Page 21 of Twisted Empire: King's Gambit

He doesn’t even acknowledge me, he just starts to strip … right there. Right in front of me while I can do nothing but stare because the tub is facing the shower area.

I tell myself not to look. I really do. It’s an act of will, almost a silent chant in my mind—don’t look, don’t look, don’t look.

But the moment Mikhail unbuttons his shirt, the chant loses its grip, unraveling like a poorly knitted scarf. My eyes betray me; they shift from the floor tiles, inching their way up, and finally rest on him.

The air grows thick as he pulls off his shirt, and for the life of me, I can’t look away. God, why can’t I look away?

This is what I missed when he fucked me the other night? Fucking hell, this man is gorgeous.

His back is a canvas of ink—no, not a canvas; that’s too delicate for Mikhail. His body is more like a weathered wall that’s seen too many storms, marked up with tattoos that each tells a story I’m not privy to.

Lines of text I can’t read curl around his biceps like they’re trying to strangle him. There’s a serpent slithering down his spine, its scales detailed to an almost hypnotic degree. More ink crawls over his shoulder blades and wraps around his biceps like armor.

Armor for what? I have no idea. Emotional detachment, maybe.

His muscles tense and ripple as he moves, each one honed through years of whatever the hell it is that he does when he’s not making my life complicated.

I hate that I notice how the golden strands of his long hair catch the light, turning it into a golden halo of sorts and softening the hardness of his face.

God, I want to despise him, I really do. He’s arrogant, dismissive, and infuriatingly nonchalant about this whole marriage thing. Yet, as I watch him, I can’t deny the raw, almost primal, magnetism he exudes.

Shit. Stop it, brain. He’s not an angel; far from it.

What unnerves me is how he moves so casually, so unguarded, as though he’s unaware of his own physical presence. Or maybe he is aware, and just doesn’t care.

Either way, it’s irritating as hell. I feel like I’m spying on a private moment, yet we’re in our shared living space, a place where I have every right to be.

Then he turns around and we lock eyes.

I should look away; I need to look away. I despise how he can make me feel this way, how he can draw my eyes and hold them hostage. But for the life of me, I can’t seem to break free.

The art on his chest is not chaotic; it’s been thoughtfully positioned to form a narrative sequence—or at least, it feels that way. In the midst of the ink are two stars, identical yet unique, one on each shoulder.

My gaze involuntarily drops to his knees, finding twin stars that mirror those on his shoulders. I’m sure they have to mean something, these stars. They can’t be random; nothing about Mikhail ever is.

Stars are celestial, distant—much like him. But there they are, embedded into the skin of a man who’s anything but heavenly.

Oh, God, his cock looks like it could rearrange your insideswell, and the dull ache still in my pussy three days after our wedding can attest to this. He has those delicious V-lines too, because of course he does.

Why did I have to be cursed with a disgustingly hot, arranged husband? Fuck sakes.

A shiver races down my spine, freezing me in place just like his gaze. For a split second, there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. Is it surprise? Curiosity? Before I can decipher it, the wall comes back up, and his eyes are as unreadable as the tattoos that mar his skin.

Then he smirks because he’s an asshole … An asshole who just caught me eye-fucking him.

“Like what you see,Malyshka?” he says, then he walks into the shower and I just wish the ground would swallow me whole right along with this tub.

What is wrong with me? I’m not supposed to feel this way. Not about him, not about this man I’m tethered to by nothing more than a contract and a last name. I curse under my breath.

This is ridiculous. I’ve got to get a grip.

But even as I think about it, I know that I’m lying to myself. Because for the first time since this whole mess started, I realize that Mikhail has gotten under my skin—and I have no idea what the hell to do about it.

I tear my eyes away, finally breaking that involuntary spell, trying to ignore the strange twist in my stomach. For a moment, I catch my reflection in the glass pane by the window. My eyes meet my own, questioning.

What the hell are you doing, girl?

I wish I had an answer.

---