Morning arrived without warmth.
Maria woke to a silence so complete it felt engineered. No birds, no distant traffic; even the wind seemed to hold its breath around the Dragunov Estate. For a moment, she lay still beneath the heavy silk covers, staring at the ceiling carved with old imperial symbols—crowns, wolves, swords.
Reminders.
She rose slowly, letting her bare feet touch the marble floor. Cold bit instantly, sharp and deliberate. This house did nothing by accident.
As she dressed, she felt it again—that subtle internal heat, the simmering firestorm she carried. It was quieter here, muted by the estate's oppressive calm, but not extinguished. If anything, it pulsed stronger in resistance.
A knock came precisely at eight.
"Enter," Maria said.
The door opened to reveal a young maid, eyes lowered, posture rigid. "Good morning, Madam Dragunov. Breakfast is prepared. His Grace requests your presence."
Requests.
The word was a lie wrapped in silk.
Maria inclined her head once. "Lead the way."
The corridors were long and echoing, lined with portraits of Dragunov ancestors—men and women with glacial eyes and expressions carved from conquest. Maria felt their gazes follow her, weighing, judging.
Somewhere between the east wing and the dining hall, the air changed.
Colder.
Denser.
She didn't need to see him to know Mikhail was near.
He stood at the head of the table when she entered, already seated, dressed in black despite the daylight. His posture was immaculate, movements minimal. He didn't look up immediately.
The servants froze.
Maria felt it then—his icy aura, restrained but absolute. It pressed outward like invisible frost, settling over the room. The servants became tense; their movements grew sharper, and their breaths grew shallower.
Maria walked forward anyway.
She took the seat opposite him.
Only then did Mikhail lift his gaze.
Ice met fire.
For a split second, something shifted. Not enough for anyone else to notice—but Maria did. A subtle tightening around his eyes. A realignment.
"Good morning," she said calmly.
"Eat," he responded, ignoring the greeting.
A servant placed food before her. Maria glanced at the spread—perfectly arranged, untouched by warmth. She lifted her fork but didn't begin.
"So these are the rules," she said lightly. "Commands instead of conversation."
Mikhail folded his hands. "You prefer illusions?"
"I prefer respect."
"Respect," he repeated, tasting the word like something foreign. "Is earned."
Maria's fire stirred. Not outwardly. Not yet. But the room felt… warmer. A servant near the window shifted uncomfortably, loosening his collar.
Mikhail noticed.
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"You are here," he said, "because chaos follows you. My rules prevent it."
"No," Maria said calmly. "Your rules control it. There's a difference."
Silence fell.
Then he stood.
The servants retreated instantly, melting away as if summoned by instinct. When the doors closed, the temperature seemed to drop again—Mikhail's aura reasserting itself, frost reclaiming ground.
"You will not wander this estate alone," he said.
"You will not leave without approval."
"You will not contact anyone from your former life."
Maria rose as well, refusing to be smaller. "And if I do?"
His eyes locked onto hers. "You will be reminded who protects you."
"Protects," she echoed. "Or owns?"
The word struck.
For the first time, his control wavered—not in action, but in pressure. The cold around him sharpened, biting. Maria felt it brush her skin, daring her to retreat.
She didn't.
Instead, her fire responded.
The air between them grew subtly warm. Not obvious. Not dramatic. But undeniable. Mikhail's gaze flicked—just once—to the space between them, as if he felt the change too.
"You mistake leniency for weakness," he said calmly.
"And you mistake restraint for indifference," Maria answered back.
Another pause.
This one is longer.
Dangerous.
Somewhere in the estate, a door creaked. A servant dropped a tray. No one entered.
Mikhail stepped closer. One step. Controlled. Dominant.
"You are my wife in name," he said. "Nothing more."
Maria lifted her chin. "Then why does it bother you when I don't bow?"
It was a question sharpened like a dagger.
His eyes darkened. "Because fire spreads."
Before he could say more, applause echoed slowly from the doorway.
Nikolai.
He leaned against the frame, impeccably dressed, a lazy smile playing on his lips. But his eyes—his eyes were venomous. Calculating.
"Fascinating," he drawled. "I felt the temperature change all the way down the corridor."
Maria turned toward him, instantly alert.
Mikhail didn't. "You're not invited."
"I rarely am," Nikolai replied pleasantly. His gaze slid to Maria, lingering. Assessing. "So this is the Romanov flame."
Maria held his stare. She felt his aura too—not cold like Mikhail's, not hot like hers, but something toxic. Coiled. Patient. Waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
"Careful," Nikolai continued softly. "Fire attracts attention."
"Good," Maria said. "I've been invisible for too long."
Something dangerous sparked behind his eyes.
Mikhail cut in sharply. "Enough."
Nikolai straightened, smile widening. "Of course. Wouldn't want the ice to crack so early."
He left with a glance that promised future war.
The moment he was gone, Mikhail turned back to Maria.
"You will learn," he said coldly, "that this house devours threats."
Maria met his gaze, her fire steady now, no longer hidden. "Then it should choke."
She walked past him without waiting for permission.
Behind her, Mikhail remained still—frosted calm locked in place.
But beneath it…
The fissures had begun.