Page 29 of Twisted Empire: King's Gambit

“Are you okay?” he asks softly, completely devoid of the iciness I’ve come to expect from him. His gentleness catches me off guard, and for a moment, I lose my train of thought.

“Uh, yeah. I’m okay,” I finally manage to say, though ‘okay’ seems inadequate for the complex storm of emotions I’m navigating.

He studies my face, his eyes scanning the cuts from the shattered glass, the bruise forming on my cheek. “I’ll be home early tonight. There’s an orchestra concert I’d like to take you to.”

The sudden suggestion leaves me stunned. A concert? As if last night didn’t happen? As if I could just put on a pretty dress and sit in a crowded hall, pretending that everything is fine?

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” I say, my voice tinged with hesitation. “After last night, I don’t feel all that safe going out.”

He holds my gaze, his eyes piercing into mine as if searching for something—or maybe assessing the weight of my anxiety.

“You’re forgetting who you’re married to,” he says with a lift of his eyebrow.

I can’t help but sigh at this. “Last night reminded me, don’t worry.”

He scowls, then says, “I will keep you safe, Gabriette. That’s not a promise; it’s a fact.”

I’ve never heard him speak like this—not to me, not to anyone. The absoluteness in his voice disarms me, leaving me vulnerable in a way I didn’t think was possible.

The weirdest thing is I find myself believing them. If last night proved something, it’s that Mikhail and I work well together under pressure. Driving that car didn’t terrify me, I felt exhilarated.

For a heartbeat, I just stare at him, my mouth open in a failed attempt to articulate my thoughts. It’s as if the weight of his statement has pressed the air out of the room, leaving me gasping for breath.

He narrows his eyes slightly, as if frustrated by my silence, but he doesn’t press.

“Do you understand?” he says, breaking into my thoughts, his voice still laced with that soft but unyielding resolve. “The safest place is at my side, Gabriette; I won’t allow you to hide or cower.”

“I—yeah, I understand,” I finally stammered. Part of me wants to dive deep into this rare show of tenderness, to probe and understand what’s brought it on.

But another part, the more cautious part, warns me not to. Because understanding might breed expectation, and expectation in our line of life is the first step towards disappointment.

His eyes hold mine for a few seconds longer, as if he’s making sure his words have genuinely sunk in. Running the pad of his thumb over my bottom lip, he lets out a breath I didn’t realize he was holding.

“Do you trust me, Gabriette?” he asks in a low, husky voice and it sounds less like a question and more like a test—one I’m not sure I’m prepared for.

That simple question unnerves me, makes the walls I’ve built around myself wobble a bit.

“It’s not about trust,” I hedge, avoiding a direct answer. “It’s just... this is all new to me. This life, this... chaos. I stepped away from it six years ago and now I’m right in the thick of it.”

For a moment, I think he’s going to probe further, push me to the boundaries of my emotional fortitude. But he doesn’t. Instead, he nods, as if he understands exactly what I’m struggling to put into words.

“That’s to be expected; you’re married to me now—” he says, then he stops, as if he was about to reveal something he shouldn’t have.

“We’ll go step by step, starting with tonight,” he says, then the corner of his mouth lifts in a smile. “I don’t know about you, but I hate coming home to tension. So … friends?”

The heaviness in the room eases, replaced by something softer, something that threatens to blur the rigid lines that have so far defined our relationship.

“Friends?” I laugh and try to stop my smile, but fail. “You want to be friends with someone who is always contemplating your death?”

He chuckles at this and shakes his head. “You don’t want to kill me, Gabriette; and yes, I want us to be friends. Isn’t it better than the alternative?”

I look at the man who forced a ring on my finger and wonder what the fuck I’m getting myself into. I can’t get close to anyone again, much less be friends with them but here he is, extending an olive branch.

“Alright,” I whisper, my voice barely audible, as if I’m afraid speaking any louder would shatter this fragile moment. “We’ll go to the concert.”

He nods once, then he smiles, and it’s like someone punched me in the heart. Mikhail has fucking dimples on either side of his cheeks and they look damn adorable, especially since the smile actually reaches his eyes.

How can he go from fearsome Bratva leader to cute and boyish?

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