Rose's POV
I used to think one kiss was enough.
Enough to remind me that Black Merv was dangerous.
Merciless. Untouchable.
But I was wrong.
Because him standing here-now-while, I'm naked and vulnerable and trying to breathe beneath foam and candlelight...
That wasn't fear.
That was terror.
He leaned against the doorway like he had all the time in the world.
Black hair messy, shirt sleeves rolled up, two buttons undone-exposing a chest carved like it was sculpted for sin.
He smirked, that wicked kind of smile that never learned the meaning of innocence.
And then, in Russian, he said something low, indecent, soaked in suggestion.
The way his voice curled around my body, even from across the room, made my skin flush.
I understood every damn word.
But I clung to the lie anyway.
"I don't speak Russian," I murmured, fighting the quake in my voice.
He chuckled darkly.
"Funny," he said, "your eyes understood it just fine."
Thank God for the foam.
It was thick enough to hide the parts of me that refused to betray how exposed I felt.
"Ever heard of privacy?" I snapped.
He stepped forward, slow and unapologetic.
His eyes scanned me like I was something he already owned.
"Privacy?" His voice was smooth, amused. "In my house? With my wife? Everything here belongs to me, Rose."
I let out a bitter laugh, shaky but sharp.
"I'm not yours. And I'm not your wife. It's just a contract."
He tilted his head slowly, as if genuinely thinking it over.
Then, I walked forward, sat on the edge of the tub, and placed one hand gently on the rim.
"A marriage contract, though... isn't it?" he said, a cold smile curling his lips.
"Signed under my terms."
My blood boiled under the foam.
Every inch of me wanted to slap that smug expression off his face.
"Why did you dismiss the women?" he asked, like it actually mattered.
I met his gaze, steel in my tone.
"Because I don't need fixing. If you don't like me as I am, cancel the contract."
He raised one eyebrow, like he was reassessing me.
Then whispered, voice thick with challenge, "You sound so sure of yourself."
And then...
His hand moved.
Slow. Calculated.
Fingers dipping past the bubbles, grazing the surface like they had all the rights in the world.
I flinched the moment his fingertips touched my skin.
"Where did that confidence go?" he murmured, voice deep and deadly.
"You were speaking like a queen just a moment ago."
I stopped breathing.
"This," I whispered, "isn't confidence. It's survival.
I'm having a strange man in my bathroom while I'm naked... that doesn't invite trust."
He laughed-really laughed.
The kind of laugh that made my skin crawl.
"Strange, man?" he echoed, pressing harder, hand moving bolder now.
"I'm your husband, Rose.
Your body? Is mine.
Like everything else here."
I gasped, heart pounding, rage and fear mixing like poison in my chest.
"I will never submit to you," I said, voice low, sharp, shaking with defiance.
He leaned closer, voice almost gentle-but it was a weapon in silk.
"We'll see."
Fuck him.
"Smart of you to use the bubbles as armor... wife,"
he murmured, voice dipped in velvet and sin.
But then-his tone shifted.
No longer teasing.
Now it was something colder.
Possessive.
His fingers moved with more intent-lighter, smoother-like he was drawing a map across my skin.
I froze.
Every nerve in my body went on high alert.
Then... lower.
Lower.
His voice brushed against my ears like smoke.
"Are you... wet for me?"
My breath caught.
"No!" I snapped-half in shame, half in fury.
But he didn't flinch.
Instead, he tutted, disappointed, pressing the heel of his palm against my lower stomach, holding me in place.
"Liar," he muttered, slow and deliberate.
"We have a little liar here, don't we?"
And before I could speak, before I could move-
his hand dipped lower again.
Fingers brushing where they shouldn't.
Where no one had the right.
"Let me check for myself," he whispered, voice deep and thick like smoke in my lungs.
That's when I pushed him.
Hard.
Disgust carved every line of my face.
He stared.
Long. Silent.
The kind of silence that screamed danger.
"Then don't test my rules," he said coldly.
"Don't challenge me. Do what I say... or the consequences won't be pretty."
He leaned in again.
So close I could feel the heat of his breath against my lips.
His eyes burned with something darker now-
Not lust. Not anger.
Something more... final.
"Every time you rebel..."
he said slowly,
"...my patience burns thinner."
And I understood.
Oh, I understood.
A wave of shame crashed through me, heat crawling up my neck, flushing my face.
I dropped my gaze. Couldn't meet his.
He chuckled low, stepping away like this was a game he'd already won.
But right before he disappeared through the door, he turned and said..
"You look stunning when you blush, my wife."
Then he was gone.
And all I could think was:
He's going to ruin me.
Black left… and I was still shaking.
But not from shame.
From rage.
No one owns my body.
No one touches me without permission.
I don't care if he's my husband—or the devil in designer.
I stormed out of the bathroom, wrapped in nothing but a silk robe and fury.
Didn't dry my hair. Didn't care.
My feet slapped against the marble like thunder.
I was going to find him.
And this time, I wouldn't whisper.
He was in his office.
Of course. Sitting like a damn king behind his desk, drenched in warm light and colder silence.
I didn't knock.
The door slammed open, and he didn't even flinch.
"Rose," he said calmly, still flipping a page like he hadn't just invaded every inch of my privacy.
"You just broke a rule."
"And you broke everything else," I snapped.
"My space. My will. My fucking dignity."
Finally—finally—he looked up. Slowly. Like I wasn't worth his time, but maybe worth his curiosity.
"I thought you were enjoying yourself," he said smoothly. "That gasp of yours said plenty."
My cheeks flushed, but I didn't back down.
"That's what you do, right?
Use the contract to get what you want?
To control. To own. To manipulate."
He closed the file in front of him with a soft thud, then stood.
Not rushed. Not startled.
Just… deliberate. Powerful. Like a man who'd never heard the word no and wouldn't start today.
"The contract was clear, Rose."
"It didn't give you the right to touch me," I snapped.
"Or to humiliate me."
He stepped forward.
Then again.
And again.
Until my face was level with his chest and I could smell power and poison on his breath.
"You're my wife."
"In ink," I hissed.
"Not in heart. Not in soul."
His smile returned—slow, dangerous, amused.
"Then let's read it again," he murmured,
"Word by fucking word."