Chapter 74

ALINA

I stared at the door he’d just walked out of, my jaw tight, my chest rising and falling in sharp, angry bursts.

I just… I don’t understand him.

Alexander Dimitri.

My husband.

God—husband.

The word hit like a slap to the face, sharp and jarring. It echoed in my head, foreign and grotesque, like it didn’t belong there. Like it couldn’t possibly be mine.

I’m married.

To him.

To a man, I hate with every fibre of my being.

My chest tightened as the reality dug deeper.

That word—husband—it didn’t sound real. It sounded like a joke someone would whisper behind my back, like a cruel label stitched into my skin without consent. It felt too permanent. Too binding. Too wrong.

And yet it was true.

He was mine.

Legally.

And I couldn't breathe past the taste of it.

Alexander Dimitri—king of the cold, master of manipulation, and the biggest bastard alive.

A bully.

That’s what he is.

That’s what he’s always been.

And if there had ever been even a sliver of doubt in my mind that Alexander Dimitri was anything but that—a cold, unfeeling tyrant—it died tonight.

I bandaged his goddamn hand.

Tended to him like I was some willing wife, like he was someone worth saving.

I, the girl he blackmailed into marriage, dared to show him a shred of human decency.

And what did I get in return?

A cold glare.

A clipped voice.

Turned on me like I was the threat.

Like my touch burned him.

Like I was the one who had crossed some invisible line.

Seriously?

My mind spun in circles, furious and wild, dragging me down into a spiral of disbelief and rage.

I should’ve cut off his damn hand.

Or better yet—his dick.

Yeah, that would’ve sent the message loud and clear.

Honestly, at this point, graphic, unsupervised scissor-related violence involving his precious manhood was starting to feel less like a crime and more like public service.

Snip, snip—problem solved.

Husband neutralised.

Humanity grateful.

The headlines would write themselves: New Bride Declares War, Leaves Husband Dickless but Dignified.

And honestly?

He should be grateful I haven’t acted on it—yet.

Because what kind of twisted asshole looks at kindness like it’s an ambush?

What kind of man—what kind of monster—takes something as human as care and turns it into a fucking interrogation?

The urge to scream into a pillow is immediate.

I pace the room like a caged animal, muttering curses under my breath.

How the hell did I end up here—married to a man who treats threats like vows and looks at kindness like it’s a loaded gun?

A man who thinks dominance is devotion and control is some twisted form of affection?

He doesn’t get it.

He doesn’t get me.

And maybe that’s why I got so mad—because for a second, just a breath of one, I saw something in his eyes.

Confusion.

Vulnerability.

Like he didn’t know what the hell to do with someone treating him like he mattered.

But he doesn’t.

Not to me.

Because no matter what flickers through that monster’s eyes, I can’t forget the truth.

He threatened innocent children to force a ring on my finger.

He used fear as leverage.

He stole my life and signed it in blood.

So yeah, I bandaged his hand. I showed him something soft.

'But don’t mistake that for weakness, Alexander.'

Next time you bleed—

I might not be so gentle.

I paced like a storm trapped in a gilded cage, muttering beneath my breath,

“He’s the biggest bastard alive.”

“He thinks he can bark orders and people will just fall in line,” I hissed to the empty room.

“Tyrant. Absolute egomaniac.”

He’d snapped at me.

Snapped.

After I bandaged his damn hand like an idiot. After I bit my tongue and treated his wound with more care than he probably deserved in his whole lifetime.

I was still seething.

Still picturing the way his jaw tightened when I dared to help him.

Like I’d offended his royal ego.

Like kindness was a language he didn’t speak and sure as hell didn’t want to learn.

I should’ve left him bleeding.

I wanted to scream.

Or throw something.

Or at the very least, yank open the door and give him a piece of my mind that didn’t involve calm, careful words.

I was pacing.

Fuming.

Each step across the rug was sharp, angry, fueled by every curse I could summon in my head. I was muttering under my breath, replaying the way he snapped at me like I was the one who had blackmailed him into this twisted marriage. My hands were clenched at my sides, jaw tight, fury boiling over.

I should’ve let him bleed. Should’ve smiled while he did.

But then… something shifted.

Mid-step, I faltered.

My fingers brushed the fabric draped around my shoulders—and just like that, the storm inside me stalled.

The throw blanket.

I blinked, startled. I hadn’t even realised I was still wrapped in it.

What the—?

I looked down at the soft material clinging to my arms, my body. Felt the warmth.

He’d put this on me.

Alexander.

Right before he walked out. After snapping at me, accusing me, staring at me like I was the one playing games.

But he’d... covered me?

Why?

My breath hitched.

“It’s a little cold tonight.”

His voice came back to me in a low echo. Steady. Almost gentle. No bite, no growl—just… a quiet murmur.

Not a demand.

Not a power play.

And for the life of me, I couldn’t understand it.

My brain stuttered, like it had tripped over a wire. This man—the monster, the tyrant, the bastard who threatened innocent children to force me into marriage—had paused just long enough to drape a blanket over my shoulders?

What the hell was I supposed to do with that?

Why would he bother?

Was it a strategy?

Guilt?

An afterthought?

It didn’t fit.

Not with the man I knew.

Not with the way he looked at me like I was a problem he hadn’t decided whether to break or bury.

He confused the hell out of me. And that was worse than hatred. Because I could handle hate. I understood hate.

But this?

This strange mix of menace and mercy?

It was messing with my head. He was messing with my head.

Because monsters don’t tuck blankets over the shoulders of girls they’ve threatened into marriage. Monsters don’t glance back with something almost human flickering in their eyes.

And yet... here was the blanket. Warm. Soft. Tucked around me with a care I didn’t know he was capable of.

And that—that—made everything worse.

Because now my thoughts weren’t just angry.

They were confused.

Clouded.

A little cracked at the edges.

What the hell was he playing at?

And why, for a heartbeat, did it almost feel real?

Or—God help me—was it real?

I shook my head hard, forcing the blanket off me like it was burning my skin.

No.

I wasn’t doing this.

I wasn’t letting one confused, quiet moment rewrite what I know to be true.

Alexander Dimitri is a monster.

A tyrant.

A bastard in a designer suit.

He doesn’t get to throw a blanket over my shoulders and make me forget he threatened children. He doesn’t get to act like he’s something human.

Monsters like Alexander Dimitri don’t change.

They evolve.

They manipulate.

And I can’t afford to forget that.

Whatever that was—whatever flicker of vulnerability I thought I saw—it’s gone now. A mirage. A calculated distraction. He probably smirked the second he closed the door, proud of himself for playing with my head.

I paced again, arms wrapped tight around my middle, trying to shake the chill that had nothing to do with temperature.

I needed to stay sharp. Strong. Untouchable.

Because I knew what night this was.

Our wedding night.

The thought made my stomach twist.

Was he expecting something?

My pulse thudded in my ears.

My fingers clenched so tight my knuckles ached.

Would he come back expecting me to play the role of some obedient little wife?

To share a bed with a man who used fear like oxygen? To let him touch me?

The very idea made my skin crawl.

And yet—

Time dragged.

Minute by minute.

Hour by hour.

And he didn’t come back.

Not a sound in the hall.

No footsteps.

No knock.

No creak of the door opening again.

Nothing.

I waited.

Curled up in the corner chair, arms tight across my chest, blanket now discarded on the floor.

I didn’t sleep. I didn’t let myself.

I just waited.

Ready to fight. To defend myself. To spit venom if he tried anything.

But the silence stretched on.

And the door stayed closed.

He didn’t come back.

And that—somehow—unsettled me more than if he had.

Because Alexander Dimitri always takes what he wants.

So why the hell hadn’t he come for me?

What game was he playing now?

Whatever it was, I would be ready.

Because next time he walked through that door, I wouldn’t be soft.

I’d be stone.

I’d be ice.

And not even his blanket or his silences or his haunted eyes would melt me.

He married me with fire and force—but he’d find I’m not so easy to consume.

Let him come.

Let him try.

He’ll learn the hard way: I may be trapped in his world…

But I will never be his.

....