Page 19 of Beautiful Monster

"Kira." My name in his mouth sounds different tonight, rougher around the edges. "I was beginning to think you'd found a way to escape."

His attempt at humor falls somewhere between a threat and a confession. I step into the room, the door closing behind me with soft finality.

"Where would I go?" I ask. "This is my home now, isn't it?"

Something flickers across his face—regret, perhaps, or something more complicated. He gestures to the chair he's pulled out for me.

"Is it a home?" he asks quietly. "Or just another beautiful cage?"

"Both," I admit, meeting his gaze directly for perhaps the first time since our wedding. "Isn't that what you intended?"

He doesn't flinch at my honesty, but something shifts in his expression—a slight softening around the eyes that disappears so quickly I might have imagined it. Mikhail moves with surprising grace for a man his size, pulling out my chair with practiced precision.

"I intended many things," he says as I slide into my seat, the silk of my dress whispering against the upholstery. "Not all of them have gone according to plan."

The proximity of him sends a current across my skin—his cologne wrapping around me like an invisible touch. When his fingers brush my shoulder, seemingly by accident, I suppress a shiver.

"Your plans or your father's?" I ask, reaching for my water glass to occupy my suddenly trembling hands.

Mikhail takes his seat across from me, close enough that our knees could touch beneath the intimate table. The storm creates a private universe around us, rain streaking down the windows like tears.

"Is there a difference?" His mouth curves into something not quite a smile. "You're here either way."

Elena appears with the first course—delicate scallops arranged like pale moons on black ceramic. She pours wine, a crisp white that catches the candlelight, then vanishes as silently as she arrived.

I take a sip, letting the cold acidity wash over my tongue. "The orchid was beautiful," I say, surprising myself. "Elena told me they were your mother's favorite."

His fork pauses midway to his mouth, and something unreadable flashes across his face. "Elena talks too much."

"Or perhaps you don't talk enough." The words slip out before I can stop them, emboldened by wine and the strange intimacy created by the storm.

Lightning illuminates his face in stark relief—the sharp planes of his cheekbones, the shadow of stubble along his jaw, and the small scar that bisects his left eyebrow. For a moment, he looks almost vulnerable.

"What would you like to know, Kira?" He sets down his fork, giving me his full attention. "What secrets do you think I'm keeping from my wife?"

The word 'wife' in his mouth sounds both possessive and uncertain as if he's testing how it feels on his tongue.

"Everything," I whisper. "And nothing. I don't even know where to begin."

He leans forward, elbows on the table, studying me with an intensity that makes my pulse flutter at the base of my throat. "Begin with what you want."

"What do I want?" I laugh, the sound brittle even to my own ears. "Does that matter now? I'm already here, aren't I? The contract signed in blood and black ink."

"It matters to me." His voice drops lower, rumbling like the distant thunder. "Despite what you may believe."

I stare at him, searching for the lie, for the manipulation behind his words. Instead, I find only that same haunted look, quickly masked by practiced indifference.

"I want..." I begin, then falter. What do I want? Freedom seems too obvious an answer, too simple for the complex web I'm caught in. "I want to understand why you agreed to thisarrangement. Why did you agree to it when you clearly have no interest in a real marriage."

Mikhail takes a slow sip of his wine, considering. Outside, the storm reaches its crescendo, rain hammering against the glass like desperate fingers seeking entry.

"My father believes your family's connections will strengthen our position on the East Coast," he says finally, the business answer I expected. But then he continues, his voice changing subtly. "I agreed because when I saw you at the Russian Tea Room, you looked... familiar."

"Familiar?" I repeat, confused.

"Like someone who understands what it means to be surrounded by people yet completely alone." His eyes hold mine, unblinking. "Someone who wears masks as skillfully as I do."

The honesty stuns me into silence. I reach for my wine glass, needing something to hold onto as the ground seems to shift beneath me.

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