CLAIMED BY THE RUSSIAN TYRANT

19

“That is not your duty, Natalia,” Alexei scolded, standing and turning his back to grab his shirt on the table.

His head was pounding with a vicious, alcohol-fueled ache that made the room tilt.

She followed close behind him. “I know, but—”

“No buts. I’ll speak to Yelena tomorrow. You’re packing your bags and going back to university.”

Before Alexei could slide his arms into the sleeves, Natalia rushed in front of him.

“You haven’t even asked what I want!” she cried out, her voice cracking. “You just push me away like a child!”

“And what is it you want? To throw away your education? To end up bound to this frozen wasteland working as a maid like your grandmother?”

Hurt crossed Natalia’s face, but it was immediately replaced by a reckless, feverish desperation. She stepped directly into his personal space, her hands shaking as they flew to the buttons of her maid’s uniform. She tore the plastic pieces loose, wrenching the fabric apart to expose the pale, heaving swell of her breasts.

“Look at me!” she sobbed, thrusting herself closer to him. “I am not a child anymore, Kegan! I’m right here—take me! Take what I’m offering you!”

Alexei squeezed his eyes shut. God knows he wanted to throttle Natalia for this insolence.

Natalia, misinterpreting his hesitation, leaned forward, offering herself.

Instead of taking what she offered, Alexei grabbed the edges of her torn uniform, jaw clenched in annoyance.

She gasped as he yanked the fabric back over her chest, and slammed her hands down to cover herself.

“Don’t you ever—ever—do that again,” he growled, his voice vibrating with a dangerous edge.

Natalia stumbled back, shocked and humiliated.

“Is it,” she shrieked, tears spilling hot down her flushed cheeks. “Is it because of your whores? Is that why you don’t want me? Because you’re used to sharing your bed with high-class sluts from Moscow who know how to please you better than I ever could?!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,”

“No! Tell me the truth!” she shouted. “Is it because of that red-haired witch you dragged here? Is she the one who gets to warm your bed?”

“That red-haired witch is Maximo Sokolov’s daughter. So you better watch that mouth of yours.”

Natalia froze, the meaning behind the name clicking instantly into place. “Anastasia? She’s here?”

“Yes,” Alexei said tightly, desperate to shut this down. “And you better keep your mouth shut.”

Natalia’s face twisted bitterly. “Oh, I’ll tell her! Watch and see, Kegan. I’ll make you absolutely regret rejecting me! She’ll despise you once she knows.”

“Know what?” Alexei turned back, his patience snapping completely. “That her sister is here? She already does. She can’t do a damn thing—she’s my property.”

“You know that’s not what I meant, Kegan.”

“Go to bed. You’re talking nonsense.”

“Grandma told me everything. Why you’re so full of hatred for the Morozovs—”

“Shut up!” Alexei warned. Natalia was treading on ground that could get her killed.

“It’s because you’re jealous.”

Without a word, he shoved past her toward the door.

“If you’re so starved for attention, you can make yourself available at the miners' gathering this weekend. And don’t worry, I won’t tell your grandmother what you did, so you better not provoke me any further. You’re like a sister to me. I dare say you don’t want to become an enemy.”

And with that, he walked into the cold corridor, slamming the door shut behind him.

He didn’t have a destination in mind, but his feet moved of their own accord.

Moments later, he found himself standing outside her bedroom.

Anastasia’s.

No.

He shouldn’t be here. He had left her alone for a reason. To avoid this exact, reckless pull in his blood.

With a shudder, he turned, forcing his legs toward the other wing of the estate. He had workers on the verge of a riot, missing guns, and a hundred other fires to put out. He didn’t have time for this madness.

The heavy carpet muffled his steps as he took the stairs two at a time.

As expected, Marina’s door was open, a warm light seeping into the hall. The sharp, bitter smell of sickness drifted out just as a maid hurried past him carrying a stained duvet.

“Young master!” The girl squealed, ducking her head. “I didn’t see you.”

“How is she?” Alexei asked, voice flat.

“Ahh…well…she was quiet earlier, sir. But after the episode this afternoon, your arrival and all, she’s refused to cooperate. I’m afraid she’s slipping backward again.”

Something heavy tightened in Alexei’s chest, but he only nodded, dismissing her with a wave of his hand.

His fingers felt stiff as he pushed the door wider and stepped inside.

Marina sat in the corner, her gaze pinned blankly to the wall. The room was a disaster—scraps of food smeared near the baseboards and the mattress littered with an assortment of dolls silicones. Yelena was on her knees, quietly scrubbing a stain near the bed.

“Marina?”

Yelena startled, looking up with wide, bloodshot eyes. “What are you doing here?”

Alexei frowned. “You’re asking what I’m doing in my own house?”

“No, I mean—your face—” Yelena gestured frantically toward her own cheek before pointing at Marina, who had suddenly frozen.

Before Alexei could reach up to touch the stitched flesh of his cheek, Marina turned her head.

Her eyes locked onto him. Wide, glassy, and searching.

Alexei felt the blood drain from his face.

She rose slowly to her feet, taking a hesitant step toward him like a ghost drifting through a graveyard. She stared at the stitches across his skin with a terrifying, unblinking intensity.

Yelena scrambled backward, horror etched on her face as she watched Marina trace the angles of Alexei’s bone structure with her eyes.

Her lips parted as she delivered the one word alexei never wanted to hear.

“Papa?”