Crown of Hate (Soulless Empire)

Chapter 14

14

ALYA

“Will you be home early for dinner?”

Mikhail’s fingers freeze on his shirt button. His blue eyes drill into me, sharp as ice picks, and a slow smile creeps across his face. “Do you want me home early for dinner?”

I shrug, fighting the urge to scream “Yes!” The emptiness of this mansion without him is suffocating. The very air seems to mock my loneliness when he’s gone. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to life without Mikhail. I’ve tried a lot of things the last couple of days: reading, watching TV, swimming, playing games. Yet the only time I don’t feel this crushing boredom is when I’m with him.

God, I hate myself for this weakness. It’s pathetic. I can’t be this needy, this desperate, if I’m going to take my revenge. I need to be strong, ruthless. Just like him.

“Maybe,” I end up muttering, hating the way my voice betrays me. Why the hell did I just say that…

He scoffs, turning to the glass tie rack. Hundreds of expensive ties gleam behind the display. Everything in his side of this massive closet is meticulously arranged by colors. The sheer number of identical black suits, ties, and shoes makes me want to scream. Or throw up. Maybe both.

His hand hovers over one of the sea of black ties.

“No, not that one.” I march over, snatching a lone gray tie from the far end of the rack. Then press it to his chest, trying to ignore the solid warmth beneath my fingers. “This will suit you better.”

He doesn’t argue and simply drops the one he’s holding. As he reaches for the one in my hand, I pull back.

Time to play the game. Rule one of seduction: create an illusion of intimacy. Make him ache for my touch. If I’m to get him to fall for me, I need to create a sense of longing.

“I’ll help you,” I purr.

He narrows his eyes, searching my face. Is he on to me? Or just turned on? His face remains an impenetrable mask, giving nothing away except the deep lust in his eyes, and male pheromones rolling off him.

My pulse races as I drape the tie around his neck. I take my sweet time with each fold, fingertips grazing his skin in slow, deliberate motions. Teasing. Tempting.

His throat bobs, and his Adam’s apple dances beneath my touch.

God, even this small contact sets my nerves on fire.

“So, what are you doing today?” I ask, keeping my eyes fixed on the tie, refusing to acknowledge the heat simmering in my stomach and the fire in my veins. The urge to rip his clothes off and ride him until we both combust is almost overwhelming.

Focus, Alya. Don’t lose control .

“I have some business to take care of,” he answers, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble that vibrates through me.

Shit. The baritone in his voice is so fucking sexy. It should be illegal. I’m losing focus, falling into his trap instead of the other way around. I need to take back control. I need to regain control. “What type of business?”

“Mafia business. I don’t know when I’ll be back.” He swallows hard. “Don’t stay up waiting for me.”

Translation: He might not come back at all. My carefully crafted smile melts away. The effort to keep my face neutral becomes almost painful.

“I won’t,” I lie, knowing full well I’ll be watching the clock all night while clinging to the faintest glimmer of hope that he will come back home.

I finish with the tie and step back. But immediately, his hand snakes around my waist, pulling me close once more. “Will you miss me?”

“No.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he says with a smug grin. He’s amused, and fuck, he’s hard. It’s impossible to ignore, with how the rock-hard evidence of his cock is pressing and throbbing insistently against my thighs.

My core aches in response, my every nerve ending suddenly, acutely attuned to his arousal. I wonder what would happen if I just gave in to this magnetic pull, if I crushed my lips against his and let the heat consume us both.

No, Alya. You can’t. Stay in control. Remember the plan.

I shrug, desperately trying to hide my own arousal. “Well, yes. A little.”

He chuckles, trailing his fingers down my spine. His warm breath brushes my ear as he whispers, “I like hearing that. It’s hot to know you'll be craving me while I’m gone.”

I can't help the little laugh that escapes me. “Don’t get cocky. I said a little...”

“You think you can resist me?” he teases, his eyes glinting with mischief.

“Definitely,” I retort, forcing confidence into my voice. But my act is paper-thin. Even I don’t believe my own lies anymore.

But his next move takes me by surprise. He leans in, capturing my lips in a kiss that’s gentle yet charged with unspoken passion. My breath hitches, and my knees threaten to buckle. Every coherent thought evaporates, leaving only the sensation of his mouth on mine.

He pulls back, a knowing smile playing on his lips. “Still so sure about resisting??”

I shake my head, still trying to catch my breath. “No,” I manage to say, feeling a blush creeping up my cheeks.

Damn him. Damn me. Damn this whole impossible situation.

He chuckles softly, reaching out to cup my face. “I promise, I'll be back as soon as I’m done. I won’t keep you waiting for long.”

I nod, feeling a tinge of disappointment. I want more than just a kiss and reassurance from him, but I’m not brave enough to take it yet. Or maybe I’m just not stupid enough.

He smirks, adjusting his tie in the mirror. “Alright, wife. Have a good day. Stay out of trouble.”

“I'll try,” I respond, but secretly, I know I'll never be able to resist the pull of my desires. I watch as he exits the room, his hips swaying with an almost predatory grace.

Once he's gone, the room feels colder, emptier. And I can't help but think of the game I'm playing. Will I really be able to convince him I love him? And more importantly, will I be able to not fall in love with him?

The voice in my head and the one in my heart are at war. What if it backfires and I’m the one left at his mercy?

The thought sends a shiver down my spine—of fear or excitement, I’m not sure anymore.

“I’m fine, Mama.” I heave a sigh and sink onto the edge of the bed. My stomach churns with guilt. Ever since Mikhail gave me my phone back, I’ve been walking a thin line between wanting to tell Mama everything and biting my tongue for both of our sakes. She can’t find out about him and me. She hates him as much as Papa did. I can’t bear to worry her when she’s still on her treatment.

I picture her brow furrowing with concern as she asks. “Are you sure? Your aunt Ripley stopped by last week. She said you weren’t home.”

Fuck! My thoughts whirl, desperately grasping for a convincing lie. I need to answer quickly or she’ll know something is off. “I’m at Sophia’s. It gets too lonely without you, so I came here for a few days.”

“Ah, that makes sense,” she replies, and a fleeting wave of relief washes over me. Then: “Put her on, will you? I’d like a quick chat with her.”

“No.” I blurt out, then jam my finger between my teeth, biting down hard. Way to go, Alya . “I mean, she went out to get some groceries. She won’t be back until later. How’s your treatment going?”

Thankfully, she buys the distraction and doesn’t push further. “It’s going well. Oh, and good news—my hair stopped falling out. I’ll send you a selfie.”

My phone pings, and I pull it away from my ear to check the picture. Mama looks radiant, despite the brutal toll cancer and chemotherapy have taken on her body. Her eyes—my eyes—are a warm, light brown. Her auburn hair is trimmed down to her scalp, but it gleams with a newfound healthiness, a stark contrast to when I last saw her.

Tears cloud my vision as I stare at the picture. The relief is overwhelming. She’s getting better. I won’t be all alone after all.

A flood of plans rushes through my mind—shopping sprees, vacations, maybe even matching tattoos. There’s so much I want to do with her that I don’t think I’ll ever recover if anything ever happens to her.

Losing Papa was enough. Losing Mama, too, would break me completely.

I swipe at the tears streaming down my face and press the phone back against my ear. “You look amazing, Mama.”

She chuckles, a sound I’ve missed so much the last few days it aches. “I’d say ‘a little bit less zombie-like’ is more like it.”

I sniffle. “Thanks for fighting. For getting better.” I throw my head back in a desperate attempt not to cry.

“No, I should be thanking you. I wouldn’t be strong enough to fight this if I didn’t have you.”

Aunt Ripley’s voice echoes in the background.

“Your aunt’s back home. I should go,” Mama says. “Talk to you again later. Love you, sweetie.”

“Love you too, Mama. Bye.”

As the call ends, I lie there, staring at the ceiling, tears now flowing freely. The joy in my chest is so overwhelming that it spills over, leaving me in a flood of silent relief and gratitude.

When the tears finally subside, I want nothing more than to lie down and burrow into my pillow while I lose myself in fantasies about Mikhail. But it’s afternoon and my growling stomach has other ideas.

Sliding my legs in my fluffy slippers, I amble down to the kitchen where the irresistible aroma of something delicious pulls me in. Grace is at the oven door, waiting for whatever is inside. I lean against the kitchen island, taking in the delicious scent.

“Hi, Grace,” I say, rising onto my toes and stretching my neck to get a glimpse of what’s cooking. “Smells like heaven.”

She turns around with a warm smile. “When it comes to pasta, no one does it like me.”

I huff out a laugh. “Bragging about your cooking skills, huh?”

“Trust me, child. If you could cook like this, you’d shout it from the rooftops.” She slips on some oven mittens and opens the oven door. “Speaking of, can you cook?”

My stomach rumbles at the sight of the perfectly made pasta she places on the counter. It’s nestled in a savory tomato sauce, with flecks of fresh basil and a golden, melted cheese topping. “I can. But whether it’s edible or not might depend on who’s brave enough to try it.”

She fakes a frown at my joke. “Well, a good wife should at least know how to cook.”

I bite back an eye-roll. Typical boomer advice. “And husbands?”

“Them too. Mikhail is good with his hands.” She catches my expression and quickly adds, “Not with guns. He’s a good cook.”

I choke on my saliva and hurry to the fridge for a bottle of water as I start coughing. That wasn’t what made me react, but thank God she missed my real train of thought.

Mikhail being “good with his hands” conjures images far less innocent that have nothing to do with cooking—his fingers teasing and squeezing, touching me in ways that make me forget my own name. I don’t even expect anything else from him.

I gulp down half the bottle, trying to cool the heat rising in my cheeks.

“What are you thinking?” Grace’s voice snaps me back to the present.

“What?” I splutter, caught off guard.

She points at my cheeks. “You were blushing and biting your lips. Don’t tell me you were daydreaming and having an orgasm right here in the kitchen.”

I scoff, trying hard to regain my composure. “I don’t like him that much.” I narrow my eyes on her and pretend to be annoyed. “Why would you even think that?”

Grace’s bluntness knocks me for a loop. If she’s this damn upfront now, I can only imagine how wild she was back in the day.

Actually, scratch that. I don’t even want to imagine it.

“Because I know a lie when I hear one, girl.” Her lips quirk into a knowing smile.

Before I can come up with a response, the front door slams open. Hell yes! I’m saved. I don’t need to second-guess who just entered. Only one person would dare make such a dramatic entrance: Kira. She told me she’d be coming by today before she left last night.

And right on cue, Kira struts into the kitchen like she owns the place. She’s a vision in a beige two-piece suit, her face clad in sleek black designer heels that perfectly match her purse. She’s stunning. A goddess in human form. I can’t help but wonder which parent blessed her and Mikhail with such incredible genes.

If I had to guess, I’d say it’s both.

A grin splits my face when she takes off her sunglasses with a flourish. “Well, well. Who’s this supermodel gracing us with her presence?”

She smiles back, gingerly walking towards me. “Your crazy husband’s significantly saner sister.” She stops in front of me and gives me a once-over. “You’re glowing.”

I sigh, dramatically. “Pretty sure ‘forced marriage’ and ‘glowing’ don’t exactly mix, Kira.”

“No, I mean it…” She steeples her fingers under her jaw, scrutinizing me. “That, girl, is the unmistakable glow of a good night. I know it when I see it.”

Heat rushes to my face. I bite my lip, caught between embarrassment and a strange pride. “Well, I can’t deny that.”

She groans. “I’d ask for details, but I imagining my brother in that context might make me hurl.”

A laugh leaps out of me. I don’t have any siblings or close cousins, but Mikhail and Kira’s relationship gives me a taste of what I’ve missed. Kira’s always on his neck, but I know they’ll give up their lives for the other without hesitation.

“Where’s the brute, anyway?” she asks, looking around as if her six-foot-five brother might be hiding in one of the cabinets.

“Out on business. He might not be back today.” The words leave a hollow ache in my chest. I miss him so much already. Damn it.

“And what are you going to do? Sit around moping like a lovesick teen?”

That’s exactly what I plan to do, but I’m not about to admit it. “What do you suggest?”

“Have some fun.” She laces her beautifully manicured fingers through her hair. “Grab a bikini. We’re hitting the pool.”

“I’m not a good swimmer.”

She ignores my excuse and twists her neck to Grace. “Can you get us some fresh orange juice and snack? Anything at all.”

“I made pasta,” Grace offers.

“That’s perfect for post-swim lunch,” Kira declares. Then she reaches for my hand and practically drags me along with her upstairs. “Have you tried swimming with Mikhail? It’s a good way to bond.”

My knees protest as we race up the stairs. And I’m panting like I’ve run a marathon. How is this girl so fit? Maybe hours of chasing down news stories have given her superhuman stamina.

“Why would I want to bond with your brother?” I wheeze, though the idea of Mikhail in swim trunks sends a thrill through me.

“Because he’s your husband, and you don’t seem in a rush to divorce him.” She levels a knowing look at me when we reach the top of the stairs. “Women don’t typically stick around when forced into marriage if they have other options.”

“There aren’t any other options.”

“I offered you a chance to leave, and you turned it down.” Her voice drops to an almost whisper. “That tells me everything I need to know.”

I cock my brow. I’m offended because I know she’s right. I’m furious because I know she shouldn’t be right. “Oh yeah? And what’s that?”

She smirks. “You’re going to fall in love with Mikhail, Alya. Hell, I believe you’re falling for him already.”

And she’s fucking right.