Page 14 of Beautiful Monster

"Kisa." The pet name slips out even though my annoyance. "Open the door."

More silence, though the water stops.

My patience—never my strong suit—snaps like a dry twig. "You have three seconds before I break it down."

"Go away!" Her voice is muffled but strong. "I'm not sleeping with you."

The misunderstanding would be amusing if it weren't so infuriating. "One."

"I mean it, Mikhail!"

"Two."

I hear something heavy being dragged against the door. A futile barricade.

"Three."

My shoulder connects with the door, the wood splintering around the lock with a satisfying crack. It takes a second hit before it gives way completely, revealing Kira standing in the center of the bathroom, a heavy towel rack clutched in her hands like a weapon.

Her eyes widen, a flush of anger or fear—maybe both—coloring her cheeks. She's beautiful in her rage, like a storm about to break.

"Put that down before you hurt yourself," I say, stepping into the bathroom.

"Stay back." She raises the makeshift weapon higher.

I move faster than she expects, closing the distance between us in two strides. One hand wraps around the towel rack, the other around her waist. She struggles, surprisingly strong for someone so small, but I lift her easily, tossing the rack aside and hoisting her over my shoulder.

"Put me down!" She pounds against my back, her fists like bird wings against stone.

I carry her into the bedroom, ignoring her protests, and deposit her onto the king-sized bed. She immediately scrambles to the opposite side, putting as much distance between us as possible.

"You can't lock yourself in the bathroom all night," I tell her, crossing my arms. "This is your room. Your bed."

Confusion flickers across her face. "My room?"

"Yes." I gesture to the space around us. "I sleep across the hall."

"But..." She trails off, suspicion narrowing her eyes. "We're married.”

"On paper." I move toward the door, suddenly needing space from the scent of her, from the way her auburn hair spills across my pillows. "This marriage is about protection and profit,not fucking. You'll be safe here. That's all that matters to your father."

I pause at the threshold, looking back at her. She's sitting up now, her back against the headboard, watching me with those piercing blue eyes that seem to see more than I want.

"Lock your door if it makes you feel better," I tell her. "But know this—no one gets in or out of this house without my knowledge. Not even you."

I close the door behind me, her silence following me like a shadow as I cross the hall to my empty room.

I strip off my jacket and loosen my tie, the silk slithering through my fingers like water. The muffled sounds of movement from across the hall draw my attention—soft footsteps, the creak of a drawer opening, the rustle of fabric. I picture her exploring the space that is now hers, testing the boundaries of her gilded cage.

The bed in my room remains untouched, sheets pulled tight with military precision. Sleep won't come easily tonight. It never does.

I pour two fingers of vodka into a crystal tumbler, the bottle still cold from the freezer. The liquid burns a familiar path down my throat, warming my chest while doing nothing to thaw the ice that's settled around my heart years ago.

A soft thud from her room makes me pause mid-sip. Then silence.

I wait, counting heartbeats.

Another sound—glass breaking.

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