Page 40 of Beautiful Monster

One ring. Two.

"Kira?" His voice cuts through the silence, rough with concern. "*What's wrong?*"

"Someone's here," I whisper, pressing myself deeper into the shadows. "A stranger. Bogdan let him in. I’m in the safe room.

"Stay where you are." Mikhail's voice sharpens to steel, and I hear shuffling on his end, the distant murmur of interrupted conversation. "Do not make a sound. Do not open that door for anyone but me."

The line goes silent for three terrifying seconds before he returns. "Are they armed?"

I strain to recall the grainy footage. "I... I don't know. I couldn't see clearly, but the way he moved..." My voice catches on the fear lodged in my throat. "Mikhail, Bogdan was showing him around like a tour guide. Like he belonged here."

A Russian curse hisses through the speaker, low and venomous. The secret room suddenly feels smaller, the air thicker with each shallow breath I take. The walls—reinforced concrete that could withstand a bomb—press in around me like a tomb.

"I'm coming home. Ten minutes." The background noise on his end grows chaotic—doors slamming, engines roaring to life. "Stay on the line,kisa."

I slide down the wall until I'm huddled on the floor, knees drawn to my chest. The phone trembles against my ear as I listen to Mikhail's breathing, punctuated by terse commands to whoever is with him.

"The borscht," I whisper stupidly, thinking of the pot still simmering on the stove. "I left everything out. They'll know someone's here."

"Good," Mikhail replies, his voice a controlled burn. "Let them know they've interrupted something. Let them wonder."

I close my eyes, trying to steady my racing heart. Beyond the reinforced door, our home—still more his than ours despite the marriage certificate—feels violated. I'd been cooking in bare feet and one of his shirts, hair piled messily atop my head, pretending at domesticity in a household built on blood, money, and power. The irony isn't lost on me, even now.

"Tell me what you see on the cameras," he demands. "Can you still access them?"

I fumble with the phone, switching to the security app without ending our call. The front entrance is empty now. I swipe through feeds—living room clear, dining room clear, the study?—

"They're in your office," I breathe, watching the stranger run his fingers along the spines of leather-bound books while Bogdan stands at attention by the door. "He's looking at your things. Touching everything."

The growl that emanates from Mikhail sends a shiver down my spine that isn't entirely fear.

"Five minutes," he promises. "And then I'll show him exactly whose home he's violated."

I should be terrified by the deadly calm in his voice. Instead, I find myself clinging to it like a lifeline in the darkness, realizing that for the first time since our arranged marriage, I'm grateful for the violence that simmers beneath my husband's careful control.

"Are you armed?" Mikhail asks, his voice dropping an octave lower.

I glance at the small safe embedded in the wall—another feature he showed me during that first tour. Inside rests a sleek Glock, almost identical to the one he insisted I carry everywhere.

"Yes," I say, not wanting to move from my huddled position.

"Good girl," he says, and despite everything, warmth blooms in my chest at his approval. "I'm three minutes out. Viktor and Alexei are with me."

I switch back to the camera feed, my breath catching as I watch the stranger settle into Mikhail's leather chair, spinning slightly as if testing its comfort. The audacity makes my blood simmer. Bogdan stands nearby, his posture relaxed but his eyes vigilant, scanning the room methodically.

"They're still in the office," I whisper. "The man—he's sitting in your chair now."

Mikhail's response is a string of Russian obscenities so colorful they almost sound poetic.

I swipe through more feeds, checking other areas of the house. "Wait—there's someone else. Kitchen." My heart sinks as I watch a second man lift the lid from my pot, wafting the steam toward his nose. He dips a finger into my carefully crafted borscht and tastes it, then nods with appreciation.

"He's eating my soup," I say, oddly indignant despite the danger. "I spent hours on that."

A tiny chuckle escapes Mikhail, surprising us both. "You'll make more,kisa. When this is over."

The casual promise of a future—of another evening in our kitchen—steadies me. I draw a deeper breath, forcing my shoulders to relax.

"Tell me about this dinner you were making," he says, and I recognize the tactic—keep me talking, keep me calm while he races home.

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