Page 70 of Twisted Empire: King's Gambit

The clock ticks away the seconds, each one stretching into an eternity. I can’t eat; I can’t focus.

I’m pacing our bedroom like a caged animal when the door suddenly slams open. I jump, my heart hammering in my chest, and there he is. Mikhail.

His appearance stops me in my tracks. His clothes are rumpled, his long hair disheveled, and what really gets to me are his eyes—bloodshot and dark, like he’s been through hell. And he smells like a goddamn distillery.

But it’s the anger, the raw, almost palpable fury that radiates off him, that chills me to the bone. It’s an emotion I’ve rarely seen on him, and never to this magnitude.

“Mikhail, where the fuck have you been?” The words burst from me, relief flooding my system even as anger bubbles up to take its place.

He eyes me for a moment, as though weighing his words. “Business,” he says finally.

“Business? Are you fucking kidding me?” My voice rises with each word as I walk toward him. “You disappear for two days and all you have to say is ‘business’?”

He looks at me, and for a moment, I see a flicker of something cross his face. But then it’s gone, replaced by that unreadable mask he wears so well.

“I had matters to attend to,” he says, his voice low. “Complicated matters.”

I scoff at this and shake my head, knowing that if I push him now, he could very well explode, but I am so done being patient.

“You can’t just do that! You can’t just vanish and expect me to be okay with it. I was scared out of my fucking mind!”

His gaze finally softens, just a fraction, and it’s enough to make my breath catch.

“I didn’t want to involve you,” he admits, and though his voice is nearly a whisper, the words echo loudly in the space between us.

“Well, it’s a little late for that, isn’t it? I’m your fucking wife, so I am involved. Every second you’re gone, I’m here worrying, wondering if you’re even alive. You owe me an explanation.”

He runs a hand through his already messy hair, looking every bit the lost man he doesn’t want anyone to see.

“You’re right,” he concedes. “I owe you an explanation. But not now. I can’t.”

His evasiveness ignites the simmering frustration within me. “Then when, Mischa? When do you plan on letting me in? On treating me like a partner rather than someone you need to shield from your ‘complicated matters’?”

Ignoring my question and my presence, he moves past me with the kind of purposeful stride that invites no argument. It’s like I’m not even here. Like I’m a ghost in my own goddamn life.

My heart thumps loudly in my chest, each beat a cry for answers, for some kind of connection to the man I love.

He heads straight for the bathroom, and I hear the shower turn on a moment later. The sound of cascading water fills the silence, each drop echoing my growing frustration and worry. I stand there, feeling like an idiot.

Should I go in after him? Demand answers? Or should I give him space, let him come to me when he’s ready, if he ever will be?

The seconds stretch into minutes, but they feel like hours. Finally, unable to stand the suspense, the not knowing, any longer, I take a few steps toward the bathroom door. I stop myself just in time, hand hovering in the air, inches from the knob.

No. If he wanted me in there, if he wanted to talk, he would’ve said something. Anything.

So I pull my hand back, my body retreating but my mind racing ahead, filled with worst-case scenarios and what-ifs. As the water continues to run, drowning out the questions I’m too afraid to ask, I’m left to wonder how much more uncertainty I can take. How much more of his silence I can bear?

The shower turns off, snapping me back to reality, to the now. I take a steadying breath, bracing myself for whatever comes next. Will he speak to me? Will he finally break his silence? Or will he continue to shut me out, leaving me to navigate this storm of doubt and fear alone?

The bathroom door swings open, and Mikhail steps out, towel wrapped around his waist, another one drying his hair. Our eyes meet for just a moment, but in that brief second, I see it—the turmoil, the inner demons he’s fighting.

I take a tentative step toward him, but he doesn’t step back. I take that as my cue. “Mischa, please,” I beg as I feel stupid tears of frustration welling in my eyes.

“I was—I was so worried about you after what you said happened to Sophia. I didn’t know … I didn’t know if you were safe or not, and no one would talk to me. You became Pakhan not too long ago and there’s a bigger…. A bigger target on your back … I—”

But I can’t even finish what I’m saying as I dissolve into tears. Yes, I am pissed off with him, but I was terrified that someone would call to say he was dead. I was scared I lost him before we could even sort things out.

His arms wrap around me like a vise, pulling me into his embrace, and I finally break down.

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