Crown of Hate (Soulless Empire)

Chapter 9

9

ALYA

I’m two days into this marriage, and I swear I’m about to strangle my husband.

Mikhail, as handsome and charming as he may be, has to be the most infuriating person in the universe. I’m pissed as hell about our wedding night—pissed at how he dumped me after making me come on his tongue. For a man a decade older, he sure knows how to push all my buttons—in the most maddening ways.

My cheeks burn as I force myself not to recall that night; the way his wicked tongue and nimble fingers had fucked me, and how that drew out an earth-shattering orgasm.

Damn him for reducing me to a quivering, wanton mess.

After fleeing his room that night, I’d tried to masturbate to the thought of him. I needed to release the tension between my legs, but nothing worked. I’ve reached a point where only Mikhail can soothe the ache between my thighs, and I hate myself for it.

How did I lose myself so much that I’m getting wet for the man who murdered my papa? I’ll have to take my revenge on that bastard. It’s the only way I can face Papa again when I die.

With the crisp morning light filtering through the curtains, I slide out of bed and dress quickly, slipping out of Mikhail’s shirt and into a dress Louisa had picked out for me.

As I descend the stairs, my thoughts are a whirl of anticipation and apprehension. I find Mikhail waiting below, his very presence commanding and magnetic. He looks effortlessly handsome, his chiseled features and intense gaze locking onto mine as I approach.

For a moment, I'm struck by the sheer force of his aura. It’s powerful, almost suffocating—even Papa didn’t possess such a dominant, domineering presence as Pakhan.

“Ready to go?” he asks, his voice low and resonant.

I nod, pushing aside the flutter of nerves in my stomach. “Yeah.”

We step out into the morning sunlight, and Mikhail, like a perfect gentleman, opens the passenger door of one of the waiting cars for me. I get inside, trying to ignore the way my heart pounds as he rounds the car and drops into the driver’s seat.

“That dress looks gorgeous on you,” he practically purrs, his eyes drinking me in.

“Thanks,” I murmur, resisting the urge to fidget under his heated gaze.

The drive is mostly silent, save for the soothing strains of music drifting from the radio. I rest my head against the window, trying in vain to distract myself from thinking of how close his hand is to my thighs.

Taylor Swift’s Cardigan starts to play on the radio. It’s my favorite song, and even though I have the vocal talents of a strangled frog, I can’t resist belting it out shamelessly. I don’t realize how invested I am in the song until it ends and I turn to find Mikhail watching me, lips twitching with amusement.

“That was a beautiful performance.”

I wave off his compliment, heat creeping up my neck. “Don’t flatter me. You know I sound like a frog.”

He lets out a low, rich chuckle, his eyes flicking briefly from the road to meet mine. “I don’t care. I love the way my little frog sings.”

I bite back a smile, wondering if anyone else ever gets to see this playful side of Mikhail. It’s a surprisingly endearing contrast to his usual stoic, intimidating demeanor. “So you’re admitting I sound like a frog, then?”

He sucks in his bottom lip, clearly racking that sharp brain of his for a way to change the subject. The poor guy knows he would get in trouble whether he agrees or not. “What, uh, what type of clothes do you like to wear?” he finally asks, the words coming out a tad strained.

My brow shoots up to my hairline and a disbelieving chuckle tears through me. Really, that’s the best he could come up with? “You’ll just have to wait and see,”

Mikhail clears his throat. “Well, we’ll be attending events together from now on. Make sure to get some gorgeous dresses,” he muses.

I would normally take offense at him trying to dictate my choices, but his tone is more suggestive than commanding. “How about you help me pick some out?”

His eyes widen with surprise that I’m asking. “You want me to?”

“You don’t want to?” I ask, adding a hint of challenge to my voice.

“No, I definitely want.” He winks at me, then returns his attention back on the road.

I can’t help but admire his profile—the sharp angles of his jaw and the way the sunlight plays across his features. He’s so handsome, it’s almost unfair. God must have used an entire month to mold this guy.

Suddenly, his hand slides to my thigh and squeezes gently. My breath catches in my throat and butterflies gain wings in my stomach. His touch sends a heat down my veins that simmers between my legs.

I don’t push his hand away. Instead, I cover his hand with mine, lacing our fingers together as another Taylor Swift song comes on.

Moments later, he brings the car to a stop in front of what looks like a high-end boutique. The other vehicles carrying his hulking bodyguards pull in around us like a protective ring of muscle.

As we step out, Mikhail offers me his hand, and I take it, following him inside.

We enter a store that sells only the most exclusive designer labels. It’s the kind of place I haven’t set foot in since my papa died. Back then, Mama always stressed the importance of being fiscally responsible, drilling it into my head that we couldn’t go splurging on the latest Louis Vuitton or Alexander McQueen.

The store’s manager personally welcomes us alongside three of her assistants. She’s a pale-skinned beauty with black hair and lovely light brown eyes. A saccharine smile is plastered on her face.

Her gaze never wavers from Mikhail as she purrs, “Welcome, Mr. Zirkhov.” It’s as if I’m not even standing here.

Mikhail doesn’t smile back, but I notice he’s not wearing his usual blank mask. There’s a subtle shift—the barest softening around his eyes that makes me wonder if he and this Annabelle woman know each other quite well. Maybe he’s a regular customer. Odd, considering this is a women’s boutique.

“Bring out everything you have in limited edition,” Mikhail commands, his tone leaving no room for disagreement.

“Of course.” Annabelle’s gaze flicks down to where our hands are joined, her smile hardening ever so slightly as she still avoids looking in my direction. “I see you’ve brought another?—”

Mikhail’s grip on my hand tightens. I don’t know whether he’s upset or just being protective, but it’s comforting. “She’s my wife ,” he says, cutting her off. “Refer to her as Mrs. Zirkhov.”

“Oh.” Her saccharine smile quickly fades away, replaced by a brittle grin that’s faker than a Hollywood prop. “My apologies, Mrs. Zirkhov.” She gestures towards the interior of the store. “This way, please.”

As we follow her, I can’t help but be awed by the sheer opulence surrounding us. Rack upon rack of the most exquisite dresses, shirts, and accessories—each piece looking like it costs more than a small country.

And then it hits me—we’re the only customers here. Which can only mean one thing…

I tug on Mikhail’s hand and he lowers his gaze to mine. “Did you rent the whole place?” I ask with a voice that is barely above a whisper.

He bobs his head, looking pleased with himself. “I didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”

My cheeks flush hot. “Well, aren’t you the thoughtful one,” I mumble, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “FYI, I’m not that antisocial, you know.”

“I know, I just wanted to do something special for you.” His eyes soften in a way that makes my insides melt.

Why does he have to be so damn considerate? It would be so much easier to hate him if he acted like the cold-blooded killer I know he is.

Annabelle leads us to a section brimming with the most breathtaking dresses I’ve ever laid eyes on. “These are limited edition dresses for every occasion,” she informs us, her clipped tone betraying her obvious annoyance. “There are only ten of each of these designs in all of North America and Europe.”

I’m in awe as I weave through the racks, my fingers caressing the delicate fabrics and my eyes soaking in the intricate beadwork and lace. “They’re stunning,” I breathe, my mind already parading these masterpieces down imaginary runways. Every gown demands attention, and every one I touch is more tempting than the last, leaving me dizzy with which to pick out. But beneath the excitement, anxiety gnaws at me. My hand hesitates, caught between desire and doubt.

These price tags could choke a millionaire, and it’s not even my money. I’m playing dress-up with someone else’s platinum card. The thought makes my palms sweat.

I'm also acutely aware of Mikhail's presence trailing behind me, and to my surprise, he’s actively participating, picking through racks with genuine interest, not lounging on the couches in the corner sipping champagne and grumbling about how much time I’m wasting.

His dedication sparks a warmth in my chest. For a heartbeat, I let myself believe that this isn’t just a facade. That maybe, just maybe, the cold-blooded killer actually gives a damn.

No.

Reality check, sweetheart:

Men like Mikhail don’t fall in love. They just tolerate their wives.

And me? I’m not even in love. I’m just… intoxicated. Drunk on danger and devastatingly good looks. It’s a cocktail that will leave one hell of a hangover.

He steps closer, and my stomach flip-flops.

God, I’m in way over my head.

“Mikhail, what do you think of this one?” I snag a dress and turn around to face him. It’s a red dress with thin straps and a fabric that glints under the soft store lights.

He devours the space between us, his gaze a physical caress as it sweeps from hem to neckline before meeting mine. “Beautiful, Alya. But this…” He pulls out a rose gold creation that puts my pick to shame. “This would make you look like a goddess.”

Heat blazes up my neck as I imagine myself in such a dress—one chosen by Mikhail. My husband.

Husband.

I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that word.

“I'll give it a try.” I try to play it cool, but my voice lands somewhere between breathy and desperate.

Smooth, real smooth.

I wrench my gaze away, only to lock eyes with Annabelle who’s watching me in a way that makes it look as if she’s trying to kill me with her eyes.

Or maybe it’s just my imagination.

“Where’s the fitting room?” I ask, eager to escape the tension.

“I’ll have someone take you.” She snaps her fingers, and one of her assistants whisks me away to the fitting room.

As I slip into the gown, the fabric cascading around me like a waterfall of silk, I step out of the fitting room and catch sight of Mikhail's reflection in the mirror. His eyes widen, a hint of genuine admiration flickering in their depths.

He whirls around to face me, his pupils dilating. “You look breathtaking,” he murmurs, voice husky with emotion.

I swallow hard, suddenly feeling vulnerable. “Thank you,” I whisper back, unable to tear my gaze away from his.

For a moment, we stand there in silence, the air charged with magnetic energy. And then, as if unable to resist the pull any longer, Mikhail steps forward, his hand reaching out to brush against the delicate fabric of the gown.

“It suits you,” he says softly, his touch sending a shiver down my spine. “But then again, everything looks beautiful on you.”

I meet his gaze, my heart thundering in my chest. “I know I’m a knockout, Mikhail,” I reply, my voice dripping with confidence, even as my insides are fluttering with nerves.

He leans in closer, his breath warm against my ear. “Do you? Because I could spend an eternity telling you how beautiful you are and it still wouldn’t be enough.”

Before I can process that, his lips are on mine, soft and teasing. When he pulls back, his eyes are dancing with mischief and dark promises.

I lick my lips, savoring the taste of him. My breath hitches, my body slowly coming awake. Through the corner of my eyes, I see Anabelle glaring daggers at me. Her assistants are trying not to look.

“We’re in public, Mikhail,” I remind him, though my body is screaming for more.

“I don’t give a damn,” he says with a cheeky smile.

Flattening my palm on his chest, I gently push him back, my fingers pressing against his abs. They’re so hard. “Well, I do, Mr. Zirkhov. I’ll try on the other clothes now.”

Four hours later, I’m finally done trying on the endless array of stunning dresses and shoes. I’m now wearing the final gown, but I’m struggling to reach the zipper.

I step out from the fitting room, ready to ask for Mikhail’s help, when I see Anabelle being all touchy with him, despite his obvious disinterest.

My chest heaves with rage and jealousy. I may not be in love with Mikhail, but he is mine. No one touches what is mine; it’s an attitude I got from my papa.

“Annabelle?” I call out, my voice sweet as antifreeze.

She snaps her neck to me, glowering at me like I’ve been a thorn in her side since the moment we arrived. “Yes, Mrs. Zirkhov?”

“I need help with this dress.”

She starts to turn to one of her assistants. “How about?—”

“You. Help. Me.” I cut in, not even trying to keep the edge out of my voice.

“Um…” She swallows so hard I can almost hear it. Then she plasters a fake smile on her face. “Alright.”

Back in the fitting room, I don’t waste time with pleasantries. “What the hell was that about?” I ask, glaring at her through the mirror hanging on the wall.

“What was what about?”

“Cut the crap. You were all over my husband.”

She gasps, hand flying to her mouth in a dramatic gesture. She has the nerve to feign shock. “You misunderstood!. I was just trying to make him more comfortable.”

I laugh sardonically at her silly excuse. “Touch my husband ever again, and I’ll put a bullet through your hands. And trust me, I won’t stop there; you’ll be lucky to make it out alive.”

She goes visibly pale. “Mrs. Zirkhov, I?—” .

“Do you think I won’t do it?” Our eyes meet in the mirror, and I raise my brow, daring her to challenge me.

She’s sensibly looking at me with horrified eyes, finally understanding the gravity of my threat.

I don’t mind that she was intentionally rude to me. I just don’t want another woman’s hand on my man. “Well? Do you understand me?”

She nods, her voice trembling. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Zirkhov.”

I flash her a smile that’s all teeth. “Fantastic. Now be a dear and fetch my husband for me.”

“No need,” comes a deep, baritone voice with a slight Russian accent from behind me.

I whirl around to find Mikhail leaning on the door frame with the proudest smile on his face.

“I’ll excuse myself,” Annabelle says quietly, scurrying out of the room.

Mikhail’s grin widens as he watches her leave. He saunters over, pushes my hair out of the way, and starts to unzip the dress. “What did you do to the poor girl? She looked horrified.”

“Nothing much,” I shrug, turning around to face him. “Just laid claim to what’s mine.”

His brows shoot up. “Claim?”

I nod curtly. “You heard me. I told you when we got married that you’re mine as much as you claim I’m yours.”

Mikhail's gaze softens. “Alya, my fierce little warrior. You don't need to claim me. I’m already yours, body and soul.”

His words knock the air from my lungs, the intensity in his gaze making my heart pound a little faster. I swallow hard, suddenly feeling exposed under his penetrating stare. “I just... I don't want anyone else touching you.”

Because even though I know I shouldn’t want this man, I do. I feel jealous and possessive over him.

A ghost of a smile plays on his lips as his hand comes to rest gently on my waist. “You have nothing to worry about, malyshka. You're the only one I want.”

For a moment, I let myself believe it, let myself bask in the warmth of his touch and the tenderness in his eyes.

But then reality comes crashing back, reminding me of the darkness that lurks beneath the surface of our relationship. “This isn’t right, Mikhail. We’re… enemies. You killed my father. I shouldn’t want you like this,” I confess, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.

He studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. And then, to my surprise, he reaches out, his thumb brushing gently against my cheek. “I understand, Alya. But sometimes, the heart wants what it wants. Maybe it’s time you listened to yours...”

If only it were that easy. If only I could forget the pain, the loss, the burning need for revenge. But I can’t.

It’s all carved too deep.

Even as I’m falling for him—faster than I ever thought possible—I know I can’t let go of my mission. It’s always there, in the back of my mind, no matter how hard I try to ignore it.

I won’t find peace until I make Mikhail pay for what he did. I have to keep reminding myself not to get swept away by his good looks, his charm, or the way he treats me so sweetly sometimes.

My head knows the truth, but my heart just won’t listen. I’m falling in love with the man who killed my father, and there’s nothing I can do to stop this freefall.

Forgive me, Papa.