Page 33 of Beautiful Monster

"Is there something you gentlemen need to discuss?" Kira's voice cuts through the tension with deceptive calm, her cultured tones carrying just enough steel to make both men take notice. She steps forward slightly, her spine straight, blue eyes moving between Vladimir and me with the kind of fearless curiosity that makes my chest tighten with equal parts admiration and terror.

Vladimir's attention shifts to her fully now, and I watch his expression change—surprise flickering across his features before settling into something more calculating. "Ah, the bride speaks. How refreshing." He extends his hand toward her. "Vladimir Petrov. An old friend of your husband's."

The word 'friend' drips with poison, but Kira accepts his handshake with the practiced grace of someone born to navigate treacherous social waters. "Kira Zhukova," she replies, and hearing my surname on her lips in this context sends something primal coursing through my veins.

"Zhukova," Vladimir repeats, holding her hand a moment too long. "Such a lovely ring to it. I do hope you're enjoying married life."

"I'm still adjusting," she answers smoothly, reclaiming her hand and moving closer to my side. The warmth of her bodyagainst mine is both comfort and torment. "Marriage requires learning new... languages."

The double meaning isn't lost on any of us. Vladimir's laugh is now genuinely delighted. "Indeed it does. Your husband is fluent in several, aren't you, Misha? Violence, vengeance, grief?—"

"Enough." The word leaves my lips like a gunshot, quiet but final. Around us, conversations pause momentarily before resuming, but the damage is done. Lines have been drawn in blood and champagne.

Vladimir's eyes glitter with satisfaction at having drawn a reaction from me. He straightens his platinum cufflinks with deliberate care, the gesture as threatening as any weapon. "Of course. This is a celebration, after all." His gaze shifts to Kira once more, lingering on the pulse point at her throat. "Enjoy the evening, Mrs. Zhukova. I suspect there will be fewer opportunities for such... pleasantries in the future."

The warning hangs in the air like smoke from a funeral pyre. Kazimir Novikov chuckles, a sound like gravel grinding against bone before they melt back into the crowd with practiced ease. But their presence lingers—a stain on the marble, a shadow across the crystal light.

Kira remains perfectly still beside me, her breathing controlled, but I can feel the tremor running through her small frame. When I look down, her knuckles are white around her clutch.

"We're leaving," I murmur against her ear, my lips brushing the delicate shell. The scent of her perfume—jasmine and something uniquely her—cuts through the metallic taste of adrenaline coating my tongue.

"No." Her voice is steady, resolute. "That's what he wants. To see us run."

The observation surprises me. Kira understands the game better than I gave her credit for and recognizes that retreat now would be blood in the water. But understanding the rules doesn't make her any less fragile, any less of a target.

"Kisa—"

"Dance with me." She turns in my arms before I can protest, her blue eyes fierce with determination. "Show them I'm not afraid."

The string quartet swells, and couples drift toward the center of the ballroom like moths to flame. My father's eyes find mine across the room—a silent question. I give him the barest nod, and he returns to his conversation, but I know he's cataloging every face, every potential threat.

My hand settles at the small of Kira's back, and she steps into my embrace with surprising grace. Her palm finds my shoulder, fingers spread against the wool of my tuxedo, and suddenly, the rest of the room fades to background noise.

"What did he say to you?" she asks as we begin to move, her voice pitched low so only I can hear.

"Nothing that matters."

"Don't lie to me." Her eyes search mine, and I see steel beneath the silk. "I may have been sheltered, but I'm not stupid. That man wants to hurt us. Hurt me."

The honesty in her voice, the way she says 'us' as if we're truly a unit, does something to the walls I've built around what's left of my heart. I spin her gently, bringing her back against my chest, and for a moment, we're just a man and woman dancing while the world burns around us.

"Yes," I admit finally. "He does."

She nods as if she expected nothing less. "Then we make sure he can't."

The simplicity of her statement, the quiet acceptance of violence as a necessity, tells me more about Anton Malakhov'sdaughter than weeks of careful observation. She's been raised in this world, even if kept from its darkest corners. She knows the price of survival.

"You don't understand what that means," I warn her, my thumb tracing small circles against her spine.

"Then teach me."

Those two words ignite something in my blood—something I've kept carefully banked since the day she stepped into my home. The orchestra crescendos around us, and I draw her closer, my hand splaying possessively across her lower back.

"Be careful what you ask for," I murmur against her temple, where I can feel her pulse fluttering like a trapped bird. "Some lessons can't be unlearned."

Her eyes meet mine, defiant blue flame against ice. "I didn't marry you to remain a sheltered little girl, Mikhail."

No, she married me because she had no choice. Yet there's something else in her gaze now, something that wasn't there when she first walked into my life, with hatred burning behind her eyes.

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