Kiril's POV
Vera turned away, walking ahead of him. Kiril followed her up the huge, curving staircase, the sounds of his father and Vladimir Petrov's loud laughter already fading behind them. He wanted to look confident, like the powerful man he was supposed to be, but inside, he was just counting steps. Every floorboard creak, every shadow on the wall, felt too heavy, too silent.
He knew he was ordinary. He saw the way Vera looked at him—or rather, the way she didn't look at him. She was a fire, and he was just damp wood. When she finally offered the tour, his face had lit up, and he hated himself for it. He'd looked like a needy kid instead of the fiancé she was being forced to marry.
She can't stand me, he thought, the truth stinging his chest.
The worst part? He couldn't blame her. He knew what she saw when she looked at the two Zhukova brothers. She saw him—the quiet one, the one who didn't fight unless he had to, the one who tried to find a clean, safe path in a dirty world.
Then she saw Nikolai.
Nikolai was the reason he felt small. His older brother was everything a Petrov woman was supposed to want: dangerous, sharp, fearless. When Vera had thrown that question at Nikolai—"Why don't you join us?"—Kiril felt a cold knot twist in his gut. It wasn't a polite invitation; it was a plea. She was begging for the company of the wrong man.
And the way Nikolai had laughed, saying, "your woman," it was like a knife. It was a joke to Nikolai, a way to show his power without even lifting a finger. He knows, Kiril realized. Nikolai knew exactly how Vera felt, and he loved seeing Kiril squirm.
Kiril looked at the back of Vera's head. Her hair was dark and perfect, falling over shoulders that looked stiff with tension. He swallowed hard.
He didn't love her yet, but he respected her, and he felt a crushing guilt for the role he was making her play. She was beautiful, smart, and deserved a real choice, not a business deal. She deserved someone who made her feel more than this bored emptiness he saw in her eyes.
He tried to start a conversation, anything to break the awkward silence. "I... I haven't seen this part of the house," he mumbled, immediately hating how nervous his own voice sounded.
Vera stopped walking. He could see her shoulders relax just a little, like she was forcing herself to remember her duty. She cleared her throat and started pointing out rooms and hallways. Her explanation was rushed, like a student giving a presentation she didn't care about.
He forced himself to pay attention to the grand, empty spaces.
"This is the West Wing," she said. "Mostly guest rooms and storage now."
"It's huge," Kiril replied, sounding genuinely impressed. It was huge, but also cold. A massive house built for power, not for comfort.
As she droned on about a linen closet, Kiril's mind went back to the living room.
He'd seen the look on Pavel Petrov's face. Pavel was Vera's brother, and he was normally rock solid. But he'd looked genuinely scared. Kiril had noticed it too—a flash of deep worry that wasn't about the engagement.
Then, just as they were leaving, he watched Nikolai walk over to Pavel. Nikolai's face had changed instantly, dropping the joking mask he wore for Kiril and Vera. It was the face of a man ready for business.
What are they talking about? Kiril thought, a true fear washing over him. The family business was always dangerous, but his instincts told him this was different. This wasn't just a deal being made; this was a problem being covered up. A problem that Pavel knew about, and a problem Nikolai was about to deal with—likely without ever telling Kiril a thing.
Kiril didn't want to be powerless anymore. He wanted to protect the woman he was marrying, even if she didn't want him.
"Vera," he said, cutting her off midsentence, his voice a little stronger this time. "Wait. Do you know what Nikolai and Pavel are talking about?"
He stepped closer, finally looking directly into her eyes, which were a bright, startled green. He needed to know if she was as worried as he was.