abruptly when she entered the room. Meetings ran impossibly late. And tonight, he’d simply vanished without a word.
She shouldn’t care this much. The rational part of her brain, the part that sounded suspiciously like Ilya’s voice, reminded her that this man had bought her at an auction. That their marriage was a farce built on power plays and manipulation. But her heart, treacherous thing that it was, had stopped listening to reason weeks ago.
The soft click of the front door barely registered before she heard his footsteps. Careful. Measured. Like he was trying not to wake anyone.
Irina positioned herself in the archway between the foyer and living room, arms crossed. When Matvei appeared, silhouetted against the dim security lighting, her breath caught in her throat.
He looked like hell.
His usually immaculate suit was wrinkled, the tie long gone. Dark stubble shadowed his jaw, and there was something in his posture that screamed exhaustion. But it was his eyes that made her chest tighten. They held a weight she’d never seen before, a bone-deep weariness that made her forget all about her prepared lecture.
“Jesus, Matvei.” The words slipped out before she could stop them.
He froze, his head snapping up. For a moment, something vulnerable flickered across his features before the mask slammed back into place. “You should be sleeping.”
“So should you. About five hours ago.” She stepped closer, studying the tension in his shoulders, the way he held himself like he might collapse at any second. “What happened?”
“Nothing that concerns you.” But his voice lacked its usual commanding edge. He sounded hollow.
Irina tilted her head, ice blue eyes narrowing. “Try again.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Stubborn little thing.”
“You say that like it’s news.” She moved closer still, close enough to smell the lingering scent of smoke and something metallic that made her stomach clench. She didn’t ask about it. Some things were better left unknown. “Come on.”
She took his hand, surprised by how easily he let her lead him toward the stairs. His fingers were cold, and she could feel the slight tremor running through them. Whatever had kept him out all night had taken a toll.
“Where are we going?” he asked as they climbed.
“Somewhere you can sit down before you fall down.”
His laugh was dry, but real. “I’m not that fragile.”
“No,” she agreed, glancing back at him. “You’re just running on fumes and too proud to admit it.”
The master bathroom was a study in masculine luxury, all dark marble and brushed gold. Irina turned on the shower, steam beginning to fog the mirror, before turning back to find Matvei leaning against the doorframe, watching her.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Taking care of you.” The words came out more tender than she’d intended. “Someone has to.”
Something shifted in his expression. Surprise, maybe. Or gratitude. “I can manage.”
“I know you can.” She reached for his jacket, her fingers working the buttons with practiced ease. “But you don’t have to.”
He let her undress him without protest, standing perfectly still as she peeled away the layers of his armor. The expensive fabric. The shoulder holster she’d grown accustomed to seeing. The watch that probably cost more than most people’s cars. When she pushed the shirt off his shoulders, her fingertips traced over a fresh bruise blooming across his ribs.
“Irina.” His voice was low, warning.
