Page 40 of Crimson Sin
I nod once, and he leaves us alone again. The observation is accurate. She is tougher than I thought. Tougher than I gave her credit for when I first proposed this arrangement. But toughness and survival are different things, and I'm not sure even the strongest person can survive being loved by someone like me.
Naomi exhales slowly, settling back into the leather cushions. “So, what now?”
I sit beside her, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her skin but careful not to touch. She needs space to process, and the room to decide whether she can handle the truth of what I am.
“Now we wait. Viktor made his move. Mine comes next.”
She closes her eyes, and for a moment, she looks impossibly young and vulnerable. “And me?”
“You stay here with me. Until this ends.”
And if I can manage it, long after.
13
NAOMI
The glass walls of Daniil's Lake Forest mansion gleam in the afternoon sun, so pristine and unyielding they feel more like a cage than a luxury. I sit by the window, legs tucked beneath me, one hand curled around a mug of cooling tea. Beyond the manicured lawn, a line of motionless men in dark suits stand like chess pieces on a silent board, guarding a queen who never asked to be part of the game.
How did I get here? One minute, I was curating ancient artifacts, cataloging exhibits with Charlotte whispering memes in my ear, and dreaming of someday being a curator. Next, I'm the fake Mrs. Zorin. A lie dressed in diamonds. A prisoner in a glass palace with nowhere to run and no one to trust.
Except maybe Daniil. And that terrifies me most of all.
The tea has gone bitter on my tongue, but I continue sipping it anyway, needing something to do with my hands. Through the bulletproof glass, the afternoon light changes, painting the pristine lawn in shades of gold and amber that should be beautiful but instead feel hollow. Even nature here has beentamed and stripped of its wildness until nothing remains but perfect, lifeless symmetry.
I glance up at the security camera mounted discreetly in the corner of the ceiling. Its red light glows steadily, unblinking. Even when Daniil isn't physically here, he is always watching. At least three times today, I've caught myself glancing over my shoulder, half-expecting to find him standing behind me with that impassive stare of his, part storm, part silence.
The cameras follow me everywhere. To the kitchen, where I drink coffee at dawn, unable to sleep through another night of nightmares. To the library, where I try to lose myself in books that smell like leather and neglect. To the bathroom where I shower under water pressure that could strip paint, wondering if even there I have privacy. The answer, I suspect, is no. Privacy is a privilege I surrendered the moment I agreed to become his wife, real or otherwise.
When he is here, his presence wraps around the room like a silent force. I can feel it in my bones, and in the way my skin tightens when he looks at me. He doesn't say much, but when he does, I hang on to every word like it might be the last honest one I'll get. His voice carries authority that goes beyond volume, beyond mere sound. It resonates in the spaces between my ribs, making my pulse quicken.
Over quiet dinners and long pauses, he's started to let pieces of himself slip through. A sentence here, a memory there. Words cloaked in detachment but laced with undercurrents of emotion. He told me once that power is only useful if it keeps the people you care about safe. Then he looked away like the admission was a secret he wasn't sure he could afford to lose.
Those glimpses beneath his stone exterior are what undo me. Not the wealth, the danger, or even the way he moves through the world like he owns every inch of it. It's the moments when the mask slips. In those instances, I forget that he's dangerous. I forget that falling for him can destroy me.
Each day I spend here, each conversation we share, each moment he looks at me with fire in his eyes, I sink a little deeper into waters that might drown me. The rational part of my brain screams warnings I'm increasingly inclined to ignore. The heart, it seems, has its own logic, one that doesn't care about survival or common sense.
My phone buzzes against the armrest beside me, and I swipe it up instantly. A small surge of hope flares, ridiculous and impulsive. But it's not Daniil. It's Charlotte. I answer immediately, desperate for a voice that doesn't carry the chains of secrets and violence.
“Tell me you're alive,” she demands without preamble.
“I'm here,” I murmur. “Physically, anyway.”
Physically here, yes. But mentally, emotionally, spiritually? Those parts of me feel scattered across a landscape I no longer recognize, divided between the woman I was and the one I'm becoming. The woman who once believed in simple things like love, trust, and happy endings, and the one who's learning that sometimes survival requires compromise with darkness.
“Jesus, Naomi. What even is your life right now?”
I let out a soft laugh, one that doesn't reach my eyes. “Luxury prison. Killer views. No idea if my fake husband is the devil or just deeply misunderstood.”
The words taste bitter, but they're the closest thing to truth I can offer. How do I explain that I'm living in a fortress made of glass and secrets? That I'm tied to a man who could order someone's death with the same ease he orders coffee? That, despite everything, I find myself drawn to him like metal to magnet, helpless against a pull I don't understand?
Charlotte pauses, and I can practically hear her processing this information, trying to fit it into the framework of the friendship she's always known. We used to share everything. Every bad date, every workplace drama, every midnight crisis over ice cream and terrible movies. Now I'm living in a world she can't access, speaking a language she doesn't understand.
“You've got that tone again,” she observes finally.
“What tone?”
“The one you had when you adopted that stray cat freshman year. The one that bit you and destroyed our curtains, but you insisted just needed love.”
