She freezes.
I rise slowly, but I don’t touch her.
“I saw you years ago,” I continue, voice low, stripped bare. “At the museum in Prague. You were arguing with a curator about provenance. You were right. You always are.” A humorless breath leaves me. “I didn’t know your name then. Just your face. Your fire.”
Her lips part, but no sound comes out.
“When your father’s investigation crossed my own, I recognized the name. I watched from a distance. To make sure you weren’t being targeted.” My jaw tightens. “And I noticed things I had no business noticing. Your obsession with unsolved questions. Your refusal to be managed. The way you push back when the world tells you to sit down.”
I step closer—not invading, just honest.
“I wanted you long before you ever fought me. Long before you stood in front of me and looked like you’d rather claw my eyes out than submit.”
Her breath shakes.
“So don’t misunderstand me,” I finish, voice rough. “Yes, I married you to protect secrets. But I kept you because I wanted you. Because letting another man decide your fate was never an option I could live with.”
The room is painfully quiet.
She stares at me like I’ve just rewritten the ground beneath her feet, like the world has rearranged itself without her consent. Her breath trembles. I see the pulse at her throat fluttering fast, fragile. Shock. Anger. Something dangerously close to want.
I straighten slowly, then step into her space.
Two fingers lift her chin before I can stop myself. Gentle. Possessive. I lean down and press my lips to her forehead. Not a claim. Not quite.
But close.
“I protect what’s mine,” I murmur. The words are steady, even if everything inside me isn’t. “And you’re mine now.”
Her lips part. I see the argument forming. Or the denial. Or the confession that would undo what little control I have left.
I pull away before she can speak.
Because if I stay—if I give her another second, another inch—I won’t stop at a vow.
And I don’t trust myself with that.
Chapter 13 – Raelyn
I barely sleep.
I lie on my side, facing away from him, pretending my eyes are closed while my mind refuses to quiet. Konstantin sleeps lightly behind me—if you can call it sleep at all. His arm is heavy around my waist, protective even in unconsciousness. Every so often, his grip tightens, like his body is checking that I’m still here.
I glance back at him from the corner of my eye.
Even asleep, he looks carved from stone. Jaw set. Brow faintly furrowed. Muscles rigid, as if rest is something he tolerates rather than allows. This is a man who speaks fluently in threat assessments and contingency plans. A man who has trained himself never to soften, never to drift too far from violence, because softness gets people killed.
I wonder what that does to someone over time.
What it costs to live like that—fear humming under the skin, danger always anticipated, obsession disguised as instinct.
I don’t want to be claimed.
I don’t want to be owned.
I don’t want to be anyone’s mine.
But the thought doesn’t sit cleanly in my chest.