CHAPTER 4

The Russo mansion was a labyrinth—endless hallways, sharp turns, doors that all seemed larger than life. For Remy Martins, every step he took felt like trespassing.

He had been told, firmly, to stay in his guest room until morning. But sleep had been impossible. The air here was too heavy, the silence too sharp, his heart too restless. He had wandered the halls to calm himself, fingers brushing against the cold marble walls, when he came upon it.

The study.

The door loomed before him—black oak carved with the Russo family crest, brass handles gleaming in the low light. Everything about it warned him away. Yet something tugged at him, some foolish mix of curiosity and defiance.

He shouldn’t open it. He knew that.

And yet, his trembling fingers curled around the handle.

The door creaked softly as it opened.

The study was a world unto itself: dark mahogany shelves lined with leather-bound books, glass cases holding old weapons, the faint scent of cigar smoke and whiskey lingering in the air. A heavy desk dominated the center, buried under documents and maps.

And behind it sat Tyrone Russo.

He didn’t look up immediately, his pen moving steadily across paper. The silence wrapped around them like chains until finally, his deep voice broke it.

“You weren’t invited.”

Remy froze in the doorway. His pulse thundered. He should run. He should apologize and leave.

“I… I-I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Then leave,” Tyrone cut in, tone sharp as a blade.

But Remy’s feet didn’t move. He stood there, trembling but rooted in place, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

“I… I just wanted to talk,” he whispered, the words barely audible.

That made Tyrone pause. Slowly, he set his pen down and leaned back in his chair. His dark eyes lifted, pinning Remy where he stood.

“Talk?” Tyrone’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “What could you possibly have to say that I’d care to hear?”

Remy swallowed, throat dry, but the words pressed out anyway. “I know you don’t want this marriage.” His voice wavered, but he pushed on. “And… I don’t either. But it wasn’t my choice. So… don’t take your anger out on me.”

The words hung heavy in the air, reckless, impossible to take back.

For a heartbeat, silence. Then Tyrone rose slowly from his chair.

Remy’s breath hitched. The man was even more imposing standing—broad shoulders casting shadows across the room, presence suffocating. His steps echoed as he circled the desk, closing the distance one slow stride at a time.

“You have more courage than I expected,” Tyrone murmured. His voice was low, dangerous, threaded with dark amusement. “But courage and stupidity are cousins, little omega. Do you know how close you are to making me end this marriage before it begins?”

Remy’s back pressed against the door, his hands trembling at his sides. Yet when Tyrone stopped in front of him, towering, the omega lifted his chin—just slightly. Enough to show he wasn’t entirely broken.

“Then do it,” Remy whispered, his voice shaking but firming as the words spilled out. “End it. If you hate me so much… end it yourself. I didn’t ask to be here.”

Something flickered in Tyrone’s eyes—surprise, faint but real.

In an instant, his hand shot forward, gripping Remy’s chin, tilting his face upward. His hold wasn’t gentle; his thumb pressed against trembling skin as his gaze searched Remy’s wide eyes.

“You’ve got fire,” Tyrone said softly, dangerously. “Small. Flickering. But fire all the same.” His breath was warm against Remy’s cheek. “Be careful with it. I’ve crushed stronger flames than yours.”

Remy’s chest heaved. His body screamed at him to submit, to look away—but his eyes stayed locked on Tyrone’s. Frightened, yes. But defiant.

The tension was a blade’s edge.

And then—

The door burst open.

“Big bro—” Oliver Russo froze mid-step, eyes widening as he took in the sight: Tyrone’s hand on Remy’s chin, Remy’s flushed and frightened face, the suffocating closeness between them. His voice dropped into a growl. “What the hell are you doing?”

Tyrone released Remy with a flick, as though he were nothing. “Nothing that concerns you.”

Oliver strode forward, planting himself squarely in front of Remy, shielding him. His eyes blazed. “Don’t treat him like that.”

Tyrone’s gaze hardened. “You forget your place, Oliver.”

Oliver didn’t budge. His fists clenched at his sides, his body a shield between his brother and Remy. “Maybe I did. But someone has to remind you he’s a person, not just some pawn you can crush under your boot.”

The room grew colder. The tension coiled tighter.

Tyrone’s lips curled into something cruel. “Careful. Keep standing in front of him like that, and people might wonder if you want him for yourself.”

Oliver stiffened, but his stance didn’t falter. His arm brushed against Remy’s lightly, steadying him.

Remy’s cheeks burned at Tyrone’s words. His heart pounded in his ears, shame and fear mixing until he could hardly breathe.

“Get him out of my study,” Tyrone said finally, voice sharp as a command.

Oliver hesitated—just for a heartbeat—before guiding Remy toward the door. His hand lingered at the small of Remy’s back, gentle, protective, as he shot his brother one last look. A warning.

The heavy door shut behind them, cutting off Tyrone’s shadowy figure.

Inside, Tyrone returned to his desk, but his thoughts didn’t return to his papers. His hand lingered at his chin, fingers brushing the memory of Remy’s trembling defiance.

Weak. Fragile.

And yet…

Not completely.

And Tyrone hated how much he noticed.

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