Page 27 of Sinful Union

I stare at my phone, my breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts, my grip so tight I think I might snap the damn thing in half. This isn’t how our father taught them to lead. Our father commanded respect, but he didn’t rule through cruelty. He didn’t belittle. He didn’t manipulate the people closest to him, treating them like pieces on a chessboard. He didn’t need to, because people followed him willingly because they believed in him; because they respected him. Piotr demands loyalty, but he gets it through fear.

I rub a hand over my face. Why couldn’t I have done what I was supposed to do? My heart already knows the answer. It’s because, for the first time in years, I feel something. I’ve enjoyed the time I’ve recently shared with Pavel. I fell in love with him once before, and he’s the father of my child—even if he doesn’t know it.

My throat tightens and I press my lips together, blinking against the sudden sting in my eyes.

Damn it. Vlad was right.

This plan was never going to work. Killing Pavel was never going to be easy, but now it seems impossible. I feel stuck between my familial loyalty to Piotr, who expects me to commit murder, and Pavel, who has done nothing but make me feel seen, desired, and, God help me, cared for in the last two days.

I don’t want to kill him. I don’t want anyone else to kill him either. But if his family really was behind the murder of my parents…

I groan, frustration building in my chest. I reach for the suitcase, flipping it open with a little too much force, and start throwing things in, my movements careless and erratic. My hands shake as I clumsily fold a dress, smoothing it out, trying to focus on the motion. I can’t let Piotr get to me. I can’t let him be the one who decides my future.

But I also can’t ignore the truth. Pavel is dangerous. He has blood on his hands. He lives a life of violence and power. But is he really guilty of murdering my parents? Or is Piotr just using me the same way he uses everyone else?

The thoughts make me feel sick, because if that’s true, and my own brother has been manipulating me into doing his dirty work, into carrying out his brand of vengeance for his own motives, I’ve wasted six years hating the wrong person.

Chapter 14

Kat

Two weeks later…

Pavel has been a ghost since we returned from our honeymoon. He leaves early, returns late, and when he’s home, his mind is elsewhere. Once a day, he’ll offer a brief form of affection—always a fleeting moment in passing—before he’s out the door or vanishing into his office for hours on end, busy with meetings and phone calls.

It’s as if he’s performing the bare minimum in order to be considered an attentive husband, playing a role, and nothing more. There are no late-night touches. No whispered desires. No heated hands exploring my body, making me squirm as he buries his cock inside me.

I hate how much I miss it; how much I misshim.

I glance around the penthouse, trying to shake the thoughts away, but they cling to me like a shadow. His home is beautiful. A modern penthouse in Tribeca, with glass walls that frame the Manhattan skyline. Each room is tastefully decorated, furnished with sleek, modern furniture, expensive art on the walls, and plush rugs, straight from the pages of the latest design magazines.

It’s too perfect, too controlled. Too empty.

Everything is clean and precise, the reflection of a man who doesn’t like anything out of place. There are no personal touches. No family photos. No warmth. I imagine the only rooms he really spends any time in are his office and his bedroom.

It doesn’t have Ana, and that’s the worst part. I close my eyes, swallowing against the sudden tightness in my throat. I miss my girl with an intensity that nearly steals my breath. Being away from her this long has been nothing short of slow torture.

“Morning.”

I look up as Pavel steps into the kitchen, already dressed for the day. His sharp navy suit is tailored to perfection, his tie in a Windsor knot, his shirt starched and crisp. He looks good as far as fashion goes, but his eyes look exhausted, so much so that it catches me off guard. He’s been running himself ragged.

“Heading out?” I ask, taking a sip of coffee.

His lips twitch slightly, like he knows I’m fishing, but he doesn’t call me out on it.

“Meetings,” he says simply.

I nod casually, pretending not to care, hiding the fact that I wish he would stay. He crosses the kitchen in a few long strides, planting a chaste kiss on my cheek. Soft. Routine.

“Don’t get into trouble while I’m gone.”

“No promises.”

He chuckles, the sound low and genuine, then straightens, adjusting his cuffs before heading for the door. And just like that, he’s gone.

I don’t move right away, waiting to hear the sound of the elevator doors closing. I give it another few minutes, just to be safe, before slipping back into my room, grabbing my bag and phone. This is what has become routine now, a carefully crafted lie.

I step into the elevator, taking it down to the underground garage. The doors slide open, and soon I’m stepping out onto the streets of Tribeca—the place I now call home.

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