Hurt flashed in his eyes, quickly replaced with a burning intensity.
I didn't care.
Fuck, I did care.
That was the problem.
His pain affected me, made me want to soothe him, to surrender.
But I couldn't.
Not in this.
This was the line I had to draw if I was going to preserve any part of myself in this relationship.
He wasn't listening, and I wasn't about to let him hold me or comfort me while he was still trying to cage me.
We'd tried staying in Gregor’s lake house while Solovyov was still targeting the Ivanovs. But although all the tunnels were sealed and the traitor who had let the attackers through security had been "dealt with," it still didn't feel safe.
Artem wasn't about to put me in any situation that wasn't completely secure. Especially not before he was completely healed.
He had preferred to stay closer to his family, and I couldn't argue.
Except Pavel was always here.
He was sitting on the sofa while Artem and I argued, watching us like he wished he had a bowl of popcorn. I didn't even know when he'd arrived.
"Because it's not my name," I argued, ignoring Pavel's presence.
I tried not to notice how Artem's chest rose and fell with each deep breath, the muscles in his arms flexing as he crossed them.
A memory surfaced—my father's hand gripping my shoulder as he introduced me to business associates. "This is my daughter," he would say, not "This is Viktoria." I was nothing but an extension of him, a possession without an identity.
I'd sworn I would never be reduced to someone else's appendage again.
"That's what I'm trying to fix." Artem's voice dropped lower, a threatening rumble that raised goose bumps on my arms.
"No, if I'm an Ivanov, then nothing I do will be earned," I insisted, forcing myself to focus. "I'll always wonder if every grade I get, every passing score, is because I deserve it or because they're terrified of my husband."
I thought of Professor Stevens and his cruelty, how easily Artem had removed him.
While part of me had felt a dark satisfaction at his fate, it was also terrifying.
One word from Artem, and people disappeared.
How could I ever trust that my achievements were my own in a world where his influence held such power?
"They should be terrified of me now, regardless of your last name," he growled, taking a step closer. This time I held my ground, our bodies inches apart. "But they won't know until you are my wife."
I threw my hands up in frustration.
This man was impossible.
And impossibly attractive, even in his stubborn rage.
My mind flashed to the day he was shot. How he'd looked on that makeshift operating table, pale and bloody. How my heart had stopped, how I'd known with sudden clarity that I couldn't lose him. That memory warred with my need for independence, creating a storm of conflicting emotions inside me.
"I need to have the freedom to make the decision, Artem," I cried, my voice cracking with emotion. "I need to know the man I love respects me enough to let me choose how I live my life."
