Page 22 of Twisted Empire: King's Gambit

He’s just there, unaware, or perhaps entirely aware, of the effect he has on me.

I stand up and my heart drops as I realize it was the wrong time to get out of the bath … because his hungry gaze sweeps over my naked body and causes my insides to clench.

So I reach for a towel and rush out of the bathroom before we both do something we’ll regret.

MIKHAIL

Walking into the room with Gabriette on my arm feels like I’m stepping onto a damn minefield.

I didn’t expect her to be in the bathroom when I got home after an intense interrogation session, and only noticed her after I got undressed. But I sure as hell didn’t miss the way she was staring at me.

Her eyes were all over my body, even zoning in on my cock and biting her bottom lip. The fact that she was naked as well isn’t lost on me. If I was even more pissed off, I would have ripped her from that bath and had a rehash of our wedding night.

But that would have been a mistake. I don’t want to fuck her again … God, but that body of hers. Now that I’ve seen it, I can’t get it out of my mind.

Fucking her was a mistake, I never should have staked my claim on her body. What had possessed me to do it, and even more telling, why didn’t she push me away or tell me to stop?

Her body molded perfectly to mine. For a defiant firecracker, she sure was submissive under my touch. Even slamming back on my cock and meeting me thrust for thrust.

Then she called out my fucking name when she came on my cock the first time, only for her to scream it like an oath the second time.

She’s getting under my skin and every instinct tells me to keep my distance, but she’s wearing a red dress — one that clings to her in all the right places, making it damn near impossible to focus on anything else.

Everything’s fine, I tell myself, but even as I think this, I can’t shake the feeling that ‘fine’ is a condition that’s slipping rapidly out of my grasp.

We move through the room and I sense the eyes of other men on her, tracing the contours of her body. It irritates the hell out of me. I don’t want to feel possessive, but I find my jaw clenching involuntarily.

I’m going to be a Bratva Pakhan, for God’s sake, feared by men who know better. Jealousy is a worthless emotion, a distraction. And distractions get you killed.

She’s 25; young, vibrant. I’m a decade her senior, carrying the weight of choices and responsibilities that would break lesser men.

I’ve led operations that have shifted the underground world’s balance of power, orchestrated deals with politicians and law enforcement to ensure the survival of my people.

So I can’t afford to be sidetracked by an arranged marriage, a pretty face, a complicated stare.

I keep my demeanor ice cold as we move through the crowd. People part ways for us like the goddamn Red Sea. Some out of respect, most out of fear. I’ve cultivated that fear carefully, weaponized it.

Yet here I am, battling an emotion I didn’t invite, because of a woman I didn’t choose.

The irony isn’t lost on me. A man who’s navigated life and death situations, yet can’t seem to navigate the space around his own wife. It’s a sensation I can’t easily shake off, like the barrel of a gun aimed squarely at your back.

Ten years ago, that kind of attention might’ve meant something. But ten years ago was another lifetime; one where mistakes were made, debts were accrued, and loyalties were shattered.

I spot my father across the way, and he nods his head.

“We should speak to my father and sister. They’re over there,” I tell Gabriette, gesturing in the direction of my father and Natalya.

They’re standing a little apart from the crowd, engaged in a conversation that looks intense. Very much like them.

Natalya is a ‘daddy’s girl’ and can literally twist him around her little finger, but don’t tell him that. Despite her younger years, she has inherited that Baranov steel, albeit refined by an education that’s been broader than mine.

My father has the unyielding demeanor of a man born to lead, born to be feared. His stern countenance, punctuated by his mismatched eyes, one green and one blue, conveys a lifetime of ruthless decision-making.

I got my eye colors from him; it’s a Baranov feature that seems to be prominent in the first-born sons.

It’s said that he can peer into a man’s soul, determining his worth or lack thereof, with a mere glance. I often wonder if each eye perceives something different, giving him a more complete picture of the world and the people in it.

Before we reach them, I turn to Gabriette.