3. Valentina

Chapter 3

Valentina

The upgrade from a concrete prison to the master bedroom is jarring, even more so when Liam casually undoes his tie and steps out of his shoes, like we really are a married couple preparing for bed after a long day. I watch him for any signs of weakness—any physical tells that he's favoring a leg or got a bullet hole in his arm—but all I find aside from the healing purple and yellow bruises around his eyes, courtesy of Ezra, is a patch over his shoulder. He doesn't wince when he moves, but he's more delicate about rotating his shoulder or lifting his left arm.

I'd bet on that being his stab wound from Mikhail.

But if he holds a grudge against me for it, he doesn't show it. Instead, he studies me just as closely as I'm studying him. "You should shower before getting into bed, Valentina."

My skin is sticky with sweat, and I desperately want to clean the blood from not only my chest, but between my thighs. I clutch Liam's suit jacket tighter, begrudgingly grateful for it even though it came from the enemy. It's all I have to wear now, aside from my bloodied panties.

My wedding dress wasn't salvageable after Liam took a knife to it. The remnants litter the basement floor, sad strips of fabric and lace, evidence of a dream ruined.

I know Liam has seen me naked a hundred times now, but it doesn't make it any easier to willingly undress in front of him. Especially after how forceful he was downstairs.

There isn't a hint of remorse in his eyes as I slowly, nervously, fidget out of my clothes. He must know I'm uncomfortable about being naked in front of him, but my discomfort isn't what bothers him.

It's my lack of desire to return his affection that does.

I can see it in the clench of his jaw, the way his muscles tighten as I try to shrink in on myself. His gaze sweeps across my body, but he doesn't move closer, inclining his head toward the bathroom. "You first, love."

My heart pangs at the endearment. First, Liam stole the word zhena from Andrei, and now he's stolen love from Mikhail. I'll be listening for the moment he takes the word lisichka, the knife in my heart burrowing deeper with it.

Taking a deep breath, I steel my spine and walk tall as I step into the bathroom. I need to pretend this is normal. That being with Liam isn't gut-wrenching, but something I want. That I'm only a little nervous about it, instead of wanting to crawl out of my skin every time he comes near.

He leans against the bathroom counter as I shower, eyes dark and lidded as I scrub my body clean. The glass door is fogged from the steam, but I'm under no illusion that he isn't watching close enough to see a peek of nipple or glimpse of creamy thighs beneath the streams of water.

I'm surprised when he hands me a fluffy white towel once I step out of the shower. I'm even more surprised when he shows me where the feminine products are and tucks me into bed when the nighttime routine is done. Teeth brushed, hair rolled up in a towel, matching silk pajamas hanging off our hips, and a gentle goodnight kiss on the lips.

I expect Liam to slip into bed beside me and pull me against his bare chest, but instead he watches me from the couch against the far wall. Not lying down, feigning sleep—but sitting up, elbows perched on his knees, chin resting on clasped hands.

Staring.

It's because of this that don't get a single moment's rest, despite how bone-tired I am. My entire body aches, and despite the water I drank from the bathroom sink, my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. Side effects from the drugs, or the stress, or the struggle I put up when Liam dragged me out of the chapel this afternoon.

It's all extremely uncomfortable, but somehow my heart is grateful for the shower, the clothes, the bed, and especially the fact that Liam is keeping his distance.

It must be part of his plan to win me over. Be nice to me, and maybe I'll roll onto my back for him. He could easily climb into bed, force me in any position he favors, and claim my mouth in a searing kiss, grinding his cock against my slit until he comes in thick ropes across my stomach. He could do more than stare at me from across the room .

But he doesn't.

And that makes me even more nervous. I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. For the snap of his sanity. For something to push him over the edge, make him angry.

This soft version of Liam is reminiscent of days past, when we'd shared a bed in his high-rise apartment and overlooked the twinkling city from beneath the sheets, sipping wine and making love intermittently until dawn. But that version of him is a lie. The real Liam stalks me across state lines, threatens me with violence when I say something he doesn't like, and gets furious and possessive at the idea of another man touching me.

I'm waiting for that man to make his appearance.

The minutes tick by in agony, the sharp cramps in my gut only amplifying my misery. He left a bottle of painkillers on the nightstand—but I don't dare touch them. He's drugged me once; I won't put it past him to do it again.

I'm still waiting when the sun finally rises. He stands, coming round to my bedside to press a gentle kiss to my temple. I hold my breath as he whispers sweetness in my ear.

Sweet dreams, Princess.

I keep holding my breath as he leaves the room, not moving a muscle until I'm sure he's not coming back.

Then, my planning begins. I throw off the blankets and survey the entire room from top to bottom.

Although the color scheme differs from my room at the Baranova estate, the layout is similar enough that it's familiar, and I go through everything systematically: the matching mahogany nightstands, the paneled dresser, the walk-in closet, the granite bathroom, the six inches of clearance under the bed, the safe tucked in the corner of the room whose passcode I can't guess correctly, and the double-wide balcony overlooking the front lawn.

As I step out onto it, warm sunlight paints my skin, but the harsh chill of autumn tears away any comfort it might bring. I shiver and clutch my arms to my chest, peering out at the front drive that curves toward a gleaming silver gate, which leads out into the city. Cars are already zipping by, and despite the barrier of trees at the edge of the property, I can still hear the bustle of the city on its daily commute to work.

Although my life is far from normal, in a way, this fucked-up situation is normal for me. It's my day-to-day, sitting at the precipice of life and death, waiting to see which one of us falls over the edge first. I would laugh if I wasn't so upset about it. I'll never have a normal nine-to-five job, be the soccer mom picking her kids up after practice, or be able to grab my favorite coffee on the way into the office every morning.

For a while during those five years I spent away from my father and the Bratva, I tried to have a normal life. Liam was a part of that attempt, and only now do I see how foolish it was to think my home life wouldn't follow me outside city limits. Everything in my life has been coordinated, from the dresses I wear to the people I meet.

It shouldn't be a surprise that meeting—and dating—Liam was yet another string being pulled, a manipulation tactic at its finest. My grandmother has always been a master of the art, it seems, luring not just me, but Liam into her web. We're both pawns in something bigger, but I don't yet know what the end game is. I'm likely not meant to know, as is tradition for a mafia wife to remain na?ve.

But if I can get Liam to talk, even if he doesn't know the full scope of Katya's plans, I can piece them together myself. By the time my men find me, I need to have enough information to be useful. I'm not strong like Ezra, tactical like Andrei, or maniacal like Mikhail. But I am a Baranova, and that gives me more power than I've ever tried to use.

Leaving the balcony, I take a quick shower and pick an outfit that exemplifies the princess role—a pale pink sundress with an off-the-shoulder cut and a perfect bow at the back. It's not in season at all, but I slip on a pair of white flats and braid my hair over my shoulder to keep up appearances. The house should be warm enough to make this work, and if not, everyone will simply have to deal with seeing my nipples hardened to chilly points all afternoon.

Everything I try on fits perfectly. I bet I'm supposed to be grateful for the foresight and planning that went into my wardrobe.

But all it is, really, is another act of control. I'm not able to pick my own outfits—my husband has already chosen the set. I merely get to pick my costume for the day.

It burns me up even more.

The cuts down my chest from last night are still healing, but the dress hides them from sight. I carefully wedge a wad of toilet paper inside my bra to protect the deepest ones from sweat throughout the day, grit my teeth at the sting, and meticulously apply a natural makeup palette and a steady swipe of eyeliner that accentuates my eyes. The deep green of my eyes pops against the pink of the dress, making me look like a spring blossom waiting to be plucked. A brush of gloss across my lips finishes the look.

I take a deep breath and try the door to the hall. To my surprise, it opens without any resistance, and I push through with a startled oh. The first thing I see makes my spine straighten instantly—a guard in full black, his face hidden behind a mask, stands directly opposite me.

"Good morning." I try for a smile that I hope hides my surprise.

The man inclines his head but doesn't verbally reply. I try not to stare at the rifle cradled in his arms. This guard isn't as large as Ezra—likely doesn't have the muscle mass—but he looks no less formidable when he's covered head to toe in padded armor and shielded plating. It's like he's expecting an army to bulldoze through here or something.

I smile a little wider. "Are you my escort for the day?" I know the guards back at the estate are instructed not to speak, but maybe this one will be different. Maybe, for once, I can have a guard on my side. I don't have money to bribe him with, but a pretty smile from the lady of the house can go a long way.

To my delight, he nods.

"Excellent." I clap my hands together. "My name is Valentina. What should I call you?"

He doesn't respond, which isn't surprising, so I hum to myself as I think of what to call my masked stranger. "I think I'll call you Riot. Is that alright?" I was trying to think of something more charming that might win him over, but I'll never remember it. Instead, I simply pick what I won't be able to forget: man in riot gear equals the name Riot. It's not very creative, but it'll stick.

Now I just have to remember how to pick him out from a crowd of men in matching gear. But maybe that'll come to me later.

"Do you know where my—" I try not to visibly gag on the next word—"husband is?"

Riot stares blankly at me. Great.

I keep a smile on my face. "I was hoping to bring him some breakfast. He left pretty early this morning. Is he in the house? Maybe in his office?"

Still, Riot doesn't respond, so I give up that endeavor. "Alright, well maybe you can point me in the direction of the kitchen so I can grab something for myself?"

A slight head tilt to his right.

I head in that direction, and he follows like a faithful guard dog. I try not to let his presence get to me. Looking over my shoulder at him, I toss him a wink. "Maybe we can get you something sweet for helping me."

God , flirting with the enemy is weird. Dread sinks in the pit of my stomach as I think about flirting with Liam next. I can't go full-in with it or he might suspect something's up, but I won't be able to reject all of his advances, or he might lash out. I resist the urge to chew my bottom lip as we head down a flight of stairs, then another hallway, until finally, a grand staircase leads to the main floor. I track each turn we take, trying to memorize the layout of the house.

As I sweep down the main stairs, brushing my palm along the mahogany railing in a careful glide, two of the guards on patrol stop to watch my descent. I smile sweetly at them, and they continue moving.

There are way too many armed guards in here for my liking. I understand Liam being cautious since my men are likely hunting him as we speak, but this feels overkill. How many guards are his, and how many are my grandmother's?

Speaking of my grandmother , where the hell is she?

I take the opposite direction of the two patrolling guards and check each room, confirming the number of guards and windows I saw on my way upstairs last night. Too many of one and not enough of the other. When I come across a set of closed double doors, muffled voices catch my attention, a mix of English and Russian coming through. Another guard flanks the entrance.

This isn't the kitchen, but it's something.

Turning to Riot, I gesture towards the door. "Is this my husband's office?" When he doesn't respond, I turn on my smile. "Do you think you could have a coffee tray and some, oh, croissants or something delivered? Bagels, maybe? They must be hard at work in there."

Per Princess rules, it's not my place to interrupt a meeting when I'm not invited. But a queen can follow a different set of rules, especially one who brings treats.

To my delight, Riot unclasps a radio from his waist and mutters an accented coffee and bagels to the office into the receiver. Someone replies with confirmation, and I clasp my hands in front of me as we wait. "Thank you."

He inclines his head. Maybe we're getting somewhere.

I hear the treat cart before it arrives, wheeling down the hardwood, the silver clattering on top. The staff member notices me and pales, and it takes me a moment to understand why.

She was working at the Baranova estate. "Tessa," I greet, swallowing my surprise. What the hell are you doing here? "How lovely to see you. I didn't know you worked for my husband."

She gives me a tense smile. "I work for the Madame, Princess. She requested that I relocate upon your recent nuptials."

My fingers twitch, so I clutch them tighter together. "The Madame sent you here." Of course Katya snaked her way into the estate. I wonder if she gave word the day she paid me an unexpected visit. Follow me or die , or something just as extreme.

Everything around here feels like it's life or death.

I take a step closer to Tessa. I don't dislike the girl; hell, I hardly even know her. But still. A precedent needs to be set, and she's the first person I've come across to set one. To her credit, she holds her ground. She's older than me, likely having worked for the Baranovas a long time. I can't fault her for following Katya's orders.

But it means she went against her pakhan . And I need to win her loyalty back for us.

"As you've heard of my wedding, I'm sure you're aware that I am no longer simply a princess." I keep my smile sweet, but by the way she flinches, I can tell she sees that she's struck a nerve. "I thank you for following the previous Madame, but I believe that title now belongs to me. As the current Madame, I hope to see you following orders just as swiftly for me as you did for her." I set my hands on the cart. "Thank you for bringing the tray I ordered. It's perfect."

As I tug on the cart, Tessa holds on just as tight, not letting me move. "I can take this inside for you?—"

" Tessa ."

She flinches at the warning in my voice.

"What were you asked to do?"

She blinks at me, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Bring coffee and bagels to the office."

"That's right." I nod. "Nothing was said about taking the tray inside. I'd hate for you to misstep and tarnish that perfect record of yours so soon. We're just getting started, after all, when we have years of service ahead of us."

She finally lets go of the cart. "Yes, Madame."

"Wonderful. You're dismissed." I look to Riot next. "Would you be a dear and open the door for me? I'd like to bring my husband a little surprise treat."

Riot hesitates, likely choosing sides. If he's been ordered to follow me around, he may have been ordered to keep me away from business discussions and the like. But I'm curious whose orders he's following—Liam's as the alleged new pakhan , or Katya's as the Madame.

When he steps in front of me to pull open the double doors, I get my answer.

He's following mine.