Page 17 of Beautiful Monster

"I am not Alina. I never will be." Her voice trembles but holds firm. "If you want quiet and obedient, you should have married someone else."

The challenge in her words ignites something in me—not anger, but something more dangerous. Interest. Curiosity about the fire behind those blue eyes.

"I'm well aware of who you are, Kira Malakhov." I move closer, close enough to see the pulse fluttering at her throat. "The question is whether you understand who I am."

She doesn't back away. "A killer. A bratva captain. My husband."

"And the man who now owns everything your father built." I reach out, not touching her but letting my fingers hover near her cheek. "Including his most precious possession."

Her breath catches. "I'm not a possession."

"In this world,kisa, everyone belongs to someone." The endearment slips out again, unbidden. "The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be."

"This?" She gestures between us, the movement causing her nightgown to shift across her collarbone. "What exactly is this, Mikhail?"

The sound of my name on her lips does something to me I can't explain. Something I'd rather not examine too closely.

"A marriage of convenience," I say, stepping back, needing distance from her scent, her warmth. "Nothing more."

"Then why do you look at me like that?" Her question is soft but direct, a bullet finding its mark.

"Like what?"

"Like you're hungry."

The words hang in the air between us, dangerous and electric. I turn away, moving toward the door before I do something I'll regret.

"Lock your door," I tell her, my hand on the doorknob. "And stay in this room tonight."

"You didn't answer my question."

I pause, not looking back. "Get some sleep, Kira. Tomorrow, we establish ground rules."

"I don't respond well to rules," she says, and I can hear the stubborn lift in her voice without seeing her face.

"Then you'll need to learn." I step into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind me. "Because in this house, my rules are what keep you alive."

I stand there for a moment, listening. No movement, no sound. Then, the soft click.

Good girl.

Chapter 8

Kira

Manhattan unfolds beneath me like a glittering chessboard, each building a piece in a game I never agreed to play. In the three days since I became Mrs. Zhukov, I've mastered the art of disappearing within the walls of my gilded prison.

The terrace has become my sanctuary. I curl my bare feet beneath me on the plush outdoor sofa, wrapping my cardigan tighter against the summer breeze that carries the faint scent of rain. My tea has gone cold, forgotten as I watch shadows stretch across the city below. From thirty stories up, everyone looks insignificant—pawns rather than people. Perhaps that's how Mikhail sees the world.

My husband.The word still feels foreign on my tongue, bitter like unripe fruit. I've barely spoken ten words to him since the ceremony, and he seems content with this arrangement, disappearing into his office before dawn, returning long after I've retreated to my separate bedroom.

Yet I feel him now, the weight of his gaze like a physical touch across my skin. I don't turn around, but the tiny hairs on my neck rise in silent acknowledgment. He thinks I don't notice how he watches me from the shadowed doorway, how his ice-blue eyes follow my movements when he thinks I'm unaware.

What does he see when he looks at me? Was a transaction completed? A trophy acquired? Or is it something more complex that I can't yet decipher?

I trace the rim of my teacup with one finger, remembering how his hand engulfed mine at the altar, warm despite everything I'd heard about the cold-blooded Zhukov heir. For just a moment, I'd felt something spark between us—something dangerous and electric that made me wonder if there might be a man beneath the monster.

"Will I ever love him?" I whisper to the skyline, the question carried away by the wind. The city offers no answers, only the distant wail of sirens and the perpetual hum of eight million lives continuing without care for my fate.

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