THE MAFIA WIFE EXCHANGE

Chapter 3 : Consummate

Rose’s POV

I was already half asleep when I heard the door turn.

My body jolted before my mind could catch up, every muscle going rigid. Being born into a mafia family did that to you — it taught you to wake before the danger struck. You never let sleep own you completely. You never trusted silence. It could mean death.

My hand darted beneath the pillow where I’d hidden a knife. The blade’s coolness grounded me. My breath hitched, my pulse thrummed against my palm.

The door creaked open wider. I aimed, ready to strike — until I saw him.

Nikolai.

My husband.

He stepped into the dim light of the room, and my hand fell limp against the sheets. There was something smeared on his shirt — dark, heavy — and I prayed silently that it wasn’t blood. His expression was unreadable, his jaw set hard as steel.

He didn’t even look at me when he shrugged off his suit jacket and undid his tie. His fingers were mechanical, deliberate, as though he’d done this a thousand times — stripped himself of his humanity piece by piece.

“You came,” I said softly, sitting up, brushing stray hair from my face, trying to sound composed.

He didn’t answer, only continued unbuttoning his shirt.

I swallowed. “I thought you wouldn’t. I thought you were mad at me.”

Finally, his eyes met mine — grey, sharp, and cold enough to make me forget every romantic notion I’d ever had.

“Strip,” he said flatly, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “And get on the bed.”

I blinked. “What?” My voice cracked, the word barely leaving my lips.

“You heard me.” He let out a long breath, rubbing his temple like he was tired of the world. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

Something in his tone — strained but detached — made my stomach twist.

“I just got married, Rose,” he muttered, almost to himself, “and it’s already taking a toll on me. So, the least you could do is be useful.”

My throat tightened. “Why are you being so mean to me? Did I do something wrong?”

He gave a sharp exhale — not even a sigh, just an expression of exhaustion — and that was enough to silence me.

He unhooked the gun from his holster and placed it on the table beside him, followed by a small knife, a magazine of bullets, and something else metallic. It was a ritual — disarming the monster before stepping into the cage.

Then his fingers went to his belt buckle.

I turned my head away, my chest rising and falling too fast. The silk of my nightwear suddenly felt too thin, too revealing. Mara had insisted I wear it — said he’d like it. I’d agreed because I didn’t want to disappoint him. Because I wanted to believe maybe he would look at me the same way he did at the altar — like I was something worth wanting.

But that look was gone. Completely gone.

He stepped closer. I could smell his cologne, faint but sharp, mixed with the metallic tang of the night. He stopped just a foot from me.

“Have you ever done this before?” His voice had lost the earlier edge. Now it was low, almost careful.

I shook my head, Maybe he would have some pity. Maybe he would just spare me, take it easy on me. Because in all the books I've read, this never happened. This wasn't supposed to happen. It never went this way

But the silence that followed was too long, too heavy.

When his fingers brushed my shoulder, I flinched. My breath hitched, but I didn’t stop him. I couldn’t. My body moved because he wanted it to — because I was his wife now, and wives in our world didn’t say no.

His hand slipped to the back of my neck, and for a second — just one second — I thought he was going to kiss me. The way he did at the wedding. The soft, almost heavenly kiss that made me believe in fairytales again.

But this was different.

This was not love.

This was an obligation. A seal. A cruel reminder that even vows could feel like chains.

And then — silence.

When it ended, I didn’t know how long I’d been still. My body trembled, my eyes stung. I hadn’t realized I’d been crying until I heard him curse under his breath.

“Are you crying?” His voice broke the air, harsh, frustrated.

I wiped my face quickly, shaking my head, but the tears betrayed me. They fell anyway, silent and hot.

“Fuc!k,” he hissed, pulling away from me. “You’re going to be useless to me, aren’t you? One of those weaklings who can’t fight for herself.”

His words struck harder than any slap. I wanted to say something — to defend myself — but my voice was gone.

“Fuc!k, fuc!k, fuc!k,” he muttered again, pacing across the room, dragging a hand through his hair. “I shouldn’t have done this. I can’t believe I let my father talk me into it.”

He looked at me then — not like I was his wife, not even like I was a person. More like I was a mistake he couldn’t undo.

He zipped up, grabbed his gun, holstered it, and scooped the rest of his weapons back into his jacket. Then he turned toward me, still trembling on the bed, clutching the sheets to my chest.

“You see this?” he said bitterly, gesturing down at himself, voice edged with self-loathing. “This is what you couldn’t finish.”

My mouth opened, but no sound came out.

He shook his head, disgusted — not at me, I realized, but at himself — and then walked out, slamming the door behind him.

The silence that followed was louder than his shouting.

I sat there, breathing in shallow gasps, trying to make sense of everything. The ache between my legs, the burning in my chest, the emptiness that spread through me like poison.

I am a wife now. This was supposed to be the beginning of my new life.

But instead, I felt like something had ended — something I didn’t even know I’d been holding on to.

I stared at the door until my eyes blurred. Then I let the tears fall — not the quiet kind this time, but the kind that racked through your body and left you hollow afterward.

He had been so kind at the wedding. So gentle, so unexpectedly warm. And now, this.

What changed? Was he pretending all along? Was this his real face?

Maybe I was the fool for thinking men like him were capable of love.

Maybe I was the fool for hoping at all.

I buried my face into the pillow, the faint scent of roses and gunpowder clinging to it. My chest rose and fell with each broken sob until exhaustion finally drowned the sound out.