Chapter 15

Lydia

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I am definitely nervous about today. While I might come across as a confident woman, it's something else entirely when you're about to meet your future husband's family.

What if they hate me? What if they've already formed preconceived notions about me? His brother certainly seems to have done that. There's hope, though, because I haven't met his sister-in-law, his sister, or his mother.

But as a woman, those are the ones I am most afraid of. What if I don’t fit in here? I’ve never fit in anywhere.

Who the fuck cares? Since when have I really cared about the opinions of other people?

I blow out a breath and look at myself in the mirror.

Yeah, I’ve cared about that since I took my first breath as a human being. Sure, I'm at least outwardly confident, and I've mostly gotten over the need for approval from others. But I still have an intrinsic need to belong.

How do I put this makeup on, anyway? I look at the array of makeup on my counter. While I thought I was pretty confident using it, I wonder if I could learn something new.

I pick up the new phone Viktor gave me, sleek and beautiful, in a soft purple matte case. I've never owned anything like it before. When I touch the screen, it springs to life, vivid colors filling the display so quickly it feels almost space-age.

I notice a tiny dot in the top right corner of the screen, barely noticeable unless you're looking for it. It's a subtle but persistent red blink.

“What the hell is that?” I mutter to myself, my curiosity piqued. Leaning closer, I squint at the dot. It looks like a small camera or a tracking device, but I can't be sure. I tap it lightly with my finger, but nothing happens. It's just a tiny, blinking dot.

My heart rate quickens. If Viktor has been watching me, what else has he done without my knowledge? A mix of anger and fear churns in my stomach. Determined to find answers, I pull up a browser and type in, “What does the little blinking dot in the upper right corner of my screen indicate?”

The search results are filled with technical jargon and troubleshooting forums. I glance at several articles, looking for confirmation. Then, I find it—an article discussing surveillance software that can be installed on personal devices to monitor activity.

My blood runs cold. Viktor is tracking me.

Why would I think any less of him? Why would he handpick this high-end phone and not install something to spy on me with?

Future husband, my ass. Protection, my ass.

Well he can fuck. Off.

I lift the phone over my head and smash it to the ground. Nothing happens. Goddamn, these things are indestructible now. I look around the bathroom for something heavy to destroy it with. I see a ceramic vase, so I lift it and drop it as hard as I can on my phone. The vase shatters, but the phone is fine.

Jesus.

For the love of God.

“Lydia? What the hell are you doing in there?” Viktor's voice is sharp through the door. He turns the handle, but I’ve locked it.

“I'm shocked you don't know,” I snap back at him. “You don't have cameras riveted on my every move in here?”

“Lydia,” he warns outside the door. I stare at my reflection as if my monster of a future husband isn’t pounding on that door to get in and continue to apply my makeup. That's when I feel the little bump under the skin on the back of my neck.

What is that? It's a little itchy. I turn and try to look, but I can't see it properly. I assume it's a bug bite or something similar.

Oh my God, if he’s installed a fucking tracker on me—but when I look in the mirror, it just looks like a bug bite. Okay, maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe I’ve gotten way in my head about this.

“Lydia, if you don't open this fucking door…”

I smirk at myself in the mirror and give myself a little shrug. “What are you gonna do?”

And that does give me the upper hand with him. He could march in here and dominate me, but it will only turn me on. He can't control me that way.

“Open it,” he snaps, but he's clearly gotten the memo.

I finish getting myself ready, irritation rising with every second that passes. Finally, I open the door, and he stands in the doorway, filling it entirely as usual. He's wearing a black leather jacket that hugs his muscular frame, a fitted black shirt that accentuates his broad chest, and dark jeans. His shaved head and the scar running down his cheek only add to his intimidating presence. My pulse quickens despite my annoyance at the flash of anger in his eyes.

Ping.

“What was that crash? What the fuck are you doing?”

“Me? You don’t know? Haven't you recorded the bathroom?”

“Of course not. You can have some measure of privacy.”

“Oh, that is rich coming from you,” I tell him. “Jesus, Viktor.” I pick up my phone from the floor. “You tracked my phone.”

He has the nerve to shrug. “I never pretended I wasn't tracking you. Of course I am. How the fuck am I supposed to keep you safe?”

“So, smothering me, keeping me immediately by your side, marrying me, and not letting me out of your sight isn't good enough?”

He scowls. Of course it isn't.

“You were trying to break your new phone?”

“Yeah. It didn't work. What did you get me, some military-grade whatever?”

“Yes.”

I throw my hands up in the air. “Jesus Christ! I was exaggerating. I didn't think you actually did that!”

“Of course I did. You just threw your phone out the window, remember? I knew the chances of you losing your temper and destroying it were pretty high.”

“I wasn’t the one who did that!” I snap.

He shakes his head. “What if you had something important on that phone? Somebody throws this phone out a window, at least you get to keep your pictures or whatever else you have on your phone.”

“You’re snooping on me!”

“I have no interest in snooping on you, but I do want to know where you are at all times. And that is never, ever going to change.” His frown deepens. “So you better get used to that.”

“You better get used to that,” I mimic, my hands on my hips. He takes a step toward me as if to intimidate me, but I’m unfazed. I'm starting to think that Viktor couldn't hurt me if he tried.

“Don't mock me,” he snaps. “God, you're such a brat.”

Fury claws at my chest, an angry, untamed beast. My voice shakes with the effort of controlling it. “I'm not a brat. A brat acts out over stupid things. I don't lie down and let people tell me what to do. Those are two very, very different things, Mr. Romanov.”

He's in my space, his breath tickling my hair. I'm breathing heavier, and so is he. He loves fighting with me. I love getting a rise out of him. We’re a match to tinder.

When he doesn’t respond, I try to drive the memo home. “Get this through your head. I'm someone who doesn't like to be told what to do.”

“Oh, I am well aware,” he says, his voice low and dangerous.

His eyes darken as he steps even closer, crowding my space until I’m forced to back up against the sink. “You think you can push me, and there won’t be consequences?” His voice is a low, dangerous rumble, sending a shiver down my spine.

I lift my chin defiantly. “You don’t scare me, Viktor.”

A slow, predatory smile spreads across his face. “Oh, I think I do. But it’s not fear I see in your eyes right now, is it?” He leans in, his lips brushing against my ear. “You like this, don’t you? The challenge, the danger. It excites you. It’s like that first strike of a lighter. You can already smell the flames.”

I try to hide my reaction, but I can feel my heart racing. He’s too close, too perceptive, too in my head. “You’re wrong,” I whisper, but my voice lacks conviction.

His hand snakes around my neck, firm but not painful, forcing me to look into his intense gaze. My heart turns in my chest. “Lying to yourself won’t help you, Lydia. I know you better than you know yourself.” His thumb strokes the side of my neck, sending an involuntary shiver through me. “You want someone who can match you, who can handle your fire. Someone like me.”

I try to twist away, but his grip tightens just enough to hold me in place. “Let go of me, Viktor,” I demand, my voice shaking.

“Not until you admit the truth,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my skin. “Admit that you feel something for me, something more than just hate.”

I glare at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “You’re delusional.”

His other hand slides down my arm, igniting a trail of heat. “Am I? Then why are you trembling?” His lips ghost over my neck, making it harder to focus on my anger. “Why does your heart race every time I touch you?”

“Because you’re a controlling bastard,” I snap, but the words come out breathless.

He chuckles softly, a sound that reverberates through me. “You need control. You crave it. And deep down, you know I’m the only one who can give it to you.” He pulls back slightly, just enough to look into my eyes. “Submit to me, Lydia. Not because I force you to, but because you want to.”

I feel my resolve weakening, the intense pull between us too strong to ignore. My breathing is ragged, my body turning against me as I lean into his touch. “Why should I trust you?” I whisper, a last attempt at resistance.

“Because I will never hurt you,” he promises, his voice fierce and sincere. “I will protect you, cherish you. But you need to let go, to trust me.”

His words break through my defenses, and I close my eyes, letting out a shaky breath. “I have no choice,” I whisper. “But don’t think for a second that this means you’ve won.”

He releases his grip slightly, his thumb brushing my cheek. “This isn’t about winning, Lydia. It’s about us finding our way through this together.” He leans in, capturing my lips in a kiss. He’s already made me climax, but this is the first kiss we’ve ever had. It feels like we’re sealing the unspoken agreement between us.

As the kiss deepens, I wonder if submitting to Viktor might not mean losing myself but rather finding a new kind of strength in our twisted, complicated bond.

He pulls away and stares at me, his pupils dilated.

“We have to go. We're already running late.”

“God forbid we leave your family waiting,” I say sarcastically.

“Lydia,” Viktor warns, his voice a low growl.

“This argument is unresolved, Viktor. But I will go with you.” I turn away. “Not because I'm conceding, but because you told me they're serving brownies. And I'm fucking starving for a brownie.”

I have to admit, I’m starting to like our little tiffs. It excites me when he gets in my space. It feels like that first scratch of a match, the excitement rising in my chest in the same way. He is like fire, danger, always skirting the fucking edge.

We walk to the car parked outside.

“Aren't you going to tell me what you expect of my behavior, sir?” I ask in a mocking tone. The way his eyes turn to fire when I call him sir…

“Yes, that's an excellent idea,” he says, opening the door for me. I climb into the seat, and he watches as I buckle up. Almost absentmindedly, he reaches over and smooths a crinkled part of the belt. I look away. That doesn’t mean anything. No, I’m not going to soften just because he’s doing that tender thing with me again. Nope.

When I glance back, he’s looking at me with a mixture of awe and surprise.

“What?” I ask, immediately self-conscious.

“I just…” His words trail off, his voice husky.

“Just what?”

He swallows. “Sometimes it feels like I’m dreaming.”

I look away so he doesn’t see my eyes watering.

He starts the car and pulls away from the curb. We drive in what I have to admit is amiable silence. It’s a gorgeous day, sunny and bright out. I roll the window down, the wind ruffling my hair. Without a word, his hand comes to rest on my thigh.

“How far away are we?”

“Not far. We could walk there if I wanted to, but I want to drive today.”

“Why?”

“This is why,” he says, tightening his grip on my thigh. “I sometimes feel like I'm in a dream. I'm going to blink, and you’ll be gone. It's just hard to believe that you're actually… here.”

His mouth opens as if to say something else, but then he thinks better of it.

Meanwhile, I am trying my best to get my shit together.

I'm going to marry him. We know what this means in our families. I will not ever truly belong to Viktor Romanov until I submit my will and my heart. And neither of those will ever happen.

Still, I’m not immune to the connection between us, that erotic vibe that makes me want to be closer to him. I'm not immune to being treated like I am the absolute focus of someone's desire. I am not immune to being loved.

Love me? How can he? He doesn’t really know me.

Then why does it feel like he does?

“You want to listen to some music?”

“Yeah. Whatever you want.”

It seems like that’s going to be a theme between us.

Whatever I want to eat. Whatever I want at the wedding. Whatever I want to do… except walk away.

I flip through the different stations, trying to find something to listen to. Nothing seems right, fitting. I shut it off and look out the window.

I can’t stop thinking about him touching me. His touch is possessive, his thumb gently pressing against my skin, his fingers firm.

“I don't think I can ever be who you want me to be,” I blurt out, feeling unexpectedly emotional. Why do I feel this way? I don't want to be who he wants me to be. I want to be my own person.

Why did I just say that out loud?

“And who do I want you to be?” he asks in a tone that suggests he thinks I have no idea.

“Submissive. Docile. You want me to have your kids, be a homemaker, or whatever the hell. You want me not to have a mind or will of my own.”

His muscles tense, and his eyes stay focused on the road, but his hand on my thigh suddenly feels heavier.

“Is that really what you think I want?”

I swallow. Is it? Or is that just what I’m telling myself so I can keep my defenses up?

“Of course. What else would a man like you want? Sex? Well, you'll have that, but I like that too.” Okay, that sounded petulant. Borderline bratty. I hold my chin up so he doesn’t get any ideas or solidify his position on my brattiness.

“It doesn't matter what I tell you. You've already made up your mind about what I want, haven't you?”

Have I?

“No,” I lie. “I want to hear you say it. Do you think I’m so ignorant that I don’t listen to what someone has to say, and I make up my mind before they speak?”

Maybe I do. Damn it.

He blows out a breath, doing that thing where he strokes his thumb on my bare skin. The touch is almost platonic and gentle. But it never ceases to make my heart race, and whatever reservations I had about the two of us burn to ash.

“I’ve only wanted one thing my entire life that I can remember, Lydia.”

I give him a sidelong look, my heart hammering in my chest. My hand rests atop his on my leg, and I don't remember moving it there. I know what he's going to say before he does.

“What?”

“You, Lydia. You are all I’ve ever wanted. I know that's hard for you to understand; it might even scare you. But eventually, I hope you will understand.” He strokes his thumb along my thigh again, and I don’t understand why my eyes are watering. It’s just a normal possessive thing to say… isn’t it?

“Oh, you’re just saying that,” I say teasingly. “You really do care about what I do and how I behave. Obviously, you’ve shown me that.”

He shrugs a massive shoulder. “Baby, you want to skydive, paint the house purple, or become a circus performer, I don't care. I literally don’t give a shit about any of that. I know that I want you, and I want you safe. Every single goddamn thing I do is for that. No more, no less. Even my home? I barely decorate it because I don’t care. Once we’re married, you can pick out a place to go and I’m there.”

I shake my head because this doesn’t make sense to me. “Why me?”

He smiles then as if he has a secret that no one else knows, his very special little secret.

“Eventually, I hope you understand that too.”

I blink, surprised when we stop outside a large house.

Oh God. It’s go time. It’s his family’s home—it must be.

“Are we here?”