He helps me in, his touch now infuriatingly polite, the ghost of his fingers still burning against me.
I try to gather myself, to reclaim some scrap of dignity, but it’s useless. My body has already sold itself to the darkness.
And the worst part? I’m not sure I want it back.
Less than an hour later, we reach his estate, an endless stretch of land extending in every direction, wild and empty. The car glides down a long, double-laned road flanked by towering trees that shieldwhatever’s lurking beyond their shadows.
When we reach a sharp curve, the path opens to a towering iron gate. Two guards stand on either side, rifles slung over their shoulders like an unspoken warning. They don’t hesitate when they see him. Just a nod, and the gate swings open.
We roll forward again, deeper into his world, until the trees give way to a mansion so large it looks more like a compound. It spreads across the land like it owns it.
I don’t know why anyone needs that much space. But I guess I’m about to find out.
He definitely has a taste for grandeur. Towering white columns sculpted into angels flank the entrance, their stone eyes casting judgment even in the dark. Two of Konstantin’s men stand guard at the front, their postures rigid despite the late hour.
It’s just past two in the morning when we pull into the circular drive, headlights washing over a collection of colorful sports cars already parked outside. Of course he has an entire fleet.
He steps out and rounds the car, opening my door like we’re on a date and not whatever twisted arrangement this is. Ever the gentleman.
“Welcome home, Ms. Monroe,” he says, offering his hand. “I hope it’s to your liking.”
I take it, ignoring the way his touch sends a shiver up my arm. “It’ll do.”
He chuckles low, and we start toward the massive doors.
One thing’s painfully clear: if I’m supposed to uncover something in this fortress, I’m going to need more than a plan. I’m going to need a miracle.
The moment we step inside, I notice the lights are on. Every single one. Which is strange, considering the hour. I assume he has staff, but shouldn’t they be asleep by now?
We move through the grand entry into a sprawling den, the gleam of a chandelier spilling light across the polished floors. And that’swhen I see them.
Three men are already there. Two of them are dressed in black from head to toe. Clean-shaven, broad-shouldered, sharp-eyed. They look a lot like Konstantin. Same height. Same imposing, dangerous aura.
But it’s the third man who makes my breath hitch. He rises slowly from one of the velvet chairs. Older, shorter, kind-looking…and unmistakably wearing a priest’s collar.
What the hell is a priest doing here?
My instincts scream that something isn’t right. Every part of me itches to turn and bolt. But I already know there’s nowhere to go.
“What’s going on? Why is there a priest in your den? Who are those guys?”
No one answers.
Then Konstantin takes a step forward. A step closer to the end of my life as I know it.
Because he’s either gonna kill me…or much worse.
“They’re witnesses,” he says casually, like we’re talking about a birthday party.
“Witnesses to what?”
His smirk widens, dark and predatory. “Our wedding.”
The words hit like a fist to my chest.
I stumble back, pulse roaring in my ears. “You’re out of your goddamn mind!”
“There’s no need for dramatics, Ms. Monroe.” His tone is maddeningly calm, while I’m anything but. “This is the only way I can ensure your safety. As my wife, you’ll be untouchable.”
