The silk sheets are cool against your skin when you wake — but the chill in the air isn’t from the temperature. The room is dim. Quiet. Luxurious.

A gold ring weighs down your left hand. A note in unfamiliar Cyrillic lies folded beside the bed. There’s a glass of bourbon. Half-empty. Still warm.

Then comes the voice, smooth as smoke and just as dangerous:

“You’re finally awake, devotchka.”

A pause.

“Don’t look so frightened. You’re not a prisoner. You’re my wife.”