Page 44 of His Contract Queen

For the first time since arriving at this estate, I understand something with utmost certainty. I’m done being the one who pays for his sins.

13

ALEKSANDR

Aweek passes before Katerina finally comes to me.

Seven days of silence, of watching her drift through the estate like a ghost in her own skin nearly did me in. I gave her space not because I’m patient—I’m the farthest thing from it—but because I know grief like this doesn’t ease quickly. It has to burn itself out first.

So, I waited, ignoring the knife that twisted deeper each time her lifeless eyes passed over me.

Today, though, something has shifted.

I know immediately when she steps inside the room and shuts the door behind her. The lock clicks with a quiet finality that has me setting the tablet in my hand slowly down on my desk. She stands straight when she reaches me, her spine rigid with the same steel I first saw the day she arrived at my gates and refused to lower her eyes.

The dark circles under her eyes haven’t faded, but the haze in her gaze has.

Her voice is steady when she speaks. “I want your help. And I’m not asking for it. You’re going to give it to me.”

The demand lands like a spark on dry tinder.

I fight the urge to smile.

Oh, how I’ve missed that fire.Dearly. The way it crackles under her skin, refusing to be smothered no matter how hard the world tries. For seven days I watched it suffocate into barely lit embers, hoping it would come back roaring brighter and hotter than ever. Now that it’s aimed straight at me, I find myself basking in the glow.

I gesture toward the couch by the hearth and stand without hurry. She follows me as I cross over to the wet bar in the corner, taking up the cushion on the left side.

I unstopper the thirty-year-old Macallan I’d been gifted years ago—an obscenely expensive bottle I reserve for moments of significance, tonight of which feels more than appropriate. I pour two fingers of it into heavy crystal tumblers that are more expensive than most engagement rings. The amber liquid catches the low lamplight as I carry both glasses back.

She takes hers the moment I offer it. Without hesitation, she downs half in one swallow. This time, I allow myself a smirk as I lower to the cushion beside her, folding back into the couch and hooking one leg over my knee.

“I want to destroy him,” she says, setting her glass down onto the edge of the side table next to her. “I want every medal stripped from his name, every speech he ever gave to be replayed while news anchors call him a traitor. I want the military to erase him from their history books. I want him to be remembered as the disgrace he is, not the hero he pretended to be.”

I study her for a long moment, taking in the fire sparking in her tear-swollen eyes and the tight set of her jaw. Vengeance fits her like a second skin.

She pulls in a slow, steady breath. “Once he’s nothing but ash in the public eye, we walk away from each other. For good.”

My pulse kicks once. Hard.

While it’s the last thing I expected to hear, it is in its own way unsurprising. These are the words of a woman who came to me seven weeks ago believing I was the monster and her father the martyr. She has lived her entire life in survival mode, never once allowing herself the luxury of being delusional about this arrangement.

She believes letting me go will save us both.

I take a slow sip of my drink, let the whiskey roll across my tongue and down my throat while I let the offer sit.

In a way, she is right.

Realistically, walking away would save us both from further complications looming on the horizon. Keeping her here, keeping hermine,will make her a target. Not only with Malyshko and his growing suspicions, but with anyone else dumb enough to try and use her against me.

A clean break would be the smart move. A mutual severing with no debts, no ties, no risk to expose either of us anymore than we’ve already been thus far.

The possessiveness inside me snarls at even the suggestion of letting her go. At the idea of her walking away, of anyone else touching her, looking at her, earning her trust. Losing the onlyperson who has ever stood in my presence and met me without flinching is one I will not let go of.

The thought is fucking unacceptable.

I drain the rest of the glass in one swallow, the burn grounding me back down again. I curl my hand around the empty tumbler, fingers tightening protectively around the crystal. It’s the only thing keeping me from reaching across the space between us and dragging her into my lap where she belongs.

There is no universe in which I let her walk away, despite her believing otherwise.