Page 91 of Arranged Marriage to the Brutal Bratva King
That’s the impossible part. How do I protect her from the cage I’ve built? From the control I can’t relinquish? From the violence that lives in my bones and surfaces whenever she’s threatened?
I can’t.
The only thing I can do is make the cage as comfortable as possible. Give her pieces of freedom while maintaining the bars. Let her see my scars while hiding the worst of what made them. Hold her at night and pretend tomorrow won’t bring consequences neither of us can avoid.
My phone buzzes. Felix again.
The Volkov meeting is confirmed for Friday night. Damien insists you attend. No exceptions.
Perfect timing.
I type back:Confirmed. I’ll be there.
Then I add:Increase surveillance on Janice tomorrow. Passive monitoring only. I want to know if she goes near my office.
You’re testing her.
I’m protecting her. From herself, if necessary.
I set the phone aside and settle beside Janice. She shifts in her sleep, gravitating toward warmth. Her hand finds mine, fingers threading through automatically.
Friday night, she’ll have a choice. Take the drive and betray me, or refuse and prove something I desperately need to believe.
Either way, I’ll know.
Chapter Twenty-Three - Janice
The pattern reveals itself slowly.
Dimitri always positions himself between me and exits.Always.
Restaurant booths, elevators, even in our own penthouse—his body becomes a barrier, deliberate and automatic. I notice it first at dinner with Felix, the way Dimitri shifts his chair fractionally left when the waiter passes behind me. Small enough that no one else sees. It’s obvious once I know to look.
He doesn’t do it consciously. The positioning is instinct, muscle memory from years of calculating threat angles and escape routes.
Someone taught him that. Or something did.
I start cataloging other patterns. The way he watches crowds, gaze constantly moving, assessing faces and hands and distances. How silence makes his jaw tighten more than shouting ever does—silence means things unsaid, variables he can’t control. The careful way he checks locks, tests security systems, ensures barriers hold before he allows himself to relax.
Nothing is random. Every rule, every restriction, every moment of control traces back to something that went wrong before I existed in his world.
“You’re staring again,” he says without looking up from the contract he’s reviewing.
We’re in his study, me curled in the window seat with a book I’m not reading, him at the desk with work that never seems to end. Misha sleeps on the couch between us, her presence making the space feel softer than it should.
“I’m thinking,” I correct.
“About?”
“You. How you move. The things you do without realizing.”
Now he looks up, gray eyes sharp. “Such as?”
“You always know where the exits are. You position yourself between me and anyone who could be a threat. You touch door handles like you’re checking for something.” I set my book aside. “Something happened. Something that taught you to be this way.”
His expression doesn’t change, but I see the tension enter his shoulders. “Everyone in my world learns to be careful.”
“This isn’t careful. This is… ” I search for the right word. “Haunted.”
