Page 13 of Auctioned to the Russian Pakhan
The spell broken, Irina let her hair fall back around her shoulders and turned to face him. His face was a mask of control, but she could see the fire still burning in his golden eyes, the way his hands were clenched at his sides as if he didn’t trust himself not to reach for her again.
“Go where?” she asked, proud of how steady her voice sounded despite the chaos raging inside her.
“Home.” The word was clipped, final. “You’ve made your point, whatever it was. But you can’t just wander around the city whenever the mood strikes you. It’s too dangerous.”
The patronizing tone snapped her back to reality, reminding her why she was here in the first place. She wasn’t some lovesick girl who could be distracted by a few heated moments and some pretty words. She was a Nikolai, and she had a job to do.
“Dangerous for who?” she asked, selecting several more pieces of lingerie with deliberate casualness. “For me, or your plans?”
His silence was answer enough.
“I’ll make you a deal,” she said, moving to the counter to pay for her purchases. “I won’t disappear again without telling you where I’m going. But in return, you don’t get to dictate my every move like I’m some kind of prisoner.”
“You’re my wife,” he said, the possessiveness in his tone making her pulse quicken despite herself. “That gives me certain rights.”
“Rights you only have because you forced them on me.” She turned to face him fully, noting the way his eyes tracked her movements like a predator watching prey. “But if you want this marriage to work, even as a business arrangement, you’re going to have to accept that I’m not going to be a docile little trophy you can trot out when convenient.”
The challenge hung between them, electric and dangerous. For a moment, she thought he might push back, might try to assert the dominance he clearly craved. Instead, he stepped closer, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze.
“Fine,” he said softly. “But understand this, wife. If you think you can play games with me and win, you’re more naive than your brothers believe. I’ve been in this business longer than you’ve been alive, and I don’t lose.”
The threat should have scared her. Instead, it sent a thrill of anticipation racing through her veins.
“We’ll see about that, husband,” she said, matching his tone. “We’ll see about that.”
Chapter 6 - Matvei
If Matvei had thought a silent, compliant Irina was suspicious, it was nothing compared to the defiant, rebellious version he’d been living with for the past two weeks. The woman was like smoke, impossible to contain, no matter how many security measures he put in place. Every time he thought he had her figured out, she’d slip through his fingers with an ease that would have been impressive if it wasn’t so infuriating.
He’d increased the guard rotation; she’d charmed one of them into taking her to the museum, claiming she needed culture to maintain her sanity. He’d installed motion sensors on every window and door; she’d somehow convinced his housekeeper to let her use the service entrance for her “morning runs” that lasted suspiciously long and always ended with shopping bags.
The woman was a menace, and the worst part was that Matvei was starting to respect the hell out of her for it.
Tonight, though, she’d crossed a line.
“Sir?” His lieutenant, Pavel, looked up from the surveillance reports spread across the conference table. “Is everything alright?”
Matvei stared at the text message on his phone, his jaw clenching as he read the location his security team had sent him. Remix, one of the most popular nightclubs in downtown Boston. A place where half the city’s elite went to see and be seen, where discretion went to die, and where his wife was apparently spending her evening.
“Meeting’s over,” he said abruptly, standing from his chair with barely controlled violence. “Pavel, handle theshipping manifests. Dmitri, I want those warehouse schedules on my desk by morning.”
“But, Sir, we haven’t finished discussing the San Diego situation and the shipping...”
“Handle it. I pay you all enough to handle shit in my absence.” Matvei was already moving toward the door, his mind racing with possibilities, none of them good. “And if anyone asks where I am tonight, you don’t know.”
The drive to Remix took fifteen minutes through Boston’s evening traffic, fifteen minutes for Matvei’s imagination to conjure increasingly disturbing scenarios: Irina dancing with strangers, Irina drinking with people who might recognize her, Irina being photographed by someone with connections to rival families who would love nothing more than to get their hands on compromising material about the youngest Nikolai.
Irina was getting herself killed because she was too stubborn to understand the reality of the world they lived in.
The club’s bass line was already vibrating through the walls when he arrived, the kind of deep, thrumming beat that seemed designed to scramble rational thought. Matvei bypassed the line of hopeful party-goers, his reputation and a few folded bills ensuring immediate entry past the velvet rope.
Inside, the club was a carefully orchestrated chaos of lights, sound, and bodies. The main floor was packed with dancers, while elevated VIP sections overlooked the scene like balconies at the opera. Matvei’s eyes swept the crowd methodically, searching for one particular figure among the writhing masses.
He found her on the dance floor, and his breath caught in his throat.
Irina moved like water given human form, her body flowing with the music in a way that seemed almost otherworldly. She’d chosen her outfit with deliberate precision: a black dress that clung to every curve while still maintaining an air of sophistication, her dark hair falling in waves around her shoulders as she danced. She was beautiful, mesmerizing, and completely exposed.
“Fuck.”
