SAY YOU ARE MINE

She's Mine To Break

His ex-fiancée slapped me at the gala.

The champagne glass left my hand. Shattered. Blood-warm Krug puddled on marble between my bare toes — Kieran insisted I wear no shoes. "So everyone knows you belong indoors. With me."

The whole ballroom went silent. Two hundred Moscow elite. Diamonds. Guns under tuxedos. And me, in red silk, with a handprint blooming on my cheek.

“w***e,” Irina Volkov hisses. Blonde. Perfect. Platinum rings on every finger. The woman Kieran was supposed to marry before me. “You think wearing his ring makes you a Volkov? You’re nothing. Trash from the streets.”

I don’t breathe. I don’t move. Because Kieran is standing three feet away.

And he’s not moving either.

He’s watching me. Testing me. One eyebrow raised. _What will you do, milaya?_

Irina takes my silence as weakness. Her hand rises again.

_CRACK._

The sound isn’t her hitting me.

It’s Kieran’s hand closing around her wrist. Mid-air. Two inches from my face.

The room sucks in a breath.

Kieran doesn’t look at Irina. He looks at me. At the red mark on my cheek. His blue eyes go from ice to arctic. To death.

“Did you,” he says. Voice soft. Deadly soft. “Just. Touch. What’s. Mine.”

Irina laughs. Nervous. High. “Kieran, darling, she’s—”

_CRACK._

Her scream cuts off the string quartet.

Kieran broke her wrist.

One-handed. Like snapping a breadstick.

Irina crumples to her knees. Designer gown pooling around her. Snot and mascara and shock on her face. “You—you broke it! For _her_?”

Kieran crouches. Not to help her. To look her in the eye. He still hasn’t let go of her shattered wrist.

“I told you once,” he says. Conversational. Like discussing weather. “In this city. In my world. In my bed. There is only one woman.”

He stands. Drags Irina up by her broken wrist. She screams again.

“Apologize,” he orders.

“To _her_? I’m a Volkov by—”

“_You were_ a Volkov by engagement.” He shakes her. Once. “You are now a nobody with a medical bill. Apologize to my fiancée, or I give you a matching set.”

He glances at her other wrist.

Irina looks at me. Hate and terror and pain war in her eyes. “I’m… sorry,” she chokes out.

“Louder.”

“I’M SORRY!”

Kieran drops her. She collapses. Two Bratva soldiers haul her up. Drag her toward the doors.

The ballroom is a tomb.

Kieran turns. Slowly. His gaze sweeps the crowd. Two hundred people suddenly find their champagne very interesting.

Then he looks at me.

And he walks.

Each step echoes. Click. Click. Click. Like a countdown.

He stops in front of me. The broken glass. The champagne. The blood from where a shard nicked my toe.

He crouches. Dips two fingers in the champagne. Brings them to my cheek. To the handprint. The wet is cold. His touch is fire.

“She marked you,” he murmurs. Only I hear. “So now I mark her.”

He stands. Faces the room. One arm slides around my waist. Claims. Owns. His thumb strokes my hip through the silk. Possessive. Public.

“Let me make something clear,” Kieran says. To everyone. To no one. “Alina Sokolov wears my ring. She sleeps in my bed. She bears my name in three months.”

My heart stops. _Three months?_ That wasn’t the deal.

“She is mine.” His grip tightens. “To protect. To provide for. To punish.”

He looks down at me. And his eyes say the rest. _To ruin. To worship. To keep._

“Anyone touches her…” He smiles. It’s not a smile. It’s a threat with teeth. “…dies.”

He leans down. His lips brush my ear. For the crowd, it looks like a kiss. For me, it’s a warning.

“You didn’t fight back,” he whispers. “Why?”

“Because,” I whisper back. “You said only you get to hurt me.”

His whole body goes still.

Then: “Good girl.”

His mouth crashes into mine.

Right there. In front of Moscow. In front of the Bratva. In front of cameras.

It’s not soft. It’s not for show. It’s a brand. A claim. His hand fists in my hair, angling my head. His other hand splays across my lower back, yanking me against him. I taste champagne and wrath and _him_.

When he pulls back, my lips are swollen. His thumb wipes my mouth. His eyes are black.

“Take her home,” he tells his head of security. “Now.”

“Aren’t you coming?” The question slips out before I can stop it.

His smile is slow. Dangerous. “No, _milaya_. I have a wrist to finish breaking. And a message to send.”

He kisses my forehead. Gentle. Terrifying.

“Say you understand.”

I look at Irina being dragged out. At her shattered wrist. At the fear in the room.

I understand perfectly.

“I understand,” I say. “You’re mine to break.”

His laugh is dark. Delighted. “No, Alina.”

He steps back. Gestures to the guards.

“You’re mine. Period.”

*END CHAPTER 3*

---