Gilded in Lies (Preview) - Faye Pierce

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Chapter One

Irina

Mexico, six months later…

The humidity in Cancun doesn’t just stay stagnant, it clings to you like a desperate lover you’ve been trying to dump for months.

I wipe a bead of sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand, the salt stinging a tiny scratch on my knuckle. Outside the tinted glass of Oasis del Sol, the Caribbean is a flat, mocking sheet of turquoise. Tourists are out there drinking watered-down margaritas and getting sunburns they’ll regret by dinner, but inside, the air conditioning is cranked high enough to preserve a corpse.

It’s been six months. Six months of being Elena Sokolov.

Six months of kneading the knots out of the shoulders of middle-aged men from Ohio who have no idea that the woman touching them was once destined to be the Queen of the New York underworld.

I’m not the best at being a masseuse. Honestly, my technique is mostly just aggressive poking fueled by ten years of suppressed rage, but the pay is in cash and the location is a goldmine for the kind of information that doesn’t end up on Google. In this world, the powerful talk when they think the help is invisible. And I’ve become very good at being invisible.

I’d like to say I’m enjoying this life, but at least I’m not married to a mad man.

“Elena? Stop staring at the ocean and get the lavender oils ready,” Sofia, my boss, calls out as she bustles past the reception desk.

She’s a sharp-eyed woman who knows I’m lying about where I came from, but she likes my “firm hands” and the fact that I don’t gossip with the other girls. In this town, a woman who can keep her mouth shut is worth her weight in gold.

“I’m on it, Sofia!” I call back, my voice smooth, the Russian accent I hide softened into something unidentifiable.

“Don’t give me that look,” she adds, pointing a manicured finger at me. “You look like you’re plotting a murder again. Smile. It’s good for business.”

“I am smiling,” I mutter, though the muscles in my face feel like they’re made of lead. “On the inside.”

I head toward the staff breakroom, my heart picking up speed. It’s Thursday. Mateo should be here.

I slip into the dim room, the scent of stale coffee and cheap floor cleaner replacing the hibiscus-scented air of the lobby. Mateo is leaning against the vending machine, looking perpetually confused with that scar through his eyebrow. He’s my only link to the world I left behind, a low-level runner who knows how to navigate the murky waters of international private records. “Mateo,” I whisper, my eyes darting to the door. “Please tell me you have something.”

He sighs, a heavy, defeated sound, and taps a cigarette against his palm, though he knows he can’t light it in here. “Elena, I told you. The leads you gave me, they lead to a dead end. I checked the registries in Mexico City. I checked the private hospitals. There is no record of anyone being transferred under that name ten years ago.”

Not again, I’ve been searching for so long…

I feel like someone just tipped a bucket of ice water down my spine. “The record exists, Mateo. My father doesn’t lose things. He doesn’t make mistakes. If he said there was a transfer, he meant he buried the paper trail so deep the devil couldn’t find it. Search the Jersey files. Look for anything that looks too clean.”

“Do you know how dangerous it is to even say that name out loud?” Mateo hisses, finally looking at me, his eyes wide with genuine fear. “The Russians in this territory… they don’t play, chica. They don’t have a sense of humor. If they think I’m digging into Petrov business, I’m dead before the sun sets. And you? You’ll be right next to me.”

I step closer, my stubbornness bubbling up, hot and sharp. “I’ve been dead for six months, Mateo. I’m living in a one-bedroom shack that smells like damp wood and rubbing oil on strangers until my wrists ache. I’ve paid my dues. I’ve earned this. You’ve got to help me find them.”

“I will try,” he mutters, pulling his cap lower over his eyes. “But don’t count on it, it’s like this person doesn’t exist at all.”

He slips out the back door without another word. I stay there for a moment, my forehead pressed against the cool glass of a soda machine. Six months. I’ve spent every spare peso, every waking hour of my “freedom,” looking for any trace of what I lost.

I will find what I am looking for. I must.

The grief is a dull ache in my stomach, competing with the physical reminder of the scar hidden beneath my white tunic. My father’s gift to me.

A sharp rap on the doorframe makes me jump. Sofia is standing there, her arms crossed over her chest, a look on her face I don’t like.

“Elena? I thought I sent you in here for lavender oil five minutes ago.”

I scramble, my face heating up as I reach for a blue bottle on the shelf. “I know, I was just… I was checking the inventory on the eucalyptus too. We’re running low.”

“Forget the inventory,” she says, her expression shifting from annoyance to something greedier. “Your shift was over, but a client just walked in. He didn’t want anyone else. He asked specifically for you.”

I freeze, the air in my lungs suddenly feeling thin. “Specifically? I don’t have regulars on Thursdays, Sofia. You know I like to leave on time.”

“He said he heard you have the ‘firmest hands’ in Cancun,” Sofia says, sliding a thick roll of bills onto the counter. It’s more than I make in a month, easily. My eyes widen at the sheer volume of cash. “He’s in Room 4. He paid for the premium package, and he told me I could keep the change if I made sure you were the one to handle him. He didn’t seem like the type of man you say no to.”

My stomach does a slow, nauseating roll. “I don’t do ‘special’ requests, Sofia. I’ve been very clear about that since the day you hired me.”

“He didn’t ask for that,” she says, though she looks a little worried now, her gaze flickering to the hallway. “He just… he looked like a man who gets what he wants. He’s big, Elena. And he’s rich. He’s in Room 4. Go. I’ll pay you double for the overtime. Think of it as a bonus for being so popular.”

I stare at the money. I think of Mateo’s face, of the Jersey records, of the one I can’t find because I don’t have enough leverage to make people talk. I need the cash. I need every cent if I’m going to find him.

“Fine,” I say, my voice a bit too sharp, my stubbornness winning over my instinct. “But if he so much as breathes on my neck, I’m walking out. I don’t care how much he paid.”

“Just give him the massage, Elena. He looks like he could use the relaxation. He looks like a man who hasn’t slept in a week.”

I grab a bottle of neutral oil and head toward Room 4. The hallway feels different now—longer, narrower, as if the walls are leaning in to watch me pass. The scent of hibiscus is suddenly cloyingly sweet, like the perfume at a funeral for someone you didn’t particularly like. I take a deep breath, smoothing my hair under my cap and adjusting the collar of my tunic.

I push the door open. The room is bathed in a low, amber light from a few flickering candles. It smells of sea salt and something else—something cold, metallic, and strangely familiar that makes the hair on my arms stand up.

A man is lying face down on the table. He’s massive. Even under the white sheet draped over his waist, his shoulders are a broad expanse of hard, defined muscle. He’s a landscape of power, his skin tanned and stretched tight over a frame that looks like it was built for war.

I stop. My breath hitches in my throat.

Tattoos snake up his arms, peeking out from beneath the headrest. I can see them in the dim light—intricate, dark designs. I see serpents. I see stars. I see the brutal, geometric language of the criminal underworld.

What in the world is a man like this doing… here?

Is he Bratva? Probably. Cancun is crawling with Russian pigs looking for a place to wash their money and bury their sins. I’ve seen dozens of them in the last six months. They usually smell like cheap vodka and expensive cigars. But they don’t come into the massage parlor. This one… this one is different.

Nobody found you. You’re just Elena. A girl from nowhere with nothing to hide.

I stand there, the door handle still warm in my hand. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to turn around, to walk out, to run until my lungs burn. But then he moves. It’s a slow, languid stretch of his neck, and that’s when I see them.

Scars.

Long, jagged white lines across his lats. They aren’t from an accident. They’re the kind of marks left by a knife held by someone who knew exactly where to cut to cause the most pain.

Oh my goodness, what is going on?? I start before I immediately stop myself. Stop it, Irina. Stop overthinking.

I tell myself it’s just business. Just a Russian thug who tracked down a rumor of a girl with “firm hands.”

“Are you going to stand there all night, señorita? Or are we going to begin?”

The voice is muffled by the headrest, his face buried in the hole, but the vibration of it hits me like a physical blow to the chest. It’s deep, rough, and carries a cadence that travels through the air and vibrates in my very marrow. A jolt of electric heat zips down my spine, leaving my skin tingling in a way I haven’t felt in… ever.

I swallow hard, my throat dry. I can’t run. If he’s who I fear he is—just another Russian looking for trouble—running will just turn this into a game. And I’ve seen enough of those games to know that the predator always enjoys the chase.

“I apologize, sir,” I say, my voice steady, my “Elena” mask firmly in place. I move to the counter to pour the oil. “I was just checking the lighting. Would you like the deep tissue or the Swedish?”

“I like it deep,” he rumbles. The smirk is audible in his voice, even through the padding. The sound of his voice is like gravel and velvet, rubbing against my nerves in a way that makes my breath catch. “I’ve never been one for half-measures. And don’t be shy with the pressure. I’ve been told you don’t mind a little struggle. That you’re… efficient.”

I want to ask him who told him that, but I can’t because customers are Gods and you don’t question Gods. Something Sofia reminds me of on a daily basis.

I move to the side of the table, my fingers slicking with the neutral oil. My hands are trembling, a fine, frantic vibration I can’t control, but the moment I press my palms into his skin, the tremor stops.

He’s hot. Not just warm from the sun, but radiating a staggering amount of heat, like a furnace. As I lean my weight into the first stroke, pressing my palms into the base of his neck, a spark zips through my fingertips.

My fingers are tingling. It’s an involuntary, crazy reaction to the contact. It’s a pull, a magnetic attraction so intense it scares me. I’ve touched hundreds of men in the last six months—fat men, thin men, men who smelled like cheap gin and men who smelled like expensive soap—and I’ve felt nothing but a vague sense of disgust. But this? This is different.

Something is wrong. Very wrong.

My hands move down his spine, and I can’t help but notice the way his muscles shift and roll under my palms. He’s solid, like granite covered in silk. My traitorous mind starts to wonder what those muscles would look like when they’re tensed in a different way. I imagine those scarred lats flexing under me, the weight of him pressing me into a mattress instead of a massage table.

Stop it, Irina. He’s a pig. A criminal. He probably has a wife and three mistresses back in the Motherland.

But the “Elena” in me doesn’t care. She just wants to keep touching him. I find myself lingering on the curve of his lower back, where the sheet dips low enough to reveal the top of a V-line that disappears into the shadows. My thumbs trace the ridge of his spine, and I feel a low, thrumming ache start to build in my own lower belly. It’s a heat I haven’t felt in years, a hunger that makes me want to rip the sheet away and see exactly what he’s hiding.

“Y-Your muscles are very tight,” I say, my voice sounding far away, as if I’m watching myself from the corner of the room. I dig my thumbs into the thick knots near his shoulder blades, leaning into it, using the strength of my whole body. “You carry a lot of tension here. It’s like you’re waiting for a fight.”

“I carry a lot of things,” he grunts, his voice a low vibration beneath my hands that I feel in my own bones. The sound of it travels through my palms and straight to my chest, making my breath hitch. “Tension is the least of them. Most people find my company… stressful.”

My mind is racing, flashing images of those large, calloused hands gripping my waist, pulling me against that furnace of a chest. I can almost feel the phantom pressure of him on top of me, his rough voice whispering filthy promises in my ear.

What in the world is wrong with me??

God, I’m pathetic.

I slide my hands up the sides of his neck, my fingers brushing the hair at the base of his skull.

A few months of celibacy and I’m ready to jump the first Russian who looks like he could snap me in half.

But goodness. The way he smells. Like ozone and expensive leather and something purely masculine that calls to a part of me I thought was dead. I wonder if he’s one of those men who like to do weird things. The ones who buy silence and skin.

Irina! What the hell are you thinking about?

Every time my skin brushes his, every time my fingers trace the edge of a tattoo or the ridge of a scar, my heart hammers harder.

He has such a massive presence. He takes up all the space in the room, making me feel small, exposed, and strangely, terrifyingly alive. My fingers are still tingling, the sensation spreading up my arms and settling into a heavy, wet heat between my thighs.

“How long have you been in Cancun, Elena?” he asks.

The name sounds like a joke coming from him. A secret he’s humoring because he finds it amusing. The gravelly depth of his voice sends a fresh wave of shivers over my skin.

“J-Just a couple of months,” I answer, lying easily, focusing on the curve of his neck, trying to ignore the way my tunic feels suddenly too tight across my chest. “It’s a good place to work. People are generous.”

“Are they?” He turns his head slightly in the headrest, though I still can’t see his face. I can see the sharp line of a jaw that looks like it was carved from obsidian. “I find that people only come to a place like this when they want to forget who they were. Or when they want to hide from someone who hasn’t forgotten them.”

“I’m not hiding from anyone,” I say, the sassy, stubborn Petrov pride I’ve been trying to kill for months suddenly flaring up in my chest. “I just prefer the sun to the New York winters.”

I freeze. I didn’t say New York. Why did I say New York? My heart is a drum now, beating a frantic rhythm that I’m sure he can feel through my hands.

“New York,” he repeats, the words tasting like a threat. “I’ve heard it’s a beautiful city. Very cold. Very… unforgiving.”

My skepticism about this “client” is turning into genuine alarm.

Is he a debt collector? One of Boris’s men?

“Why did you ask for me? There are girls here with years more experience.”

“I’ve heard many things about you,” he says, his voice dropping to a predatory whisper that makes my knees feel like they’re made of wax. “I heard you had a certain… fire. I wanted to try it for myself. To see if the rumors were true.”

The innuendo in his words is clear now, dripping with a dark, mocking intent. He isn’t here for a massage. He’s here for me. I become more and more agitated, my movements becoming jerky, my breathing shallow. The tingling in my fingers has turned into a dull, thumping heat. My mind is a chaotic mess of fear and a shameful, desperate curiosity. I want to know who he is.

I need to get out of here.

“Rumors are just talk,” I say, my voice trembling. “I’m just a girl working a shift.”

I step past him to reach for more oil, and that’s when it happens.

He shifts, his hand coming out from beneath the table with a speed that makes me gasp. His large, calloused hand brushes firmly against my thigh, his fingers lingering on the skin just above the hem of my tunic. The touch is like a brand, searing through my clothes and leaving a trail of fire in its wake. It’s a deliberate, suggestive move—a claim of possession that shatters my mask into a thousand pieces.

Of course, it’s just one of those stupid men who don’t take no for an answer. You chose the wrong person to mess with.

The agitation in my chest turns into pure, incandescent rage.

I don’t think. My stubbornness and my pride, the only things my father couldn’t take from me, explode. This man thinks he can buy me? Thinks he can touch me just because he threw some money at Sofia?

I reach down, my fingers tangling in his dark golden hair, longer than it looks.

“I told you,” I growl, my voice low and dangerous, the Russian heiress returning in a heartbeat. “I don’t tolerate anyone harassing me at my workplace. I couldn’t care less for this job, so I will kick your ass and leave you bleeding on this floor if you touch me one more time. Do you understand?”

The man doesn’t flinch. Instead, for my absolute surprise, he lets out a low, dark laugh. It’s a sound of pure, unadulterated triumph.

“If you like it rough, you should have stayed back home, dorogaya,” he says, the voice finally clear, no longer muffled by the table. “We would have been the perfect match.”

The blood drains from my face so fast the room tilts. My hands are still tangled in his hair, but my fingers are frozen. I don’t understand. I can’t breathe.

No, no, no, no.

“Back home?” I whisper, the words barely audible over the roar of the blood in my ears. “What are you talking about?”

I yank his head back with everything I have. I force him up, pulling his face out of the hole, forcing him to look at me. I’m ready to scream, ready to scratch his eyes out.

He shifts, his eyes catching the amber light of the candles. Dark blue. Wild. Glinting with a terrifying amount of amusement and a possessiveness that makes my lungs seize.

“New York, Irina,” he says, his voice dropping to a growl that settles deep in my marrow.

My heart stops. The world collapses into the space between us. I look at the face I tried to erase from my memory. I look at the dark blue eyes that haunted every dream I’ve had in this tropical purgatory. I look at the man I left standing at the altar.

“I want what should have been mine for six months now,” he says, his hand closing over my wrist with the strength of a steel trap. “I’m done playing, I want my wife.”

Chapter Two

Irina

No no no no… please no. This can’t be happening.

The air in Room 4 is 90% eucalyptus oil and 10% my impending cardiac arrest.

Mikhail doesn’t move. He just watches me with those dark blue eyes, his hand still clamped around my wrist like a shackle. I can feel his pulse against my skin—steady, rhythmic, and terrifyingly calm. Mine, however, is a mess, a bird trapped in a cage of ribs that feel too small for the amount of oxygen I’m failing to pull in.

“L-Let go,” I whisper. It’s meant to be a command, but it comes out as a plea. My throat is so tight I’m surprised any sound escaped at all.

“You’ve had six months, Irina,” Mikhail rumbles, his voice vibrating through the small space between us. He doesn’t let go. If anything, his grip tightens, drawing me an inch closer to the heat radiating off his bare chest. “That’s enough of letting go.”

I yank my arm back with a surge of desperate strength, and to my surprise, he lets me go. Not because I won, but because he’s already decided the game is over. He sits up fully on the massage table, the white sheet sliding dangerously low. I see the hard, tanned expanse of his thighs. I should look away. I’m a Petrov; I was raised with a sense of propriety that is currently being set on fire by the sheer, unapologetic masculinity of the man in front of me.

But I can’t look away. My eyes trace the ink on his skin, the scars that tell stories of a life I tried to leave behind, and the way his dark golden hair falls over his forehead. He looks like a god of war who took a wrong turn and ended up in paradise.

Goodness.

“Put some freaking clothes on,” I snap, trying hard to maintain my composure. I gesture vaguely at his lack of clothing. “Or is being a public nuisance part of the Morozov charm these days?”

Mikhail lets out a low, dry laugh as he stands up. He’s six-foot-three of pure, predatory grace. Even naked, he’s the one in control. “The only nuisance here is the wife who thought a fake passport and a bottle of coconut oil would be enough to hide from me.”

“I am not your wife!” I hiss, backing toward the door. “We never signed the papers. We never finished the ceremony. You’re just a man I left standing in a room full of expensive flowers.”

He reaches for the knot at his hip, and with a flick of his wrist that is unnecessarily graceful for a man with shoulders that wide, the towel hits the floor with a soft, mocking thud.

What the hell?!

My gaze is currently locked onto a very specific, very safe mole on his left shoulder blade. I am staring at that mole like it holds the secrets to the universe.

“We’re going,” he says, ignoring my jab. He reaches for a pile of clothes I hadn’t noticed in the corner—a sharp, Italian suit that probably costs more than this entire building. He pulls on his trousers with a fluid ease that makes my mouth go dry. “Move, Irina. Unless you want me to carry you through the lobby.”

“W-What?! I’m not going anywhere with you! I have a life here. I have… things I’m doing!”

“You have a boss who just sold you for the price of a mid-sized sedan,” Mikhail says, sliding into a crisp white shirt. He doesn’t look at me as he buttons it, but I can feel his attention fixed on me like a laser. “Your ‘life’ ended the second I walked through that door. Now, move.”

Fuck no!

I reach for the door handle, intent on sprinting for the back exit, but Mikhail is there before my fingers can even touch the metal. He looms over me, one hand resting on the door above my head, his shadow swallowing me whole.

The scent of him wraps around me. My heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs, and that traitorous tingling returns to my fingertips. I want to hit him. I want to scream, I want to run, but I can’t. I bite my lips hard to stop the tears from rolling.

“Don’t create a scene, dorogaya,” he whispers, his breath warm against my ear. “It would be such a shame for Sofia to have to explain to the police why she allowed a kidnapping in her establishment. Especially when I’ve already paid for her silence.”

“You- You’re a monster!” I breathe, glaring up into those dark blue depths.

“I’m a Morozov,” he corrects, his eyes flashing with something dark and possessive. “And you’re mine. Let’s fucking go.”

He opens the door and steps back, gesturing for me to precede him. I walk out, my spine stiff, my head held high despite the fact that my knees are shaking. As we walk through the lobby, I see Sofia. She’s standing behind the desk, her face pale, her eyes fixed on the floor. She won’t look at me. She won’t help.

This is really happening!

Mikhail doesn’t say a word. He just gives her a single, sweeping look that makes her shrink further into her chair. His posture, the set of his broad shoulders, the way he moves—it all screams power. He doesn’t need to create a scene. He is the scene.

Fucking madman.

No one interferes. No one calls out. I am being stolen and the world is letting it happen.

“You won’t get away with this,” I mutter as he steers me toward the door, his hand firm on the small of my back. “The second I get a chance, I’m calling my father. He’ll have your head.”

I know I’m literally grasping at straws but I’ll do anything.

“Your father is the one who gave me the coordinates, Irina,” Mikhail chuckles. He is lying—or maybe he isn’t. With Boris Petrov, you never know.

We step out into the humid Cancun night. The strip is alive with neon lights—pinks, blues, and yellows reflecting off the wet pavement from a recent sun-shower. A black SUV is idling at the curb, its tinted windows looking like two voids in the middle of the neon chaos. A tall scary looking man stands by the door, opening it the second we approach.

“Get in,” Mikhail says.

“I have rights, Mikhail! I have… I’ll scream! I’ll tell everyone who you are!”

“Go ahead dorogaya,” he says, leaning down so his lips are a hair’s breadth from mine. “Scream. Let them know the Morozovs are in town. See how fast this street empties out.”

His arrogance is infuriating, but the way his eyes drop to my mouth makes my heart skip a beat. I want to bite him. I want to slap the smirk off his face. I climb into the car, mostly because I don’t want him to see how much he’s affecting me.

The door thuds shut, sealing us in the cool, leather-scented interior. The driver pulls away immediately, the lights of the street blurring past the windows. I sit as far away from Mikhail as possible, hugging the door, trying to stop the tremors that are finally taking over my body.

My life is officially over.

“You’re a coward,” I say, because I need to find something to say before I start crying. “Hiding behind your family name and your thugs. Is this the only way you can get a woman to stay in a car with you? Kidnapping?”

Mikhail leans back, his long legs stretched out, looking entirely too comfortable. He’s watching me with a predatory intensity that makes my skin itch. “You stopped having choices the moment you humiliated me in front of both families and vanished.”

“I saved us both!” I snap, turning to face him. “You didn’t want me. You were probably relieved I ran.”

“I was many things,” he rumbles, his voice turning into ice. “Relieved was not one of them. My pride doesn’t like being a punchline at the social clubs. You made me look weak. You made my family look weak. And in our world, weakness is a death sentence, you know that.”

“Oh, please. Your pride is fine. You just wanted a reason to go on a hunt.”

“And look how well it turned out,” he mocks, his hand reaching across the seat to trail a finger along my jawline. I flinch, but I don’t move away. The touch is electric, a spark of heat that makes my breath hitch. “You’re sitting in my car, going to my plane, to live in my house. You’re exactly where you were supposed to be six months ago. Only now, the terms have changed.”

“The terms haven’t changed! I’m still the woman who hates you!”

Mikhail’s hand moves from my jaw to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair, pulling my head back until I’m forced to look at him. His eyes are dark, a storm of blue. “Then you’ll hate me in New York. Because you’re never leaving my sight again.”

The drive to the airport is an agonizing blur. We arrive at a private hangar where a sleek, white jet is waiting. Mikhail leads me up the stairs, his hand firm and possessive. The moment we cross the threshold and the heavy door seals shut, the full reality of what is happening settles into my bones.

We are alone.

The cabin is a temple of excess, cream leather, polished mahogany, and a bar stocked with enough liquor to drown a fleet. The flight attendant gives Mikhail a quick nod and disappears into the cockpit, leaving us in a silence that is anything but peaceful.

Mikhail heads straight for the bar, pouring himself a finger of amber liquid. He doesn’t offer me any— bastard. He just stands there, swirling the glass, his eyes fixed on me. I pace the length of the cabin like a trapped animal, my sneakers silent on the thick carpet.

“How did you find me?” I demand, stopping near the window as the jet begins to taxi. The roar of the engines matches the roar in my head. “I was invisible. I didn’t use the name. I didn’t use the cards. I was gone.”

Mikhail takes a slow sip of his drink, his gaze never leaving mine. “I’ve been looking for you from the second you touched the grass outside that hotel, Irina. Did you think I’d just shrug and move on? That I’d let the insult stand?”

“I thought you were too busy being a Morozov to care about one runaway bride.”

“Once I decided to stop letting the world laugh at me, there was nowhere in the world you could truly hide,” he says, his voice low and absolute. “You could have gone to the moon, and I would have found a way to drag you back.”

I let out a dry, sassy laugh. “Is this really about the alliance? Or is your ego just that fragile? Did your pride really not survive a woman leaving you at the altar?”

“Both.”

Bastard!

“You should have been grateful I ran,” I scoff, stopping near the window as the jet begins to taxi. “I saved you from a wife who would have hated you every day of your life. You could have married someone who actually wanted the Morozov name.”

Mikhail takes a slow sip of his drink, his gaze never leaving mine. “I don’t want a wife who wants my name, Irina. I want a wife who fears it. And as for hating me? Hate is just love with a different coat on. You were never indifferent to me. Even back in New York, when you were supposed to be Artyom’s, you couldn’t stop looking at me.”

“Are you crazy? I was looking at you because you were a train wreck!” I lie, my heart rate spiking. “You were the volatile brother who couldn’t stay out of trouble. You were the madman, I didn’t want to be anywhere near you! I was looking at you to make sure you didn’t set the curtains on fire.”

“Oh? Is that what you were doing in Room 4 tonight, dorogaya?” he asks, stepping toward me. He moves with that same slow, predatory grace, pinning me against the bulkhead without even touching me. “Were you checking for fire when your fingers were trembling against my skin? When you were digging your thumbs into my shoulders like you wanted to climb inside me?”

The memory of the massage, of the tingling in my fingers and the heat in my belly, rushes back, making my face flush. “I was doing my job.”

“You were hungry,” he murmurs, stopping inches away. He smells like whiskey now, sharp and sweet. “You’ve been starving yourself for six months, trying to pretend you’re someone else. But I felt it, Irina. I felt the way your body reacted to mine. You can lie with your tongue all you want, but your touch? Your touch is very honest.”

“Stop it,” I whisper, my hands coming up to rest on his chest to push him away, but they just stay there, feeling the steady thud of his heart through his expensive shirt. “You’re just doing this to humiliate me.”

“Then you shouldn’t have run,” he says. He reaches out, his hand covering both of mine, pressing them harder against his chest. “Artyom is the Pakhan, and he’s soft for his nurse. You were supposed to be the balance. And you ran.”

“I ran because I wanted a choice!” I shout, my stubbornness finally breaking through the fog. “I don’t want to marry someone like you!”

Mikhail’s expression hardens, the amusement vanishing. “The world doesn’t care about your choices, Irina. It cares about power. And right now, the power is in this room.”

He leans in closer, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble that vibrates in the small space between us. “You want to know how I’m going to punish you? I’m going to make you stay. I’m going to make you stand by my side at every gala, every meeting, every dinner. I’m going to make you play the perfect, devoted wife until your jaw aches from smiling. And every night, when the doors are closed, I’m going to remind you exactly who you belong to.”

“Y-You think you can force me to love you?” I ask, my voice shaking with a mixture of rage and a heat I can’t name. I refuse to let him see the fear—or the arousal—fluttering in my chest.

“I don’t need your love,” he says, his thumb tracing the curve of my lower lip, dragging it down until I’m forced to part my teeth. “I need your submission. I need the world to see that a Petrov tried to run, and a Morozov brought her back to her knees.”

I feel the heat of his body through my thin tunic. My fingers are tingling again—that same traitorous attraction I felt at the spa. I want to push him away, but I also want to see how far he’ll go. My stubbornness, however, is the one thing I have left.

“I’ll never do that,” I hiss, though the nearness of him is making it hard to think. “I’ll never be on my knees for you.”

“We’ll see,” he murmurs. He leans down, his lips brushing against my ear, his voice a promise of fire. “You’ve spent six months escaping me, Irina. Now, you’re going to learn the difference between escaping me and belonging to me. And I promise you, the second one is much, much harder to survive.”

He pulls back, leaving me breathless and reeling against the bulkhead. He finishes his drink in one swallow and walks toward the back of the jet where the bedroom is hidden. He stops at the doorway and looks back, his dark blue eyes glinting with a terrifying, beautiful light.

“Try to get some sleep, wife. We land in four hours. And the second we touch the ground, the ‘Elena’ act is over. You’re Irina Morozova now. And I’m going to make sure you never forget it.”

He disappears into the room, leaving me alone in the cabin. I sink into one of the leather chairs, my legs finally giving out. I look out the window at the dark expanse of the Atlantic, the stars mocking me with their distance.

I’m back in the cage. Only this time, the hunter is right next to me.

I touch my lip where his thumb rested, the skin still tingling, still burning. I hate him. I hate what he’s doing, I hate what he represents, and I hate my father for starting this. But as the jet screams toward New York, I realize the gravity of his words. He doesn’t want a bride. He wants a conquest.

I close my eyes, the hum of the engines a low-frequency vibration that matches the thrumming in my own blood. Mikhail thinks he’s won. He thinks he’s brought me back to the board as his pawn.

He has no idea that the second we land, I’m going to start playing my own game. And if he thinks I’m going to be a “dutiful wife” after what he just threatened, he’s clearly got the wrong person.

I lean my head back against the leather, a slow smile spreading across my face despite the tears prickling my eyes.

I hope you’re ready for the fire, Mikhail. Because I’m going to burn your entire world down before I let you own mine.