To Wear The Devil’s Ring

Sunlight sliced through unfamiliar curtains.

Nadya stirred, head splitting open like someone had tried carving out her brain with a crowbar.

Silk sheets cradled her skin—cool, expensive, wrong.

And she wasn't alone.

"Sleep well, milaya?"

That voice. Low. Smooth. Smug.

She turned, slow and cautious, and found Alexei Romanov perched at the edge of the bed. Shirtless. Coffee in hand. Looking every inch the hunter in silk.

His posture screamed laziness—legs spread, mug dangling from his fingers—but there was nothing lazy about the way his gaze pinned her.

Blankets were yanked up in a heartbeat. Satin bit into her arms; lace shifted where it shouldn't have.

Clothes she didn't recognize.

Her stomach rolled.

"What did you do to me?" she rasped, her voice rough, full of accusation.

Alexei's smirk didn't twitch. "Relax. You passed out drunk. I have standards."

A slow sip. "If I'd fucked you, you'd still be feeling it. I leave quite the impression."

Heat slammed into her cheeks. "You're disgusting."

"And you're hungover," he said coolly. "Drink water. Try not to cry."

At that, Nadya sat up. Her skull pounded, but she ground her teeth against it. "We were at the estate... your family. They hated me."

Alexei rolled his eyes slightly. "They don't hate you. Yet. Right now, you're still a novelty. A curiosity."

She clenched the blanket tighter. "So what happens when the novelty wears off?"

The mug landed on the nightstand with a soft click. Alexei rose—unhurried, looming.

A step forward. Then another.

He braced one hand on the headboard above her, the other pressing into the mattress beside her hip.

Caging her in.

Chest bare. Breath warm. His scent—coffee and cold cologne—flooded her senses.

His voice dropped. "Then we decide if you're useful."

A beat of silence stretched taut between them.

Nadya met his gaze, fury burning away the last of the fog. "I get it. You love control," she said flatly. "So let's not pretend. You have rules."

A flicker of amusement curved his lips. "Of course I do."

He pushed away, giving her a breath of space—but not much. Just enough to stop her from suffocating.

"Rule one: Don't embarrass me. Especially in front of the family."

"Two: If I need you for appearances, you show up and smile."

"Three: Stay in line, unless I say otherwise."

Her brow arched, unimpressed. "Wow. Romantic."

Unbothered, he continued.

"Four: No secrets that affect the Romanovs. Especially not from you."

She scoffed. "You're one to talk about secrets."

"Five: My bedroom is off-limits. Unless I invite you in."

Her mouth curled into a dangerous smile. "Lovely. Now mine."

That earned a raised brow. "You have rules?"

"Oh, absolutely." Her tone sharpened. "Rule one: I'm not your pet. Don't drag me around like one."

"Two: I'm not your scapegoat. If you screw up, you carry it."

"Three: I'll sleep wherever the hell I want. Especially if I'm the one paying the price for this marriage."

He blinked, then gave a soft, almost delighted laugh. "Fair. Anything else?"

"I get to hit anyone who touches me without permission."

A pause.

"Make it—anyone who isn't me."

Her stare didn't waver. "I'll think about it."

"We'll iron out the rest later."

"I'm not done."

That drew a full grin. "There's more? This is turning into a real prenup. Go on, milaya, impress me."

"Rule five," she said, her voice steely. "I get my space. No guards unless I ask. No tracking. No tails. I want room to breathe, and I don't need a leash to stay put."

He tilted his head, admiring her nerve. "You're bold when you're hungover."

"I'm always bold," she said, throwing off the blanket and rising. "You're just used to women who stay quiet."

What she didn't expect was how close he stood.

Standing brought her chest almost flush with his. Her face hovered near the hollow of his throat, breath catching as she realized just how big he was this close.

Alexei looked down at her—smirking, eyes bright.

A sway betrayed her balance, but she caught herself before he could offer help.

He gave her that beat of space again, stepping back—not far, just enough for her to move.

Then, casually, over her shoulder, "I want all of this in writing."

Alexei raised a brow. "You want another contract?"

"I want proof." She reached for the robe draped at the foot of the bed. "In case I decide to sue."

A soft chuckle. "I'll have it monogrammed."

"Go ahead," she muttered, tying the robe tight at her waist. "Just spell my name right."

"I need to pick something up," she added. "From my old place."

"Do you need a driver?" His voice gave nothing away.

"No."

She cinched the robe tighter. "It's personal."

Alexei didn't move, but the temperature seemed to drop a degree. "Don't disappear, Nadya."

"After all this trouble?" She laughed, low and sharp. "Relax, Romanov. I'm your problem now."

The door clicked behind her.

Silence lingered.

Alexei remained still, gaze locked on the space she'd just occupied.

Defiant. Beautifully reckless.

A slow breath escaped through his nose, the faintest smile tugging at the edge of his mouth.

So she wanted rules. Freedom. Space.

Adorable.

He didn't believe in giving rope unless he planned to watch someone hang with it.

But for now—for now—he'd let her pretend she had choices.

He walked back to the table, picked up the mug, and swirled what little coffee remained.

"She'll be a handful," he muttered, almost fond.

He hadn't expected her to hold her ground. Or to enjoy it.

A flick of his thumb tapped the ceramic once. Twice.

"My problem, huh?"

The last sip burned down his throat. The cup dropped to the table.

"At least I won't be bored."

~*~*~*~

It was almost noon by the time she arrived at her family's estate.

Nadya stepped out of the rented car, her puffy eyes shielded by a fresh pair of sunglasses, and a dull ache still thumping in her temples.

Viktor waited at the front doors, tall and grim as always.

"Auntie!"

Darya came flying at her—curls wild, cheeks flushed, arms flung wide. Nadya dropped to her knees just in time to catch her.

"God, I missed you," she whispered, pressing her face into the girl's shoulder.

"You didn't come back," Darya mumbled. "Uncle Ilya said you were busy, but that's dumb."

"I know, baby. I'm sorry. I'm here now."

Pulling back, she kissed Darya's forehead. "You okay? Safe?"

Darya nodded, clinging tighter. "Are you staying?"

Nadya forced a smile and pulled a small gold locket from her purse. "Only if my brave girl wears this for me."

Darya gasped, instantly distracted. Nadya rose to face Viktor, who looked her over with a tight jaw and tighter restraint.

"I take it everything went through?" she asked softly.

He didn't answer right away. "You shouldn't have stayed," he said. "You shouldn't have married him so fast."

"I didn't know he was going to rush it. He practically locked the doors."

"That's why I told you not to go. That world moves differently. Faster. Dirtier."

Something in his eyes was still her father's shadow—loyal, watchful. It helped her stand a little straighter.

"Did you arrange everything?"

"They're here. Waiting."

He hesitated. "Nadya… are you sure this is the right move? You've only started to scratch the surface of what your family was part of."

"Papa always said to learn on the job," she said, voice firm. "I'm not here to be liked. I'm here to keep what's ours."

She ruffled Darya's curls. "Be good for your nanny, sweetheart. We'll go home soon."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

The boardroom smelled like cigars and old power.

Nadya stood at the head of the long table, Viktor beside her. Four pairs of eyes turned toward her—predators, all of them.

Sergei Morozov leaned back in his chair, silver brows furrowed, gaze cold. He didn't need to speak for the insult to be heard.

Ivanna Vetrova sat like royalty, wrapped in cashmere and pearls, smiling like a blade. Her reputation made Nadya's skin crawl.

Across from them, Dmitri Baranov sprawled in his chair, fingers drumming against the lacquered table. The youngest by a decade, he wore arrogance like cologne—strong and obnoxious.

And in the far corner, Oleg Voronov watched in silence. Still. Heavy. Unreadable. The Voronovs didn't raise their voices. They didn't have to.

"I see the Romanovs sent their bride," Sergei murmured.

Nadya didn't flinch, news must have spread from the night before. "My name is Nadya Vasilieva. Daughter of Aleksandr Vasiliev. I speak for my house now."

Ivanna's eyes slid to Viktor. "And does he speak with your voice, or do you speak with his?"

Nadya answered before Viktor could. "I don't need anyone to speak for me."

"Don't you?" Ivanna purred. "You vanished after your brother died. Now you return… married."

Dmitri snorted. "She even sounds rehearsed."

Nadya ignored him. "Thank you all for coming. As you know, with Ivan Vasiliev gone, I'm acting head of the family."

Dmitri scoffed. "So we're taking orders from a Romanov's wife now?"

"You came because you want access to Vasiliev contracts, holdings, networks," Nadya said. "Let's not pretend otherwise."

Sergei leaned forward. "You don't know how to run a business like this. You don't know what we do."

"I am protecting what my father built," Nadya shot back. "We may not have spilled as much blood as you, but our influence made your deals possible."

"Influence doesn't keep men in line," Oleg said. "Fear does."

Ivanna smiled faintly. "You want a seat at this table? Prove your hands aren't soft. We respected Ivan. Nostalgia doesn't buy loyalty."

Nadya opened her mouth, but Ivanna cut in.

"Where's your brother's body?"

The question startled her. "I… I don't have it."

"Convenient," Sergei muttered.

"Some say you ran," Ivanna said. "Others think you helped the wolves find him."

Nadya's heart thudded, rage pulsing in her teeth. "What are you saying?"

"Would your brother be dead… if you'd stayed?"

The words hit harder than any bullet.

"What?" Nadya breathed.

"How do we know you didn't help the Romanovs clean house? Why else would he marry you?"

"I was there," Nadya said, barely above a whisper.

Dmitri's smirk faltered.

"I was with him the night of the ambush. We were trying to disappear. I thought we could get out." Her voice trembled. "I was shot. I dragged myself through blood and rain and tried to help."

She yanked aside the edge of her blouse, revealing the healing scar over her ribs.

"That's what loyalty looks like."

For the first time, they didn't look so smug.

Oleg leaned forward, eyes sharp. "Did you see who did it?"

"Yes."

Sergei's voice was flat. "Then name him."

Nadya met his stare. "No." Her voice was cold steel. "He's mine."

Silence followed. Heavier this time.

Viktor stepped in, clearing his throat. "We came to reaffirm our seat at this table. Nadya has Romanov protection. She speaks with their backing."

""If she fails?" Oleg asked.

"I won't," Nadya said.

Ivanna tilted her head. "You'll learn. Or drown."

The meeting dragged. Numbers, territories, passive threats. Nadya kept her head high, but her vision blurred with fury and grief. Every mention of her father twisted the knife. Every reminder of her brother reopened the wound.

Dmitri yawned, loud and pointed. "Can we wrap this up? I have a real meeting after this."

Victor started to rise, but Nadya pushed her chair back first.

"You can underestimate me," she said coolly. "That's your mistake to make."

She didn't wait for them to leave.

As she reached the door, Oleg's voice followed her like a shadow. "Legacy is earned in blood. Not inheritance."

Nadya didn't look back.