Page 50 of Auctioned to the Russian Pakhan
She thought of her brothers, of how frantic they must have been when she disappeared, of Azriel, who’d been through something similar at the hands of these same people. Of all the nights she’d lain in Matvei’s arms, believing she was safe.
Believing she was wanted for herself, not as a weapon against the people she loved most.
The sound of footsteps in the hallway made her freeze. His voice, calling her name. Getting closer.
Irina wiped her eyes quickly and stood, smoothing her dress with trembling hands. She needed time to think. To process. To figure out what the hell she was going to do with this information.
But first, she needed to get away from him before she fell apart completely.
Because despite everything, despite the lies and the manipulation and the cold calculation behind every moment they’d shared, her traitorous heart still ached at the thought of losing him.
And that, perhaps, was the cruelest betrayal of all.
Chapter 18 - Matvei
The phone felt like it might crack under the pressure of Matvei’s grip. Every word out of Dmitri’s mouth made his jaw clench tighter, his free hand curling into a fist that he wanted to drive through the bastard’s face.
“You should have seen the Nikolai operation burn,” Dmitri’s voice crackled through the speaker, practically purring with satisfaction. “Beautiful work, if I do say so myself. But that’s just the appetizer, Volkov. Now we move to the main course.”
Matvei forced his voice to remain level. “Meaning?”
“Meaning it’s time to remind those brothers exactly what they stand to lose. Your little wife has been playing house with you for weeks now. Time to show them how easily we can take her away.”
The words hit Matvei like a physical blow. Every muscle in his body went rigid. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Come on, don’t play dumb. We hurt the girl, make it look like the Nikolais couldn’t protect their precious princess even when she’s married to their enemy. Drives home the point that nowhere is safe for them. Psychological warfare at its finest.”
The rational part of Matvei’s brain screamed at him to stay calm, to think strategically. But rationality was drowning under a tide of protective fury that threatened to consume him whole.
“You touch her,” he said, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper, “and I’ll tear you apart with my bare hands.”
Dmitri’s laugh was sharp and mocking. “Jesus, Volkov, you’ve really lost your edge, haven’t you? Getting attached to themerchandise? She’s a tool, nothing more. A very effective tool, but a tool nonetheless.”
Matvei’s control snapped like a frayed wire. “She’s my wife.”
“She’s a Nikolai princess playing dress-up in your bed. And if you can’t see past a pretty face and a tight pussy to remember what we’re trying to accomplish here, then maybe I overestimated you.”
It took every ounce of willpower Matvei possessed not to hurl the phone across the room. His breathing was coming in harsh, shallow bursts, his vision tinged red at the edges.
“The plan has changed,” he managed through gritted teeth.
“Plans don’t change, Volkov. People do. And right now, you’re starting to sound like a liability.” Dmitri’s tone had shifted, become colder. More calculating. “Maybe it’s time I handled this personally. I’ve got some contacts who’d pay very well for a piece of Nikolai royalty. Especially one as pretty as yours.”
The threat was clear. The implications were clearer still. Matvei closed his eyes, fighting the urge to reach through the phone and strangle the son of a bitch.
“Don’t,” he said simply. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Or what? You’ll come after me? With what army, Volkov? You think your brothers will back you up when they find out you chose some Nikolai bitch over the family business?”
The call ended abruptly, leaving Matvei staring at the dead phone in his hand. His office felt too small suddenly, the walls pressing in on him from all sides. He needed air. He needed space. He needed Irina.
The thought of her calmed him slightly. Over the past few days, she’d become his anchor in the storm of his own making. Her quiet presence, her stubborn refusal to be intimidated by his moods, the way she’d taken care of him without asking questions he couldn’t answer. She’d somehow become essential to his sanity.
He left his office and went looking for her, checking the living room first, then the kitchen, then their bedroom. Nothing. The silence of the mansion felt oppressive, wrong somehow.
“Irina?” he called out, his voice echoing off the marble floors.
No response.
