Page 21 of His Contract Queen

I repeat it to myself like a prayer. I just have to be patient and play along for now. I just have to keep my temper in check and bite my tongue and rememberwhyI’m here in the first place. But the uncomfortable truth presses at the edges of my thoughts, stubborn and unwelcome.

Being tied to a man like Aleksandr Volkov, even if only on paper, feels far more dangerous than I want to admit.

What if I’ll never be rid of him?

I stareat the burner phone in my hand, the dimming screen casting a cold glow across my palm. My unanswered message sits there like a taunt, almost mocking me in a way. Not a singlereply. Nothing to tell me my father has received even one of my reports.

Just silence.

Again.

The familiar frustration burns through my chest. I begin pacing the length of my room, the plush carpeting muffling my footsteps. It softens the sound but does absolutely nothing to quiet the storm in my head.

I’m still running on high adrenaline from earlier. I haven’t seen him since this morning, suspiciously. Not at lunch or after dinner during the usual moments when our routines overlap and I catch his gaze lingering on me as I head back upstairs to retreat to my room for the night.

It’s as if the second I walked out of his office, he vanished completely.

Part of me wants to be relieved. Normally, his absence would be a blessing, a reprieve from whatever twisted game he wants to play in order to provoke me yet again. But tonight, it gnaws at me.

Now that we’re legally husband and wife, I’m acutely aware that the next threshold and the next unavoidable step is consummation. The thought alone sends a twist of dread spiraling low in my stomach.

It’s not that I fear sex itself. That I could absolutely allow myself to indulge in because for once, getting myself off will have nothing to do with pleasing anyone else but me. It’s him that I’m worried about.

His unpredictable nature and his ability to twist any dynamic into one where he holds the power and I’m expected to yield accordingly. I’m not looking forward to the moment he finally decides to collect what he no doubt sees as a marital due.

And yet, in the same breath, an intrusive thought slides through me before I can stop it. I suppose the only silver lining is that he’s undeniably, infuriatingly easy on the eyes. With any luck, that aesthetic blessing translates to something resembling decency in bed.

God, I hope so because if I’m going to be stuck with him as my husband in the eyes of the law for however long this situation lasts for, then the least the universe could grant me is a night that doesn’t end in awkward disappointment or clinical detachment that leaves me feeling completely unfulfilled.

“Goddamn it,” I mutter to myself under my breath. I scrub a hand over my face, pacing faster.

I shouldn’t be thinking about him like that. Honestly, I shouldn’t be thinking about him atallbeyond the assignment. This isn’t why I’m here.

What Ishouldbe doing is gathering more intel while he’s gone, using his absence to learn whatever I can. Aleksandr Volkov disappearing from sight is an opportunity I can’t let slip through my fingers while I still have it.

Stuffing my feet into a pair of slippers, I quickly head over to the door and pull it open. The mansion is too quiet at these hours. That’s the part that always unsettles me. Even during the day, this place operates on a muted hum. But as soon as dinner concludes, it’s almost as if everyone here quickly retreats to seclusion.

It’s the strangest thing I’ve ever witnessed.

A mansion full of people and yet it feels empty. Like every occupant has learned to make themselves scarce at night to avoid something orsomeone.

I step into the hallway and gently close the door behind me, the soft click of the latch moving back into place. I pause, straining my ears to listen for the sound of footsteps heading my way, finding nothing but the dull thrum of the ventilation system and the faint hum of the security grid hidden somewhere deep inside the walls.

Satisfied that I’m alone, I move.

My slippers make no sound on the floor as I head toward the staircase. Every shift of shadow, every flicker of low lamp light, sets my senses on edge. I move slowly, letting my senses adjust to the muted glow of sconces spaced far apart. My hand hovers just above the banister while my ears continue to strain for any sign of movement.

Then I hear it.

Voices.

Low, male, quiet enough to suggest confidentiality but not so quiet they’re meant to be secret.

The soft hum of conversation drifts toward me from the foyer, piquing my curiosity and tightening something deep in my chest. I edge my way forward, keeping close to the wall, letting the darkness swallow me where the light from above doesn’t reach. My steps remain featherlight, nearly silent. When I approach the corner leading into the foyer, I stop just before stepping into view and press my shoulder against the wall.

With a slow inhale, I slowly tilt my head to peek around the corner.

And there he is.