by Lana Sky
But some topics are better left broached when he doesn’t have a knife within reach.
“I’m guessing I can’t just wear a dress from Kmart?” I say, clumsily changing tact.
He raises an eyebrow. I caught him off guard. No, it’s stranger than that—I’ve amused him. “Not exactly.” His hand shoots out, and he snags one of my curls. As I watch, holding my breath, he tucks the strand behind my ear. “My wife deserves something a bit grander than that.”
Goosebumps rise over my skin at how dangerous that word sounds coming from him. Wife. His tone caresses it like a noose, strangling any warmth from every single syllable. It’s not a title. It’s a life sentence.
“You’re serious about this,” I rasp.
“More than serious.” He grasps my hand, extending the fingers for his inspection. The one wearing his ring trembles beneath his scrutiny. “I told you once, in so many words—I do not offer what I am not willing to give.” He strokes his thumb along the gleaming marble for emphasis. “I am offering you this.”
This. Him. Our lives. The possibility of those two things no longer being mutually exclusive.
The possibility of tethering myself to him in ways more binding than a stupid piece of paper.
The possibility of complete and total surrender beyond the boundaries of sex.
“It’s a lot to consider overnight,” I croak—but it’s another lie. I’ve had days to reconcile my relationship with him well before now. Hours of dwelling on him. Endless minutes of contemplation of what my connection to him means.
And I’ve avoided thinking of anything beyond the here and now.
“Did you think I was lying?” he wonders as if reading my mind. “Or making a boast in the heat of the moment?”
“No,” I say quickly. “But…”
“Or perhaps you don’t understand just what it is I’m offering. Do you think I was my father’s only child?” He stands and storms over to the windows. With every step he takes, tension ripples down his spine, enhancing his bulk until he appears ten times larger. Massive. “Of course, I wasn’t. He had more bastards than a stray mutt drawn to any bitch in heat. But I am the one with his name. I was the one legitimate enough to supplant him. I am a Koslov.” He makes it sound so much more than a title. It’s his identity. In a way, I think he’s proud of it as much as he hates what that very name makes him.
He is Maxim Koslov. In his world, that gives him meaning. Purpose. Enough for him to adhere to its archaic rules.
And prize its twisted perks.
“Even Anatoli cannot deny that fucking birthright. Once you are my wife, no one will be able to touch you outright. No matter who I kill or what I do. You won’t have to fear a fucker like Sevastyn ever again…” He frowns as if unconvinced of his own words, but the subtle tensing of his jaw reveals that he’s already made up his mind. “I would like your permission,” he adds, clenching his hands so tightly the knuckles crack in unison. “But don’t presume I need it. If need be, I can drag you to the altar.”
“Really?” I feel hot. My body reacts to the warning, tensing up. Unease thickens my throat. All I can choke out is a stupid, pathetic question. “Is that what you really want?”
“No,” he confesses—and for what it’s worth, I believe that he means it.
Regardless, I can’t take my eyes off his ring. Like magic, it morphs, becoming a ball and chain, making my hand impossible to lift.
“Don’t forget that you’ve already accepted this,” he points out. “You’ve accepted me. And yet there it is. Those eyes—” He glowers at me from over his shoulder. “Always so fucking surprised. I kill a man, and you strip yourself naked to assist me with the mess. Only to pretend that you have no idea what staying by my side at all means. Have we really come back to this?” He sounds so empty. Maybe because those are the exact words I asked myself last night.
Which brings this whole conversation to a morbid full circle.
Unsure of the answer, I meet his gaze and shiver at the secrets I find lurking inside it. Going off of my experience when he’s angry, he should frown, or flash that disapproving glare I’ve grown accustomed to. Anything but tilt his head away from me, disguising any potential reaction I could decipher.
“Tonight.” Turning on his heel, he starts for the foyer, flexing his arms to adjust his suit jacket. One of his hands brushes his collar, smoothing the lapel flat while he shoots me one last searching glance. “We will discuss this tonight. Everything. After you return from the fitting.”
Even if I felt brave enough to, he doesn’t give me the chance to argue. With his back stick-straight, he marches to the front of the suite. A second later, I hear the door slam.
And I’m alone.
Chapter Four
Our impending discussion doesn’t include the potential of whether or not I’ll need a dress—the matter has already been decided. Like always, some aspects of Maxim Koslov are nonnegotiable—what he wants, he gets. Within seconds of him leaving, his trusted henchman is already knocking on the door.
“Ms. Marconi,” Lucius greets me with a small smile. “I will allow you to get dressed, and then we can be on our way.”
After a quick shower in a luxurious bathroom off the master suite, I change into a simple black dress and join Lucius in the car.
Minutes later, we reach our destination.
“I’ll be waiting whenever you’re ready, Ms. Marconi,” Lucius announces from the driver’s seat. He eyes the building straight across from where we’re parked. It’s simple, made of brick, positioned between some of the more upscale buildings in the affluent part of the city. Places I used to only glimpse in magazines.
My heart pounds as I exit the car and cross the busy street, bustling with the height of afternoon traffic. Trust Maxim to pick such a place—exclusive and excluded, yet unabashedly public.
Through a pair of gleaming black doors, I find an interior of dark walls and plush carpet. A woman comes to greet me from around a wooden podium, her outfit a crisply tailored black. “You must be Francesca,” she says, clasping one of my hands. “This way.”
She leads me into a wide, open area displaying a rack of fabric along one wall and a row of mirrors along the other. My reflection taunts me from them—an army of pale, wide-eyed figures gaping as the world shifts around them.
“Mr. Koslov had a list of requirements sent over,” she explains while fishing a slim black notebook from an apron slung around her waist.
“Requirements?” I sound surprised, but deep down, I’m not. Maxim leave something as personal as a wedding dress up to me? Never. Like everything else in his life, he seems to have it planned to the last meticulous detail.
“Oh yes,” the woman gushes, oblivious to my confusion. “The designer can’t wait to get started. We drooled over the sketches last night. Not many people opt for traditional gowns nowadays. And attempting a Russian style gown will be a unique challenge, especially.”
She pauses expectantly, but all I can do is blink and force a smile.
“Yes…well…” Clearing her throat, the girl steers me before the wall of mirrors and withdraws a tape measure from another apron pocket. “Today, I will just get your preliminary measurements. You don’t have to lift a single finger. Shall we begin?”
Eyeing my reflection, I nod. The girl in the glass glares at me, her gaze revealing everything I’m too chicken to say out loud. Don’t be stupid. You’re not really surprised, are you? Emotion has nothing to do with it.
In Maxim Koslov’s world, relationships are tethered to contracts. Sex is a primal release, no more intimate than breathing.
And marriage is a business transaction.
Nothing more.
Hours later, and I’m still staring at my reflection—a stranger draped in yards of ivory lace. If I ever were to imagine myself wearing a wedding dress, I wouldn’t pick white as the color.
It makes my skin look sallow, and my hair duller than usual. My curls are a frizzy cloud barely able to supp
ort the thin, sheer fabric thrown over them as a makeshift veil. Not to mention the dress itself.
Grander, Maxim claimed. Maybe his real meaning got lost in translation—extravagant. Swaths of silk and taffeta extend from my waist. It’s the skeleton of a ballgown ripped from one of those princess movies Ainsley loves to watch.
The designer is crouched beside me, sticking pins into a massive skirt. She works efficiently, but one thing is clear—my input isn’t needed. While I may be the one meant to wear it, this dress is a token in the same vein as my ring. Maxim has his own plan set into motion. I’m just a pawn being moved across the board.
“We’re all done for today,” the woman announces, rising to her feet. She swipes imaginary dust from her knees and then helps me remove the pieces of the dress. “Your next appointment is in a week. Mr. Koslov has already made the arrangements.”
A week. The timeframe feels like an ominous deadline. One I’m keenly aware of as I exit the boutique and find a black car waiting for me. Before I can take a step toward the curb, a voice calls out.
“Mrs. Koslov? Mrs. Koslov!”
I turn to find the seamstress racing from the boutique, a white piece of paper clenched in her fist, and a shopping bag dangling from her opposite hand. Even as she rushes toward me, I can’t bite back the instinctive need to correct her. “I’m not—”
“Here,” she insists, shoving the items into my hands. “Mr. Koslov wanted me to pass this message along, along with this dress. Have a nice day.”
I stare after her, my heart racing, my throat dry. Inside the shopping bag is a white box tied with a black ribbon. A building sense of dread churns in my stomach as I shove my hand between the edges of the box, just enough to catch a swath of dark fabric inside, nestled within tissue paper. Whatever it’s meant for, I doubt it’s intended for the wedding. Something less formal, then? Like another meeting with Anatoli…
My grip tightens, and it takes everything I have not to drop the bag onto the sidewalk. The note, however, turns out to be relatively simple once I unfurl it with trembling fingers. You’re shaking now, he wrote, and the back of my neck prickles with awareness. A glance over my shoulder reveals that no one is there—but I sense the extent of his control, nonetheless. Especially as I read the next written line. But get accustomed to how it sounds, Mrs. Koslov.
“Ms. Marconi?” I look up to find Lucius watching me from beside the car. “Are you alright?”
“Y-Yes.” I stagger the rest of the way toward him. “I’m fine.”
“Good. We have a few moments to spare before Mr. Koslov suggested you return. In the meantime, I can take you by your family’s home,” he suggests while ushering me into the backseat. “I know that Ainsley, for one, can’t wait to see you.” A rare grin tugs at his mouth, and I force a smile in response.
“It feels like ages since I’ve been home,” I admit.
Ages since I’ve had to clean up decapitated Barbie dolls or break up fistfights. Since I’ve had to confront my family and lie to their faces.
And it feels like it’s been even longer since I’ve had a say in my own wardrobe. The item within the box turns out to be a dress after all—black velvet with a high, modest collar. The kind of outfit someone might dress his supposed fiancée in while parading her before a man who raised a family of monsters and murderers.
“Ms. Marconi?” Lucius asks. “Was that a yes?”
“Y-Yes! Thank you. That would be great.” I look down, and my gaze drifts from the black dress to my ring. My ears are still ringing with two ominous words. Mrs. Koslov. “I need to talk to them.”
“That you do. But if I may make a suggestion…” Lucius eyes me in the rearview mirror, and a frown strains his normally professional expression. “Mr. Koslov can be insistent when it comes to his point of view, but if you are uneasy with the pace of current events, you must tell him.”
“Uneasy?” I echo. Though it’s no use feigning innocence when I can barely look at the item of clothing on my lap.
Lucius nods while effortlessly melding into the thick of traffic. “I saw your face just now, if I may be blunt. After the fitting. You seemed uncomfortable.”
Shock paints my cheeks scarlet. “I… I…” I don’t know what to say. “You aren’t just talking about the dress,” I finally croak. “Are you?”
“I’m afraid not.” He clears his throat, and I sit forward in anticipation. Rarely does he reveal snippets of his secretive employer. I think the only other time was during one of our first meetings when he issued a warning—my client has unusual tastes, Francesca.
“I’ve been working for Mr. Koslov for over ten years,” he continues. “I would like to think I know him better than most—so when I say that the effect you have on him has been…dramatic, to say the least, I hope you take my words at face value. And I hope I may take this time to impart a bit of advice.”
I swallow hard, wringing my fingers together. The note caught between them is crumpled in the aftermath, made smaller and smaller the more I twist and pinch. “What do you mean?”
“While I may have known him for more than half of your life, I suspect that you know more of his past than I will ever learn. More than I care to know, if I’m being frank. He’s not an easy man to work for, but he is a loyal and just employer. If he happens to have a few…quirks that may make him seem unapproachable to most, well, that is beyond my place to say. But everyone, no matter who they are, needs an outlet. A release. Someone.” His tone deepens with unsaid meaning, and seconds pass without him saying another word. Then he sighs, and that single sound betrays just how old he really is. How exhausted he is. “A life devoid of that simple luxury, can make a man act out in ways he might regret. I am well aware of what happened last night,” he adds, shocking me with how unperturbed he sounds at the prospect of murder. “It wasn’t the first time he has called me to clean up such…lapses in judgment. Those calls have not stopped since you’ve been with him, either. But the nature of them has changed. He has changed. You may not notice it. And with everything you’ve been through, maybe you don’t care to. That is your prerogative, to be fair. But…” He sighs again before confessing, “I feel like I sound a bit like a gossiping old woman, but I think you need to hear this. Heed this one piece of advice—be honest with yourself. Be honest with him. It may seem impossible now, but a man like him has built his entire life around rejection. You can trust he knows how to survive it. But deception?” He tilts his head, his brows furrowing. “That would inflict a wound I doubt even Mr. Koslov could come back from. And deception can be an innocent thing at first. One might not even realize that their intent is insidious at all. Lying to someone,” he adds with a shrug. “Pretending to feel things that you do not—or even worse. Lying to yourself. Misrepresenting your emotions because you cannot face them. Take charge of them. You are too wracked by fear to take ownership of what you desire while understanding what it truly is at its core. Do you understand what I mean?”
Our gazes meet in the rearview mirror, and I nod once. A creeping, aching sensation spreads throughout my stomach. Deception. Is that what I’ve been doing?
“I don’t want to hurt him,” I admit, my voice hoarse.
“Of course, you don’t.” He sounds like he truly believes that. “But tell me something. A hunter comes across a wolf and learns to care for it. He feeds it. Nourishes it. And then he locks it in a small cage because it is a difficult thing to care for a wild creature. To understand the freedom it needs. To trust that it will always return to you. That hunter may admire its beauty, and its power, and its brutal strength. But how can he trust that such a creature won’t turn on him? And the wolf, it cares for the hunter as well, you see. But even such a creature can sense the fear in the other. So it tries to deny its nature and pretend it enjoys its life within captivity. But instinct can only be ignored for so long… Until one day, the wolf lashes out from behind its bars, mortally wounding the hunter. And they both die, each never truly knowing the other.”
/> “What are you saying?” The picture he painted is in my head, replaying in a morbid loop. Death. Death. Death.
“I’m saying that love is in trust,” he warns. “Not fear. Though that was merely a silly story, of course. And you must recall that you’re relationship with Mr. Koslov was built on a contract first and foremost. An understanding. From the outside, it might have appeared odd. Imbalanced, even. But was it?”
He waits long enough that the resulting silence demands an answer.
“No,” I admit. “I could always walk away.”
“And you still can,” he warns. “I apologize for the aimless chatter. Nonetheless, I appreciate your time. We should be arriving shortly.”
He refocuses his attention on the road, and his professional demeanor returns. In some ways, it feels like he’s drawn an invisible curtain between us, cutting off my chance to reply.
Beg for more.
More snippets of a man who hoards his past so fucking jealously.
But I’m desperate enough to risk it, testing the bars of my own invisible cage. “What if, in your story…” I lick my lips, they’re so fucking dry. My hands shake, and the crumpled note falls to the floor, bouncing beneath the driver’s seat. “What makes you think the hunter loved the wolf?”
Seconds tick by, but he doesn’t answer. Only the hum of the engine fills the silence between us—and my heartbeat. It beats faster. Harder. It’s all I can hear. Thump. Thump. Thump!
Reaching out, I place my hand on the back of Lucius’ seat. “Please—”
“A hunter’s nature is to kill,” he says softly. “Something in the wolf made him forsake that purpose, even for a second. Even if his following actions were misguided. Something in the wolf made him, for a moment, question his sole intent. It might not fit the average definition, but why, in his viewpoint, would the mere desire to spare that one wolf, not be worthy of being called love?”
