The gates to the manor opened with a mechanical hum—smooth, silent, like jaws unhinging for a kill.
Nadya's car rolled down the gravel path, tires crunching as they passed flower beds that looked sculpted more than grown.
The manor loomed: a sprawling, modernist monolith of steel bones and marble skin. Black glass windows reflected the sky like soulless eyes.
Beside her, little Darya pressed a hand to the window.
"Is this where we're staying now?" she whispered.
Nadya didn't answer at first. Her fingers curled around the child's hand, brushing knuckles too small for this kind of life.
"Yes," she said eventually. "But we have to be careful here, kotyonok."
Darya's eyes darted to hers. "Why?"
"Because there's a bad man who lives here." Nadya's voice dropped. "If he sees you, he'll eat you up in one bite."
Darya gasped and buried her face against Nadya's neck.
Nadya held her close. "Don't worry. I won't let him."
~*~*~*~
Inside, the manor was colder than she remembered that morning—more palace than home. Pale stone gleamed beneath her boots, a staircase curved like a serpent's spine. Crystal sconces. Gilded furniture. Everything glittered. None of it warm.
Staff stood at the edges—maids in pressed uniforms, a tall man in gloves by the stairs. They didn't smile. They didn't meet her eyes.
"This way, ma'am," a maid said gently.
Nadya gave a cool nod, then whispered to Darya, "You'll have a room near mine. Your nanny is already waiting."
Darya nodded quickly, wide-eyed.
The room was small by manor standards—lavender curtains, four-poster bed, a plush chair by the window.
Her old nanny, Raisa, stood when they entered.
"Miss Nadya," she greeted tightly. "I've settled in."
"Good." Nadya set Darya down. "You remember Raisa?"
Darya nodded.
Nadya knelt and cupped her niece's face. "I'll be nearby. You'll eat, and we'll see each other before bed. Be good, da?"
A nod, this one slower.
Nadya kissed her forehead. "I'll come back."
She rose and addressed Raisa. "Keep her in the room. No one else enters."
"Yes, ma'am."
Nadya shut the door behind her. Only then did she let herself breathe, though the weight in her chest didn't ease.
~*~*~*~
She claimed a guest suite, rejecting the one the maid offered—Alexei's, probably. She wasn't pretending. Not yet.
Inside, she locked the door, shrugged off her coat, and headed to the ensuite. The hot spray scalded away the day's rage, the fear, the memory of Alexei's smug smile at the wedding—and everything after.
She dressed in black silk pyjamas—casual, expensive—and padded barefoot over marble. Her damp hair curled down her back.
A knock broke the quiet.
"Yes?"
"Mr. Romanov requests your presence for dinner," came the maid's voice. "He's waiting in the dining hall."
"Darya will eat in her room. Tell the kitchen."
"Yes, ma'am."
She didn't bother changing. If Alexei wanted her presence, he could have her as she was. She wasn't here to impress him.
She was here to survive him—and bleed him dry. A blade was strapped to her thigh.
~*~*~*~
The dining room was large. The chandelier overhead sparkled like a frozen explosion. The table could seat twenty. Only two places were set: hers and Alexei's.
He wore dark slacks and a fitted charcoal sweater, sipping wine with the leisure of a man who owned the air.
"Nadya," he drawled. "You made it. I was beginning to think I'd be eating alone."
She sat without asking. "Tragic. All this ambience gone to waste."
"It wasn't for you. I always dine by candlelight. Helps me reflect."
"On your sins?"
"On my investments," he said with a wink. "But now that you mention it…"
A maid poured her wine. The first course arrived—something smoked and delicate. She didn't touch it.
"Your chef's talented."
"Paris-trained. Ran a five-star kitchen."
"And now he cooks for a… what are you exactly?"
Alexei cut into his steak. "I'm not a warlord."
"No? You're rich. You command soldiers. People disappear when they displease you."
He shrugged. "Sounds like a CEO. Just with better enforcement."
"Sounds like a problem."
"You married it."
"Temporarily."
Their forks clicked. Tension bloomed in silence.
"So," she said, lightly, "which of your ventures launders the money—charities or offshore accounts?"
He didn't flinch. "Interesting assumption."
"I wasn't assuming."
He sipped his wine. "Then I'll choose not to answer."
"Coward."
He smiled. "Romantic."
She eyed him. "I walked through your house. Saw your ghosts."
"Anything familiar?"
"Plenty."
"I didn't think you scared easily."
"I don't. But ghosts cling. Especially in houses like this."
He leaned back. "I hope you're settling in."
"I adapt."
"Good. I need a partner who can keep up."
She pushed her plate aside and stood. "I should check on—"
"You haven't finished your meal."
She froze.
"I'm not hungry."
"I wasn't asking."
"You don't give me orders."
"And yet," he murmured, "you're in my house, eating my food, wearing my ring. Humour me."
The threat behind those cold eyes were clear.
Nadya sat, jaw tight. Picked up her fork and stabbed a potato like it owed her money.
~*~*~*~
Only once she'd eaten halfway did he lean back, satisfied.
"There. That wasn't so hard, was it?"
She wiped her mouth and set down her fork. "I've swallowed worse."
"I'm sure you have."
She tilted her head, gaze ice-slick. "You're enjoying this."
"Immensely."
"Why?"
"Because," he said, swirling his wine, "it's not every day I get to dine with someone who bites back."
She glared at him. "That's because there's no one else like me."
He grinned, slow and satisfied. "I look forward to finding that out."
She stood again, slower this time, and this time, he didn't stop her.
As she turned to go, he added casually, "We'll be attending a few events next week. Some appearances. My grandmother's especially eager to see you."
Her steps faltered—but only slightly. She schooled her features. "How thoughtful of her."
"Yes. She was quite taken with you last time."
"I'm sure she was," Nadya rolled her eyes.
As she walked away, he called lazily after her:
"I'll be right with you, Mrs. Romanov."
She didn't answer.
~*~*~*~
His words were—unfortunately—true.
Nadya frowned, staring at the man in her room. "What happened to the separate rooms rule?"
"Change of plans. Had some rats to deal with. Can't have my lovely wife startled."
She doubted he meant literal rats.
Alexei peeled off his shirt, revealing lean muscle and a constellation of scars and tattoos. She looked away—but not fast enough to miss the jagged scar along his ribs or the way he noticed.
"Already done staring?" he teased. "I thought we were making progress."
"Don't flatter yourself."
"I'm not. You married me. Admiring the merchandise is in the contract."
"You're legally required to die in your sleep if you keep talking," she said sweetly.
He laughed, infuriating and unbothered. "You're not the first to try."
She glared over her shoulder, just in time to catch his pants drop.
He stepped out of them with ease.
No boxers. No shame. Nothing but bare skin and unholy confidence.
She sputtered and spun back around like she'd been burned. "Are you actually going to sleep naked?"
He pulled back the covers. "Is that a problem?"
"Yes!"
"Why? You've seen dick before."
She gaped, scandalised. "That is not the point!"
He hummed, entirely unbothered. "Ah. So you're used to smaller ones."
Her hands balled into fists. "You are insufferable."
He grinned, unbothered as he stretched. "Add it to the list."
She stormed to the couch and dropped into it, muttering curses in Russian under her breath.
The couch, to her dismay, was sinfully soft. Of course it was. The entire house was designed to lower your guard and catch you off guard later.
She yanked the throw blanket over her body and curled away from him, facing the wall.
Alexei didn't say anything for a long moment.
Then, just as she started to settle, his voice floated across the room—dry, amused, and laced with that particular brand of Romanov cruelty.
"Careful with that thigh blade, kotyonok. Wouldn't want to ruin the couch."
She froze, then hissed, "Go to hell."
He chuckled, low and lazy. "Already there."
Her hand twitched toward the blade on her thigh. For one heated second, she considered making a point.
Instead, she yanked it free and flung it onto the floor with a clatter. Let him have his damn couch.
"Good girl," he murmured, smug and half-asleep.
"Fuck off!" she hissed, disgusted. Her jaw clenched so hard it ached. One day, she'd make him choke on that smug tone.
"Soon enough, soon enough." His pillow muffled his voice.
~*~*~*~
She waited until his breathing evened out.
Creeping across the room, she stood over him in the dark. His face was slack, peaceful—too peaceful for the devil he was.
Her fingers twitched. Her hand hovered over the pillow.
I could do it now.
She didn't.
Not yet.
She needed answers. She needed ruin, not just revenge.
Nadya slipped from the room. Barefoot in the dark, she crossed the manor to the guest wing.
At the familiar door, she paused—then stepped inside.
Darya was asleep in Raisa's arms.
"She tried to wait for you," Raisa whispered. "But she couldn't stay up."
"Thank you," Nadya said, voice soft. "Go rest."
When they were alone, she gathered Darya into her arms and lay down beside her.
She stroked the girl's hair and whispered into the dark:
"We'll survive this. And when the time is right… We'll make them all pay."
Darya stirred but didn't wake.
Nadya kissed her forehead.
Let the devil have his palace.
She would be the one to burn it down.