"Gentlemen," he says. His voice is conversational. Pleasant. The voice of a host welcoming latecomers to a dinner party. "Thank you for joining us."
The men say nothing. One of them is sweating visibly.
"You know who I am," Dominik says. "And you know the woman standing behind me."
The men look at me. I feel their eyes land and skitter away.
"You bid on her," Dominik says. Still conversational. Still pleasant. "At Morozov’s auction, you raised your paddles and placed a monetary value on the woman who is now wearing my ring."
Silence. The kind of silence that has weight.
"I don't hold grudges," Dominik says. "Grudges are inefficient. But I do believe in clarity. In making sure everyone understands the rules of the world they're living in."
He takes a step closer to the three men. They don't retreat because they can't. Ilya is behind them.
"The rule is simple," Dominik says. "She is to be my wife, and as such, is entitled to your respect."
The sweating man opens his mouth. "Mr. Voronov, I didn't--"
"On your knees."
The room stops breathing.
"On your knees," Dominik repeats. "You looked at her like she was something you could buy. You raised a paddle and put a price on her body with no intention of cherishing her. You will kneel in front of her, and you will apologize, and you will mean it, because I will know if you don't."
They kneel.
All three of them. One by one. Suits hitting the concrete floor, heads bowing, and the room watches.
"I'm sorry," the first man says. Directed at me. Eyes on the floor.
"I'm sorry," says the second.
The third man, the sweating one, looks up at me, and his eyes are wet with fear. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Voronova."
Mrs. Voronova. Not my name. His name. Given to me by a terrified man on his knees in a room full of criminals, and the sound of it settles into my psyche like it belongs there.
Dominik looks at me. Raises one eyebrow.Satisfied?
I nod.
They scramble to their feet. Ilya escorts them away. The room exhales.
Dominik returns to my side. His hand finds the small of my back. His thumb traces that single, private line down my spine.
"Mrs. Voronova," he says quietly. Testing it. Tasting it.
"I haven't married you yet."
"You will." His grin is wolfish, and we both know he is right.
"You're insufferable."
"You love me."
I look up at him. He's not asking. He's not even guessing. He's stating a fact with the same flat certainty he states everything.
"I do love you," I say.