Toxic Attraction

A Forced Proximity Mafia Romance

Eliana Ezra

Copyright © 2026 by Eliana Ezra

All rights reserved.

No one is permitted to reproduce or transmit any part of this book through any means or form, be it electronic or mechanical. No one also has the right to store the information herein in a retrieval system, nor do they have the right to photocopy, record copies, scan parts of this document, etc., without the proper written permission of the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Hey, dear reader,

Before you dive in, please note that Toxic Attraction is not a light mafia romance. This world holds violence, betrayal, coercion, captivity, and a Bratva boss who doesn't know how to show mercy.

This is Valerie and Lev’s story. What begins as deception turns into obsession, and a bond neither of them can escape.

If you like your heroes possessive and your heroines strong enough to survive them, you are in the right place.

Enjoy the fall.

Contents

Prologue

1. Valerie

2. Lev

3. Valerie

4. Lev

5. Valerie

6. Lev

7. Valerie

8. Lev

9. Valerie

10. Lev

11. Valerie

12. Lev

13. Valerie

14. Lev

15. Valerie

16. Lev

17. Valerie

18. Lev

19. Valerie

20. Lev

21. Valerie

22. Lev

23. Valerie

24. Lev

25. Valerie

26. Lev

27. Valerie

28. Lev

29. Valerie

30. Lev

Epilogue

Fullpage image

Matvey

Matvey

Daria

Prologue

Valerie

"Please."

My father's voice cracks on that single word, and I freeze in the doorway with my suitcase still in hand.

What I see next makes my insides turn, and bile threatens to rise from my throat.

He's on his knees in our living room, and that's wrong—my father doesn't kneel for anyone. No matter who you are, not even Mom when she caught him cheating.

But he's kneeling now.

The man standing over him is dressed in a suit that likely costs more than a quarter of our house's value, perfectly tailored with no wrinkles. His hair is styled in a casually expensive way that screams wealth, and when he tilts his head slightly to look at me, his eyes are the color of dirty ice.

Empty. Completely empty, it irks me.

"Please, Patrick, I can explain—" My father's hands are clasped together like he's praying, and there's something in his voice I've never heard before. Fear. Raw terror.

What's happening?

My feet still can’t move as I take in my environment.

My mother sits frozen on the couch, her face pale and devoid of color. Ethan sits beside her, seventeen and desperately trying not to cry, but his entire body trembles with fear. His hand grips hers tightly, knuckles turning white.

"Explain what, Viktor?" The man sounds almost bored. "That you fed me false intelligence about Lev Volkov's supply routes? That your incompetence cost me six men and two million in product?"

The words don't make sense. Lev Volkov. Intelligence. Product.

What is Dad involved in?

"Patrick, I didn't know it was wrong, I swear—" My father's voice breaks. "The information came from a reliable source, I thought—"

"You thought." The man, Patrick’s hand moves inside his jacket, and suddenly there's a gun. Black metal, casual in his grip like it belongs there. "You've been feeding me intelligence for three years, Viktor. Three. And tonight, you nearly got me killed."

Three years.

Three years?

My father scrambles backward, hands up, and the sound that comes out of him is barely human. "No—no, please, I have a family, I can fix this—"

"You can't."

The gunshot is so loud it doesn't sound real. Like something broke in the air itself, splitting the world in half, before and after.

My father's head snaps back in a spray of red, and then he's falling, crumpling, and there's so much blood, too much, spreading across the carpet in a pool that grows too fast, and I can't—

No.

No. No no no no no!

"DAD!" The scream tears out of my throat before I can stop it, and I'm moving, dropping my suitcase, lunging forward, but hands grab me from behind—when did anyone get behind me?—and I'm yanked backward so hard my feet leave the ground.

"Let go! Let GO!" I'm thrashing, kicking, trying to break free, but whoever's holding me is too strong, and my father's on the floor with half his head gone and Mom's making this sound, this horrible broken wheezing sound, and Ethan's screaming now too—

"DAD! DADDY, GET UP!"

But he's not getting up.

He's never getting up.

There's blood everywhere. On the wall behind him in a pattern that looks like someone threw paint. On the carpet, spreading in a dark pool. On his shirt, his face, pooling under his head.

That's his brain. Oh God, that's pieces of his brain on the wall.

My stomach heaves, and I gag, bile burning the back of my throat. The hands holding me don't let go.

My father… My father is dead.

"Valerie Novak." Patrick's voice cuts through the screaming, calm and precise as a scalpel. "Twenty-two. Just graduated from Columbia with a degree in English Literature. Came home to rest before job hunting."

How does he know my name?

"Bring her here."

"No—NO!" I twist violently, trying to wrench free, but the men dragging me forward might as well be made of stone. My feet skid through something wet and warm, and I look down, and it's blood, it's my father's blood on the floor, and I'm stepping in it—

I vomit. Right there, still being dragged forward. It comes up in a violent heave that empties my stomach across the carpet, mixing with the blood, and I'm sobbing now, can't stop, can't breathe—

"Kneel."

"Fuck you," I choke out through tears and bile.

Patrick doesn't even blink. He nods at one of his men, and suddenly there's a gun pressed against Ethan's temple, and my baby brother goes completely still, his eyes so wide I can see white all around them.

"Kneel," Patrick repeats, "or I put a bullet in his brain too, and you can watch him die the same way."

I drop.

My knees hit the carpet and the impact sends a jolt through me, and the wetness underneath soaks through my jeans immediately, hot and thick and wrong. The smell hits me then, really hits me, copper and something sweet-rotten underneath, and I gag again but there's nothing left to come up.

I'm kneeling in my father's blood.

The thought repeats in my head like a broken record. I'm kneeling in my father's blood I'm kneeling in my father's blood I'm—

My hands are shaking so hard I can barely keep myself upright. When I look down, there's blood on my palms, slick and warm between my fingers, and I can't tell if it's from the carpet or from wiping my mouth and oh God oh God oh God—

Patrick crouches in front of me, and now we're eye level. He sinks his right thumb into the carpet and lets the blood drench it.

This psychopath is literally staining his hands with his victim’s blood.

He smells like expensive cologne, something clean and woody that doesn't belong in this room with my father's corpse and my vomit and the metallic reek of blood.

"Your father was my informant," he says, conversational. Like we're discussing the weather, not the body three feet away. "For three years, he fed me information about Lev Volkov's organization. Tonight, he failed me. Do you understand what that means?"

I can't speak. Can't think past the roaring in my ears, the way my whole body is shaking, the warmth of my father's blood seeping through my clothes.

"It means I need a replacement." His hand reaches out, and I flinch, but he's too fast. His thumb drags across my cheekbone, and when he pulls it back, it's red. Dripping. He shows it to me like it's a gift. "Congratulations, Valerie. You just got hired."

"No." The word comes out as a sob. "No, I can't—I don't know anything about—"

"You'll learn." He wipes his thumb on a white handkerchief from his pocket, slow and deliberate, and the red smears across the white fabric. "You have three months to infiltrate Lev Volkov's household, gather intelligence on his operations, and report back to me. At the end of three months, you give me everything I need to kill him."

“I’m not brave enough for this, I'm not—I don't— I can’t…"

"You will." He nods toward my mother and Ethan. Mom's rocking back and forth now, arms wrapped around herself, that awful wheeze still coming from her throat. Ethan's crying silently, tears streaming down his face. "Or I kill your mother first. Slowly. Then your brother. I'll start with his fingers—one per day. Then his toes. Then other parts. And I'll make you watch every second before I kill you too."

The casual way he says it makes it real. Not a threat. A promise.

"There's a staffing agency called Elite Domestics. Marina Petrov runs it, and she has just informed me Volkov has sent in a request." He stands, adjusting his cuffs with precise movements. "Your application will be processed tomorrow. Background check will come back clean. You'll be placed in Volkov's household within the week."

"I don't know how to—" My voice breaks completely. "I don't know how to spy."

"Then learn quickly." One of his men tosses something that lands in the blood beside my knee. A flip phone, now smeared red. "Memorize the number. Answer when I call. Report everything you learn."

The bastard obviously came prepared to kill my father and have me replace him.

He turns to leave, then pauses. Looks back over his shoulder.

"If you run, I start with your brother's fingers. If you tell anyone, I start with your mother's teeth. If you warn Volkov?" That empty smile returns. "I'll make it last weeks."

And then he's gone. Just like that. The door closes behind him and his men with barely a sound, and we're alone with the body.

With Dad.

With what's left of Dad.

Mom slides off the couch onto her hands and knees, crawling through the blood to reach him. She pulls his head into her lap—what's left of it—and rocks back and forth, keening. That's the only word for it. Keening. A sound I didn't know humans could make.

Ethan's still on the couch, staring at his shaking hands.

And I'm kneeling in my father's blood with a stranger's phone clutched in my red fingers, and I can't stop shaking, can't stop the sobs tearing out of my chest, can't stop seeing the way his head snapped back, the spray of red, the sound—

Oh God, the sound.

The phone in my pocket—my real phone—buzzes.

I pull it out with trembling, blood-slick hands. The screen is smeared red, but I can still read the message.

TASH: home yet??? we still on for drinks tomorrow?

Tash.

My best friend. The only person who might understand what just happened here. After all, her father is Dmitri Markov, and everyone in our community knows what that means, even if Tash never talks about it. She grew up in this world—the same world my father was apparently part of, the same world that just killed him.

I dial her number. It takes three tries because my hands won't stop shaking.

She answers on the second ring. "Val! I was starting to think—"

"A man called Patrick just shot my father in the head." The words come out flat and dead. "In our living room. He says I have to replace Dad as an informant inside Lev Volkov's organization, or he'll torture my mom and Ethan to death."

Silence.

Not shocked silence. Calculating silence.

“A man called Patrick? Patrick O'Rourke?”

“I don’t know, Tash. I don’t know anyone. I don’t even know what is going on.” I’m shaking now, my legs, my hands, my whole body shaking uncontrollably.

I hear a rumble on the other end of the phone. “What does he look like? Give me anything.” Tash's voice has changed completely. It's the first time I’m hearing her sound like that; it’s almost like she has stopped being my chaotic best friend and has become something else.

“He’s a few feet taller than me. Dark blond hair with… I don’t know, it could be a tattoo or a scar. It’s across his mouth. An ugly scar.” I try to recall the ugly man without throwing up again.

"That’s definitely Patrick O'Rourke. How long ago?"

"Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. The cops aren't here yet, I need to—"

"Listen to me carefully." She's using that calm, deadly tone that makes my spine straighten despite everything. "When the cops get there, you tell them it was a robbery. Your dad fought back. Nothing else. Do you understand?"

"Tash—"

"Nothing else, Val. No names. Patrick won't touch you tonight—he needs you functional. Where's the body?"

"Living room. There's so much blood, I'm—" My voice cracks. "I'm kneeling in it, Tash, I can't—"

"Breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Do it now."

I try. The air shudders in and out of my lungs.

"Good. Keep breathing. Get Ethan to call 911. Tell them what I said—robbery, your dad fought back. I'm coming to you."

"He wants me to spy on Lev Volkov." I'm crying again, can't stop. "I don't know how to do that, I don't—"

"You're a strong woman, Val. You are stubborn enough to be my friend when others dared not even look my way." Something fierce enters her voice. "That means you're stronger than you know. Patrick made a mistake underestimating you. We'll figure this out together."

"What if I can't—"

"You will. Because the alternative is watching your brother die, and you won't let that happen." She pauses. "I'm ten minutes away. Hold on, Val. Just hold on."

She hangs up.

I sit there in my father's blood, phone pressed to my chest, and try to remember how to breathe.

Through the roaring in my ears, I hear Ethan move. Hear him call 911, his voice high and breaking as he tells them there's been a shooting, please come, please hurry.

Mom's still rocking Dad's body, still making that awful sound.

And I can't stop staring at the wall, at the pattern of blood and brain matter, at what used to be my father.

Three months.

Three months to become someone I'm not. To infiltrate a potentially dangerous man’s home and gather intelligence that will get him killed. Three months before Patrick murders everyone I love.

The burner phone buzzes in my hand.

I don't want to look at it, but I do.

Don't disappoint me, Valerie. You have so much to lose. Tomorrow, you will be given everything you need to successfully get into the Volkov Estate.

I close my eyes and press my bloody hands against my face, and let myself break apart.

Because in three months, when Patrick uses whatever I give him to murder Lev Volkov, my father's blood won't be the only blood on my hands.

And I don't know how I'm supposed to live with that.

But I don't have a choice.

Patrick O'Rourke owns me now.

Chapter one

Valerie

There’s no going back now.

My head keeps ringing as the car pulls to a stop.

The gates stand twelve feet tall and are topped with iron spikes that look like they could impale someone.

Patrick somehow did it; he got me into one of the most impenetrable mafia estates.

Here, I die or I die.

Because if I get caught, I’ll die right away, and if I somehow manage to succeed, my cover will definitely be blown, and I’ll still die. There’s no way I can gather intelligence in this fortress without getting caught.

Patrick has sent me to my death indeed.

I press my forehead against the car's window and try to remember how to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. That's what Tash kept saying while I sobbed into her shoulder at 3 am, unable to sleep because every time I closed my eyes, I saw the spray of red, heard the sound—

Don't. Don't think about it.

The armed guard approaching the car has a gun on his hip, black metal, just like Patrick's, and my stomach lurches so violently I taste bile.

Is this my life now?

"Miss Novak?" the driver, Daniel Cruz, according to his introduction, glances at me in the rearview mirror. "Are you alright?"

"Fine." The lie comes out thin and brittle. "I'm fine."

I'm not fine. I haven't been fine since I walked through my front door a week ago and found my father on his knees begging for his life.

The funeral was yesterday. It was a closed casket because there wasn't enough of his head left to see. Mom sat in the front row and didn't cry, didn't speak, just stared at the coffin as if she believed that if she stared hard enough, he'd come back. Ethan and I held her hand and wondered who among us would be next.

The gates swing open with a mechanical hum that sounds too much like the slide of a gun being cocked, and I dig my nails into my palms until the pain drowns out the memory.

We glide onto the cobblestone driveway, and the estate unfolds before me like something from another world. A sprawling stone mansion with turrets that belong in a medieval castle, grounds that stretch endlessly in every direction, gardens so flawless they seem painted on. Men in dark suits stand at intervals, all armed and watching our car with flat, evaluating eyes.

This is what my father's world looked like. The world he kept secret from his family.

The world that got him killed. That may get his whole family killed.

My hands won't stop shaking. I clasp them together in my lap and squeeze until my knuckles go white.

When Daniel opens my door, the smell hits me immediately. Chemical burns the back of my throat.

Bleach.

The same smell that filled our living room after the cops left and the cleaning crew came. The smell of scrubbing my father's blood out of carpet, off walls, out of the grout between floorboards. I spent six hours on my knees with a brush and a bucket, trying to erase the evidence of what Patrick did, and the bleach soaked into my skin until I could taste it.

And now it's here too.

Two men in coveralls pressure-clean the stone pathway near the side entrance, and the water flowing off is faintly pink.

Oh God. That's blood. They're cleaning blood off the—

"Miss." Daniel's voice cuts through the roaring in my ears. "This way."

I force my legs to move, but they don't feel like mine anymore. Nothing feels like mine. I'm watching myself walk toward this fortress from somewhere outside my body, as my father's voice echoes in my head.

‘Please, Patrick, I can explain.’

I swallow the bile rising in my throat, knowing that men like the owner of this fortress do not show mercy.

The main entrance features double doors reinforced with iron brackets. When Daniel pushes them open, I am struck by more wealth than I've ever seen in one place. Marble floors polished to a mirror shine. A curved staircase with wrought iron railings. A chandelier dripping with crystal that probably costs more than my entire education.

But beneath the luxury lies an undercurrent of caution. Security cameras are everywhere, their red lights blinking like watchful eyes. An armed guard stands by the stairs. The windows are so thick they must be bulletproof. Keypads installed on every door.

This isn't a home. It's a prison posing as a palace.

And I'm supposed to steal secrets from the man who built it.

I almost laugh out loud at myself.

My chest tightens, and I can't get enough air. The panic is coming—I can feel it building like a wave about to crash—

"Valerie Novak?" A woman appears from a side corridor, and I recognize her from the video interview. Sofia Rinaldi. Perfectly put together in tailored slacks and a crisp white blouse, dark hair pulled back so tight it must hurt. She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Welcome. I trust your journey was pleasant?"

"Yes. Thank you." The words come out mechanical. I've been practicing them for three days, how to sound normal, how to act like my world didn't end a week ago.

"Excellent. Follow me." She's already moving, heels clicking against marble in sharp strikes that sound like gunshots.

Stop it, Val. They're just footsteps. Just footsteps.

But my heart is racing anyway, and my hands are shaking worse, and I'm following this stranger through a maze of corridors, trying not to fall apart.

The art on the walls is the kind you see in museums. Real paintings with little plaques and dramatic lighting. Between them, mirrors in gilded frames reflect endless versions of me looking small and pale and wrong.

Every door we pass is closed. Every corner has a camera. And I can't stop smelling bleach.

"The east wing is Mr. Volkov's private quarters." Sofia gestures to a corridor blocked by a keypad-locked door. "You're not to enter unless explicitly instructed."

Mr. Volkov. Lev Volkov. The man whose organization my father was supposed to betray. The man Patrick wants me to destroy.

My stomach twists. "Understood."

"The west wing houses staff and service areas. You'll have access to the main floor, kitchen, and designated cleaning zones. Everything else requires authorization." She pauses, studying me with eyes that miss nothing. "You look pale. Are you feeling well?"

"I'm fine. Just... nervous. First day."

Her expression softens slightly. Barely. "Understandable. This position requires discretion and composure. Mr. Volkov values both highly. Can you provide them?"

No. I'm a mess. I'm falling apart. I watched my father die, and now I'm supposed to spy on a Russian mob boss, and I don't know how to do any of this—

"Yes, ma'am."

We continue the tour, and Sofia's voice fades into the background as she explains the rules, protocols, and expectations. All I can focus on is putting one foot in front of the other without collapsing.

The staff quarters are better than anywhere I've ever lived. Spacious, clean room with an actual window overlooking the gardens. En suite bathroom included. Bed that looks like it costs more than my car.

Dad would've loved to see me land somewhere like this. He always wanted better for us. That's probably why he—

I cut the thought off before it can finish.

"Change into your uniform and meet me back here in ten minutes." Sofia's already leaving. "We'll start with the main floor."

The door closes, and I'm alone.

I sit on the bed and pull out my phone with shaking hands. Three missed calls from Mom. Two from Ethan. Seven texts from Tash.

TASH: You got this.

TASH: Remember—nervous is normal.

TASH: Looking terrified is suspicious.

TASH: Breathe. Seriously, Val, breathe.

TASH: Call me when you can.

TASH: Love you.

I want to call her. Want to hear her voice telling me I'm not going to die here. But if I hear her voice, I'll break, and I can't break.

Not yet.

I change into the uniform, black dress, white apron, sensible shoes, and stare at myself in the mirror. I look like I'm playing dress-up. Like a little girl who put on her mother's clothes and is about to be caught.

The burner phone sits at the bottom of my bag, silent and waiting.

I haven't reported anything to Patrick yet. Haven't called, haven't texted. And every hour that passes, I know he's getting angrier.

Last night, he sent a photo of Ethan walking to school. Just walking. Nothing else. The message was clear: I'm watching. Don't forget.

I shove the phone deeper into my bag and go to meet Sofia.

By the third hour, I'm lost.

Not physically lost—Sofia's instructions were clear. But mentally lost, drowning in information I can't process because half my brain is still in that living room watching my father's head blow open.

The main floor is a maze of rooms that all blur together. Formal dining room, sitting room, library, study with a locked door. Sofia shows me where supplies are kept, which rooms need daily cleaning, and which are off-limits.

"You'll start with the guest wing," she says finally, handing me a caddy full of cleaning supplies. "Mr. Volkov is in meetings until this evening. Use the time wisely."

She leaves, and I'm alone in this massive fortress with my thoughts and the smell of bleach that won't go away.

I should start cleaning. That's what a normal employee would do.

But Tash's voice echoes in my head from three days ago, sitting in my destroyed living room while Mom slept upstairs sedated: You need to map his private spaces fast. Patrick will want details. The sooner you give him something, no matter how small, the more time you’ll buy yourself.

I can't do this. I can't—

But Ethan's face flashes in my mind. Ethan crying silently while Dad bled out on the carpet. Ethan asking me if we're ever going to be safe again, and I had to lie and say yes.

Three months. Just survive three months.

I head for the east wing and distract myself with thoughts of how Tash and I became best friends.

It all started when my father suddenly told us we needed to move from our old apartment when I was about eight, and we moved to a nicer neighborhood. We were all happy because Dad got a new, higher-paying job, and we got to live among the wealthy.

Naturally, I had to go to school nearby, and that’s where I met Tash, a tawny but fierce kid who helped me out when others bullied me for being new.

“Get up, don’t be a mouse or they’ll eat you up!” She said, and I loved her since then.

We realized we lived in the same estate, and our friendship grew even stronger.

And when I realized who she was, or rather who her father is, it didn't stop my love for her one bit. Instead, I loved her even more. Because how can a girl raised in such a violent environment be so pure-hearted?

I snap out of my thoughts when I see something weird.

Huh?

Someone left a door propped open—probably maintenance. With my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, I slip into the private corridor.

It's different here. Darker. The art on these walls is violent—abstract pieces in reds and blacks that look like crime scenes. There are fewer cameras, or maybe they're just better hidden.

Every step I take feels like walking toward my own execution.

I try the first door. Locked. Second door. Also locked.

The third door opens.

It's a massive bedroom. The bed, made of dark wood and leather, could easily fit four people. One entire wall is windows overlooking the grounds, where I can see armed men patrolling.

But no desk. No files. Nothing useful.

Wrong room. Keep going.

I back out, and my hands shaking so badly.

The next door opens into darkness. I fumble for a light switch, find it, and freeze.

It's a bathroom. But calling it a bathroom is like calling the ocean a puddle.

Black marble floors. Stone walls with texture that looks expensive. A shower that takes up an entire corner, all glass and rainfall fixtures. Double vanity. A tub you could drown in.

And mirrors everywhere, reflecting me back infinite times—small and pale and so obviously out of place.

This is wrong. Get out. Get out now—

But there's a built-in cabinet, and I think about Patrick's text this morning: I'm waiting.

I move to the cabinet and start opening drawers with shaking hands.

Razors. Cologne. Watches in a case—four of them, the kind that cost more than a car. Prescription bottles with Russian labels I can't read.

Nothing. Nothing Patrick would want. Nothing worth—

Footsteps.

In the corridor.

Coming closer.

Oh God oh God oh God—

My heart stops. Actually stops. And then it's racing so fast I think I might pass out, and I look around frantically for somewhere to hide but there's nowhere, just the vanity and the tub and—

The door.

I slip behind it as quietly as I can manage, pressing myself flat against the wall in the narrow space between the door and the towel rack. My breathing sounds so loud I'm sure he'll hear it, but there's nowhere else, and maybe—maybe he won't notice, maybe he'll just—

The bathroom door swings open.

It misses me by inches, and I hold my breath as he enters.

Lev Volkov.

Through the crack between the door and the frame, I can see him. He looks more menacing than in his photos, and I've spent almost every second of every day researching him.

He's taller than I expected—well over six feet—and built like he was carved from stone. Broad shoulders strain against his white dress shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle and covered in ink. Dark hair sleeked back in a neat style, sharp jaw, cheekbones that could cut glass. And a scar through his left eyebrow that should make him look damaged, but somehow makes him look more dangerous.

He's beautiful, the way a gun is beautiful. Designed to kill.

Move. Run. Slip out while his back is turned—

But I can't. My legs are frozen, and I'm trapped watching as he reaches up and starts unbuttoning his shirt.

No. No no no, he's going to—

The shirt comes off.

My breath catches, and heat floods my face even though I'm terrified, even though I should look away, should close my eyes, but I can't.

He's covered in tattoos. Not the decorative kind people get in college. Prison tattoos. Bratva tattoos. The kind that tells stories written in ink and violence.

Stars on his shoulders. Orthodox crosses on his chest. Script in Cyrillic running down his ribs. A cathedral with domes spanning his back, partially visible as he moves. And scars everywhere. Bullet wounds. Knife wounds. One across his abdomen that looks like someone tried to gut him and nearly succeeded.

This man has killed people. Probably a lot of people. Probably with his bare hands.

And I'm supposed to betray him.

His hands move to his belt, and I should close my eyes, should look away, but I've never—I've never seen—

Oh God.

I grew up sheltered. Catholic school until I was eighteen, then straight to Columbia, where I spent four years with my nose in books because dating felt too complicated, too scary. My parents were traditional, no boyfriends until after college, no sleepovers, no chances to make mistakes that would "ruin my future."

And now I'm twenty-two years old, and I've never seen a naked man in real life, and Lev Volkov is undressing five feet away from me.

The belt slides free, and his pants drop.

I can't breathe. Can't think. Can't look away.

He's all hard muscle and brutal lines, and there are more scars on his legs, his hip, everywhere. And he's—he's—

Don't look don't look don't—

But I am looking, and heat is flooding through me in a way that makes no sense because I'm terrified, because he could kill me, because my father died a week ago, and I shouldn't be feeling anything except grief and fear, but my body doesn't seem to understand that.

My face is burning. My heart is racing. And there's a warmth low in my stomach that I've only felt alone in the dark, and I hate it, hate that my body is responding to this, to him, when I should be running or screaming or—

He steps into the shower.

The water turns on, cascading over his shoulders, running down the tattoos and scars, steam rising around him. Through the barely-frosted glass, I can still see his silhouette, the water streaming over hard muscle and brutal lines.

I should run. I should slip out now while he can't see me, while the water is running and covering any sound I might make.

But I'm frozen. Still watching. Still feeling things I shouldn't feel.

He tilts his head back under the spray, water running down his throat, his chest, and even through the steam and frosted glass, the image burns itself into my brain, and I hate myself for looking, for wanting to keep looking, for—

He goes completely still.

It's not a normal kind of still. It's predator still. The kind of still that comes right before something strikes.

Then his head turns.

Slowly. Deliberately.

And I see it. The mirror. There's a mirror on the wall beside the shower, angled just right to reflect— oh good lord.

Me.

Our eyes meet in the reflection. His pale gray and cold as winter. Mine wide and terrified.

For one frozen heartbeat, neither of us moves.

Then he explodes into motion.

The shower door slams open with a crack that makes me flinch, water spraying everywhere as he storms out. He's walking toward me and I try to move, try to run, but my body won't respond and he's so fast, so impossibly fast.

His hand shoots out to the towel rack.

No.

Not the towel rack. Behind it.

The gun was there. Hidden. Within arm's reach of the shower because of course it was, because this man doesn't feel safe even in his own bathroom.

In one fluid motion, he's got it in his hand, and then the barrel is pressed against my forehead, cold metal biting into my skin.

Water streams off his body. Off his hair. Drips from his fingers onto my face.

The world tilts.

I'm not here anymore. I'm in my living room. Dad's on his knees. Patrick raises his arm. The gun—the gun—the sound—

Please. Please don't.

"Talk." Lev's voice cuts through the memory. Low and cold and absolutely terrifying. Water drips from his hair onto my face. "Now."

I can't talk. Can't breathe. The metal is pressing into my skull, and I can smell gunpowder—is it real or am I imagining it—and Dad's blood is spreading across the carpet and the sound the sound the SOUND—

"I said talk." The pressure increases, and I feel the trigger guard against my skin.

A sound tears out of me. Not words. Just a broken, animal noise.

"Who sent you?" He leans closer, and I can see nothing but those ice-gray eyes. "Roman? Patrick? Gustav? One of the Italians? I have a million enemies, so talk, or I blow your fucking head off right here."

Patrick.

He said Patrick's name, and suddenly I'm back in that living room watching my father beg, watching the gun rise, watching—

"Please—" The word comes out as a sob. "Please don't, I'm just—I'm just new, I got lost, I swear—"

"Liar." His finger moves to the trigger, and I can see him deciding, calculating, the moment he's going to—

"NO!" I try to move, try to get away, but there's nowhere to go, and my legs give out, and I'm sliding down the wall, and the gun follows me down, pressed against my forehead the whole time. "Please, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—I was looking for the linen closet, wrong turn, I'm new today, Marina Petrov's agency—"

"Marina." His eyes narrow. "Bullshit. Nobody gets lost and ends up in my private bathroom."

"I did! I swear, I swear on my father's grave—" My voice breaks completely, and I'm sobbing now, can't stop. "Please don't kill me, please, my mom can't—my brother—please—"

The barrel pushes harder, and I can't breathe, can't see through the tears, and all I can think is this is how I die, just like Dad, and Ethan will be next, and it's all my fault—

"Look at me."

I can't. Can't do anything but shake and cry and wait for the shot.

"I said look at me."

His other hand grabs my chin and forces my head up. His grip is iron, and I have no choice but to meet his eyes.

"Last chance. Who sent you?"

And something in me just... breaks.

Not breaks down. Breaks open. Like a door I didn't know was there suddenly swinging wide, and something fierce and sharp walks through.

For one heartbeat, fear drops out of my body like a stone. Not because I’m brave. But because something in me snaps, clean and quiet, and leaves nothing behind except a cold decision.

“No one sent me,” I say. My voice doesn’t shake. It scares me that it doesn’t. “But if you’re going to kill me, do it. Pull the trigger and explain to your daughter why there’s a corpse in your bathroom.”

His eyes change. Not softer. Never that.

Sharper.

Like I’ve finally stopped being an inconvenience and started being a question.

The gun stays up, but his stare pins me to the marble. Water runs down his chest, pools at our feet, and I realize I’m drenched, uniform plastered to my skin, my pulse loud enough to drown out thought.

Then he lowers the Glock. Slow. Controlled. A choice, not mercy.

“Get out,” he says. “Now.”

The air rushes back into my lungs so fast it burns.

I move. I don’t think, I don’t thank him, I don’t breathe like a normal person. I scramble past him, slip on wet marble, catch myself on the doorframe, and run like the hallway is on fire.

“Wait.”

My body locks. My blood turns to ice because, of course, he changed his mind, of course, this is where the bullet finds my spine.

“What’s your name?”

“V… Valerie.” My teeth click on the first syllable. “Valerie Novak.”

He repeats it like he’s filing it away. “Next time I find you somewhere you’re not supposed to be, I won’t hesitate.”

I nod so hard it hurts.

“Get out of my sight.”

I do.

I don’t stop until my door is locked and my back hits it. Then my legs finally give up, and I slide to the floor, hands over my mouth, trying to swallow the noise of my own collapse. The sobs come anyway. Ugly. Violent. The kind you can’t hide from your own ribs.

I make it to the bathroom and vomit until my throat burns. When it’s over, I sit on the tile with my forehead pressed to porcelain, and one thought beating through me like a drum.

I lived.

I almost died. He almost killed me.

And if I die, so would Mom and Ethan.

Chapter two

Lev

The girl is lying.

I know it the way I know when a deal's about to go sideways or when one of my men is thinking about turning rat. Instinct honed by fifteen years of staying alive in a world where hesitation is a death sentence.

Valerie Novak doesn't belong here.

I dry off and dress in silence, my mind replaying the encounter. Her terror was real—pupils blown wide, pulse hammering so hard I could see it in her throat, breath coming in panicked gasps that made her chest heave. The kind of fear you can't fake because the body doesn't lie.

Cowards. I fucking hate cowards.

The ones who beg and grovel and piss themselves when death comes calling. My father beat that weakness out of me by the time I was twelve. Tied me to a chair in the basement and made me watch him gut a traitor, told me if I looked away, he'd do the same to me.

Real strength is facing death without flinching.

Valerie Novak is a coward. I saw it in every trembling breath, every stammered excuse, every sob that tore out of her throat when I pressed the Glock to her forehead. Pathetic. The kind of weakness that makes my skin crawl.

But then.

For one second, she wasn't groveling, and that's the second that interests me. I also noticed another anomaly the moment something shifted in her.

The instant she stopped begging.

It wasn’t courage. Not the clean kind. It was something colder, something that comes from surviving a violence you didn’t deserve and learning that pleading only entertains the predator.

One breath she was shaking. The next, her eyes went flat, like a switch flipped behind them.

Pull the trigger and explain to your daughter why there’s a corpse in your bathroom.

That wasn’t a maid talking.

That was a person who’s seen death up close and decided she’d rather bite than cry.

I don’t like surprises.

I like them even less when they show up inside my house wearing a uniform and a terrified smile.

I finish buttoning my shirt and stare at the door like I can still see her silhouette on the wet marble.

Who put you here, little mouse?

Who the fuck are you really?

I head to my office, mind circling the problem like a predator scenting blood.

My office is soundproofed, reinforced, and designed for war. Steel and mahogany desk. Computer system with encryption that costs more than most people make in a year. Filing cabinets that require fingerprint access. This is where I run an empire worth half a billion dollars.

And where I'm about to dig into a girl who shouldn't be here.

Her file is clean. Too clean.

Valerie Novak. Twenty-two. Columbia graduate. Father Viktor Novak, deceased two weeks ago—home invasion, robbery gone wrong according to the police report. Mother Anna, brother Ethan. Middle-class family from Brighton Beach. No criminal record. No suspicious associations. Marina Petrov's agency personally vetted her.

Everything checks out perfectly, which is exactly the problem.

In my world, nothing is ever this perfect unless someone scrubbed it that way.

She shouldn't have gotten through my vetting process. Shouldn't have ended up in my private bathroom on her first day unless someone wanted her there.

Someone sent her.

I pull up the security footage from today and watch her arrive. Daniel drops her at the entrance, and she's barely holding it together—gripping her bag like a shield, hands shaking when Sofia greets her. During the tour, she keeps digging her nails into her palms, eyes going distant like she's somewhere else entirely.

Fresh grief, probably. Her father died two weeks ago. That kind of trauma makes people sloppy.

But then I watch her slip away during her break, and the nervous girl disappears.

She moves through the house with purpose, heading straight for the east wing like she knows exactly where she's going. Tries three locked doors before finding mine. No hesitation. No second-guessing.

She wasn't lost.

She was hunting for something.

The bathroom footage shows her rifling through my things—drawers, cabinets, looking for something specific. An amateur job. Any professional would have known about the cameras, would have picked better targets. But she panics and hides behind the door like a fucking idiot.

Not trained. Just desperate.

Which makes her more dangerous, not less.

Whoever planted her here knows how to weaponize desperation.

I watch the rest of the encounter frame by frame. Her terror when I opened the shower door. The way she begged and sobbed and fell apart. Complete breakdown.

And then that moment.

I pause it, rewind, and watch it again.

One second of cold, flat defiance before the fear floods back in.

There you are, little viper.

My intercom buzzes. Mikhail.

"Boss. Sub-level three. We're ready."

The basement. Where Alexei Volkov is zip-tied to a chair, waiting to explain why he thought stealing two hundred thousand dollars from me was survivable.

"On my way."

I close the laptop and head downstairs, anticipation warming my chest.

This is the part I enjoy.

Sub-level three is accessed through the wine cellar—reinforced walls, soundproofing that could muffle a grenade, no windows. This is where I handle internal problems.

Tonight's problem used to be family.

Alexei sits in the center of the room, stripped to his underwear, already bruised from Mikhail's preliminary work. Blood trickles from his nose. When I enter, the fear in his eyes is immediate and satisfying.

"Lev—" His voice cracks. "Lev, please, there's been a mistake—"

"No mistake." I remove my jacket, hand it to Mikhail. Roll up my sleeves slowly, letting him watch. "We have video of you redirecting shipments. Bank records showing deposits. Three witnesses."

"They're lying! Someone's setting me up—"

I hit him hard enough to split his lip and send blood spattering across concrete. The sound of impact echoes off the walls, and satisfaction pulses through me.

"Who?"

"I don't know, but I swear—"

Another hit. His cheekbone cracks under my knuckles, and the feeling is better than whiskey, better than sex. This is what strength looks like. This is what happens when you're stupid enough to steal from me.

He's sobbing now, trying to talk through blood and broken teeth. "Please, we're family—"

"Family doesn't steal from family."

I spend the next thirty minutes breaking him piece by piece. Not in rage—I'm not angry. This is pure enjoyment. Watching someone realize begging won't save them. Watching the exact moment hope dies in their eyes.

My father taught me this when I was sixteen. Where to hit for maximum pain without causing unconsciousness. How to break ribs without puncturing lungs. The precise angle to dislocate a shoulder and make grown men scream like children.

Alexei tells me everything eventually. The gambling debts. The mistress. The desperate, stupid decision to take what wasn't his. He begs for mercy, for another chance, for his life.

I don't give it.

When he's told me everything useful, I put a bullet in his brain. The shot echoes, and his body slumps forward, blood pooling on concrete.

Clean. Efficient. Necessary.

Mikhail will handle disposal. He always does.

I wash Alexei's blood off my hands in the utility sink, watching pink water circle the drain. My knuckles are split and swelling. There's blood spatter on my shirt—I'll burn it later.

This is what I am.

And I fucking love it.

The violence centers me. Reminds me that in this world, strength is the only currency that matters. Weakness gets you killed. Fear makes you prey.

And somewhere upstairs, Valerie Novak is probably still crying, terrified of the man who pressed a gun to her forehead.

Good.

But that flash of steel? That moment where she wasn't afraid?

That's what keeps me interested.

I shower in my bathroom—the same one where I held her at gunpoint hours ago—and let the hot water work into my muscles. Blood and gunpowder wash down the drain, and my mind drifts back to her.

She's not beautiful the way the women I usually fuck are beautiful. No carefully maintained appearance, no expensive styling, no practiced seduction. She's all big brown eyes and soft mouth, the kind of innocence that doesn't last long in my world.

But in that shower, soaking wet with terror in her eyes, I noticed other things.

The way her pulse hammered visibly in her throat—fast and fragile, begging to be pressed. How her lips parted when she saw me naked, a little gasp of surprise she couldn't control. The flush that spread across her face even while she was terrified, red staining her cheeks and neck.

Heat. Just for a second before the fear swallowed it whole.

She's not experienced. That much was obvious. The way she couldn't stop staring at my body, and then looked away like she'd done something wrong. The shocked wideness of her eyes when they dropped below my waist. That's not practiced seduction. That's a girl seeing something she's been told to fear and finding herself curious instead.

Virgin? Maybe. Or close enough that it doesn't matter.

Either way, she'd break so easily.

I finish showering and dress in comfortable clothes—black pants, black shirt. It's nearly 9 PM. I should check on Mila before I do anything else.

Sofia's in the west corridor, reviewing schedules on her tablet.

"Status?" I ask.

She looks up, unruffled as always. "Kitchen inventory completed. Staff rotations confirmed. The new girl started today—Miss Novak. She seems nervous but competent. Should I schedule her for Mila's evening routine starting tomorrow?"

"Not yet. Keep her on general duties."

Her eyes sharpen slightly. "Any concerns I should know about?"

"Just watch her. Report anything unusual."

"Of course." She makes a note. "Mila's already asleep. Elena said she went down easily tonight."

Something in my chest tightens. "No nightmares?"

"Not tonight."

Small mercy.

I head to Mila's room anyway, needing to see for myself.

Her door is slightly ajar, soft nightlight spilling into the hallway. I push it open quietly and step inside.

Mila's asleep, small body curled tight under blankets decorated with stars. Dark curls spread across her pillow. She looks peaceful. Safe.

She wasn't peaceful five years ago.

Five years ago, she was two years old and screaming, covered in her mother's blood, and wouldn't let me touch her for hours. The attack happened while I was across the city handling business—my wife Katya and newborn son Dmitri alone in our bedroom when Pavel Grom’s men broke through security. And I later learned that Patrick O'Rourke was also involved.

By the time I got home, Katya and Dmitri were dead in pools of blood, and Mila was under the bed, small hands pressed over her ears, eyes wide and empty.

She saw things no child should see. Heard things that still wake her up screaming sometimes.

And I can't erase those memories no matter how many guards I post, how many locks I install, how much distance I put between her and the world.

I failed her once. Let her see her mother die because I wasn't there to protect them.

I won't fail her again.

I watch her sleep for ten minutes—the only weakness I allow myself—memorizing the rise and fall of her small chest, the way her fingers curl around the edge of her blanket. She's seven now. Getting older. But still so fragile.

Still mine to protect.

Finally, I leave before she wakes and sees the blood still crusted under my fingernails.

Back in my office, I pull up the security feeds. The hallway camera outside Valerie's room shows her door closed and lights off. She's probably asleep, or lying awake and terrified. Either way, she's contained.

I switch to the recorded footage from earlier—the hallway camera caught her stumbling back to her room after fleeing my bathroom. She could barely walk straight, kept stopping to lean against the wall like her legs wouldn't hold her.

Good.

I fast-forward through the rest of the evening. She doesn't leave her room. Doesn't call anyone on the visible phone. But around 8 PM, the angle catches her pulling something from her bag—a second phone. Cheap flip phone. She stares at it for a long moment, types something quickly, then shoves it back.

Burner phone.

My blood runs cold.

Burner phones mean secrets. Mean contacts she doesn't want traced. Mean she's reporting to someone.

Who?

I make a note to have Mikhail pull her phone records tomorrow. Both phones. And to dig deeper into Marina Petrov's agency. If someone compromised my vetting process, I'll know by morning.

But even as I plan her surveillance, I can't stop thinking about that moment in the bathroom.

The way her eyes went flat and cold. The way she dared me to pull the trigger. The way strength flashed through all that weakness for just one second.

I want to see it again.

Want to push her until the coward disappears and only the viper remains. Want to know what it would take to make that fierceness surface and stay.

What that fierceness would look like, writhing hard with pleasure.

Fuck.

My hand moves to my belt.

This isn't smart. She's a potential threat. Someone I should eliminate or keep at arm's length until I know who sent her.

But I'm undoing my belt anyway, unzipping my pants, because the image of her soaking wet and terrified in my shower won't leave my head.

I lean back in my chair and stroke myself slowly, eyes half-closed, replaying the encounter.

The way her uniform clung to her body. The curve of her hips. The rapid rise and fall of her chest as she hyperventilated. The feel of her pulse hammering against the gun barrel when I pressed it to her forehead—fast and desperate and alive.

"You'd look so pretty like this, Milaya," I murmur to the empty room, grip tightening. "With my gun to your head. Crying and showing me that darkness you're hiding."

Would she fight? Or would that viper surface and take everything I gave her without breaking?

I imagine pressing her against the shower wall right there, hand wrapped around her throat, feeling her pulse race under my palm. Imagine the heat in her eyes before terror floods back in. Imagine making her show me that fire again—making her earn the right to survive.

My hand moves faster, and Russian falls from my lips without thinking.

"Pokажи мне," I growl. Show me. "Show me what you're really made of, little mouse."

The image shifts. Her underneath me. Tears streaming down that pretty face. But her eyes—angry and fiery and daring me to break her completely.

"You'd take it, wouldn't you?" I'm speaking in English now, filth mixing with Russian. "Take my cock, take my violence, take everything, and you'd still look at me with those dark fucking eyes."

I imagine her on her knees in my office. Gun pressed to her temple. Mouth open. That flash of steel in her gaze even while she's choking.

"Khoroshaya devochka," I breathe. Good girl. "Show me the viper. Ya khochu uvidet' tvoyu temnotu." I want to see your darkness.

I come hard, jaw clenched, her name mixed with curses in two languages. Fuck. The way she'd look ruined and still defiant.

Afterward, I clean up and sit back in my chair, satisfaction and anticipation warring in my chest.

Tomorrow, I'll start unraveling whatever web she's caught in.

And I'll push her until that viper surfaces again.

Because the mouse is pathetic and useless.

But the viper?

The viper might be exactly what I need.

I pull her file back up and start cross-referencing everything. Viktor Novak's death—listed as home invasion, robbery gone wrong. But the timing is suspicious. Father dies, and two weeks later his daughter shows up in my house with a burner phone, hunting through my private quarters?

No.

Someone sent her. The Italians? Someone testing my defenses?

I'll find out.

And when I do, I'll decide whether Valerie Novak lives or dies.

But first, I'm going to crack her open and see what's really underneath all that fear.

Because that flash of darkness—that fierce, fearless moment when she wasn't afraid to die—that's worth keeping her alive.

At least for now.

I text Mikhail: Full background on Valerie Novak. Phone records, financials, known associates. Everything. By morning.

His response is immediate: Done.

Good.

This is going to be interesting.

Chapter three

Valerie

Idon't sleep.

Can't sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see the gun. Feel the cold metal pressing into my forehead. Hear the click of the trigger guard against my skull. See those pale gray eyes deciding whether I live or die.

By the time dawn breaks through my window, I've been awake for twenty-six hours straight, and my hands won't stop shaking.

I need to call Tash. Need to hear her voice telling me I'm going to survive this, even if it's a lie.

My phone is buried under a pillow where I shoved it last night, afraid the sound might somehow alert someone that I'm falling apart. I pull it out with trembling fingers and dial her number.

She answers on the first ring. "Val. Jesus Christ, I've been checking my phone every 5 seconds. Are you alive?"

"Barely." My voice comes out raw and broken. "Tash, I fucked up. I fucked up so bad—"

"What happened?"

“I got caught,” I whisper. “First day, and I ended up in his bathroom.”

Tash goes still on the line. I can hear it. That razor-focus she gets when fear turns into calculation.

“Did he hurt you?”

“He put a gun to my head.” My throat tightens around the words like they’re glass. “I talked. I mentioned his daughter. He let me go.”

Silence.

Then, quietly, “He let you go?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” Her voice sharpens. “That means he’s not reacting like a man who thinks you’re a random maid. He’s reacting like a man who suspects. Which means you stop moving like a spy.”

I swallow hard. “I am a spy.”

“Not if you act like you belong there.” She breathes out once, controlled. “Listen to me. No more wandering. No more trying doors. No more obvious recon. You do your job perfectly, you become invisible, you build trust the slow way.”

“Patrick wants results.”

“Patrick wants control,” she snaps. “Results are how he keeps you on a leash. If you rush, you die. If you look guilty, you die. So you stop giving yourself away.”

My fingers crush the phone. “Tash, I can’t do this.”

“You can.” Her tone turns iron. “Because Ethan can’t. And your mother can’t. So you do it.”

The words land like a slap.

Then softer, “Tell me one thing. When you looked in Lev Volkov’s eyes, did you see boredom or did you see interest?”

I close my eyes. I see him again, water streaming down his skin, the gun steady, his stare dissecting me.

“Interest,” I whisper.

“Good.” Her voice turns deadly calm. “Then you can steer it.”

"Tash, I can't do this." My voice breaks completely. "I can't spy on him, I can't—every time I see him, I'm going to remember the gun, and I'm going to fall apart, and Patrick's going to kill Ethan—"

"Val." She cuts me off, and her voice changes. Goes cold and professional in a way I've only heard a handful of times. "The police could handle this. One call. And the police will swarm his case like ants to sugar, they’ve been looking for him, they will help you. No more threats. No more missions. You know that right?"

My breath catches. "What!"

"You heard me. One call to the police, and Patrick could be done. Gone. You and your family walk away clean."

For one second—just one—I let myself imagine it. Patrick gone. Mom and Ethan safe. No more burner phone. No more impossible deadlines. No more living in terror.

But then reality crashes back in.

"No." The word comes out strangled. "No, Tash, I can't—what if it goes wrong? What if Patrick has backup plans, people who can come after us even if the police manage to put him away? What if he has half the police in his pocket? Men like him must surely have half the police force in their pocket."

Tash sighs. "You are right. I was just trying to think of other options that do not put you in the lion's den."

“There is no other way.”

“I tried talking to my father, but he is not ready to send his men and resources into a war that will make him look like a reckless leader.”

“Thank you for trying. For being my friend.”

“I wish there was anything more I could do because men like Patrick don't let their victims go.”

Her words send fear straight to my chest, but I push it down.

“You have done enough.”

“Please, Val, try and keep in touch as often as you can.”

"I promise."

She hangs up and I sit there staring at my phone, her words echoing in my head. Men like Patrick don't let people go.

But I have to believe he will. Have to believe that if I just survive three months, just give him enough to satisfy him, this nightmare will end.

Because the alternative—that I'm trapped forever, that there's no way out—that's too terrifying to consider.

The burner phone buzzes in my bag.

My stomach drops through the floor.

No. Not yet. It's too soon—

But I pull it out with shaking hands anyway, because ignoring Patrick is worse than facing him.

Unknown number. Incoming call.

I answer. "Hello?"

"Valerie." Patrick's voice is smooth and cold, like expensive scotch mixed with poison. "I've been waiting for your report."

"I—I'm still getting oriented. The house is huge, there's security everywhere, I need more time to—"

"You've had twenty-four hours. That's more than enough time to find something useful."

"I tried, but there are cameras and keypads, and I don't have access to most of the building yet—"

“Then get access." His tone remains steady, but there's a colder undertone beneath it. "Or would you like me to motivate you?"

My hands are shaking so hard that the phone almost slips. "No. No, I just—I need forty-eight hours. Please. I'll have something by then, I promise."

"Forty-eight hours." He lets the words hang there, savoring them. "And what happens if you don't?"

Please don't please don't please—

"Your brother Ethan is seventeen, yes? Still in high school. Brighton Prep, if I'm not mistaken." Papers rustle in the background, casual and terrifying. "He walks home most days. Takes the same route—down Atlantic Avenue, cuts through the park near the library. Very predictable routine."

My chest tightens so hard I can't breathe.

"If you don't have something useful for me in forty-eight hours, I'm going to have someone meet him in that park." Patrick's voice stays conversational, like he's discussing dinner plans. "They're going to take him somewhere quiet. Somewhere soundproofed. And then they're going to start with his fingers."

"No—"

"One at a time. Slowly. I'll have them record it so you can hear every scream, every time he begs them to stop. After the fingers, we'll move to his toes. Then his teeth. I'm thinking pliers for those—the sound is particularly memorable. Then his knees. His elbows. By the time we're finished, your mother will be praying for death. For both of them."

I'm crying now, can't stop, hand pressed over my mouth to muffle the sobs that want to tear out. "Please—"

"Forty-eight hours, Valerie. I suggest you make them count."

He hangs up.

I drop the phone and cover my face with both hands, trying to breathe through the panic tearing up my throat. Forty-eight hours. Two days to find something Patrick can use or listen to, or I’ll have to listen to my brother's fingers being broken one by one while he screams for me to save him.

I can't do this. I can't do this. I can't—

But Ethan's face flashes in my mind. Seventeen, scared, and crying silently while Dad bled out on the carpet. Trusting me to keep him safe. I’d lied and said I would.

And now I have to make that lie true, or watch him die screaming.

I have to do this.

I have no choice.

By the time Sofia comes to collect me for my second day, I've pulled myself together enough to function. Barely.

My eyes are red and swollen, but I blame it on exhaustion when she asks. She studies me for a moment with those sharp eyes that miss nothing, then nods and leads me through the maze of corridors.

"Today you'll focus on the main floor," she says, heels clicking against marble in that sharp, precise rhythm that sounds too much like gunshots. "General housekeeping. Keep your head down, do your work, and stay in your assigned areas. Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She hands me a cleaning caddy and a list of rooms. "Start with the sitting room, then the library. If you finish early, Elena may need assistance in the sunroom."

The sunroom. I remember seeing it during the tour—lots of windows, soft furniture, the kind of room designed for a child to feel safe.

"Thank you."

Sofia leaves, and I'm alone in this massive house with two days to find something that will keep my brother alive.

I start cleaning because it's all I can do. Dust the sitting room furniture, vacuum the rugs, and polish surfaces until they shine. The work is mindless, which is both good and terrible—good because I can't think past the panic, terrible because my mind keeps circling back to Patrick's words.

Fingers. Toes. Teeth. Pliers.

Stop it, Val. Just Focus and clean.

Every door I pass is locked. Every corridor has cameras. And after yesterday, I'm too terrified to try snooping again. What if he catches me? What if this time he doesn't just hold the gun—what if he pulls the trigger?

I'm dusting the library shelves, hands shaking badly enough that I nearly drop the cloth, when I hear it.

Footsteps. Small and careful.

I turn, and there she is.

Mila Volkov.

She's tiny for seven—dark curls, pale skin, and huge gray eyes that watch me with such intensity that I catch my breath. She is wearing a white, lace-trimmed dress, spotless and expensive, and stands in the doorway studying me.

Not hostile. Just... observing. Deciding something.

"Hi," I manage, and my voice comes out softer than I intended. Gentler. Because she's just a little girl, and whatever else is happening in this nightmare, she doesn't deserve to be scared. "I'm Valerie. I'm new here."

She doesn't answer. Just keeps staring with those too-old eyes that have seen things children shouldn't see.

I set down my dust cloth and crouch so we're closer to eye level, trying to seem less threatening. "What's your name?"

"Mila." Her voice is quiet. Careful. Like she's testing whether I'm safe.

"That's a beautiful name." I smile, trying to make it reach my eyes. "I like your dress. Is white your favorite color?"

She glances down at her dress, then back up at me. "Elena picks my clothes. She says white is proper."

Elena. The older woman who watches Mila. Who probably controls every aspect of this child's life.

"Well, I think it's very pretty. But what's your favorite color?"

She blinks, surprised. Like no one's asked her that before. "I... don't know."

"You don't know?" I keep my voice light, gentle. "That's okay. We can figure it out together. Do you like blue? Or maybe green? Yellow?"

"Pink." It comes out quietly, almost like she's confessing something forbidden. "I like pink. But Papa says it's too bright."

My chest tightens. Of course he does. Of course he'd control even something as simple as her favorite color.

"Pink is wonderful," I say firmly. "And you know what? I bet you'd look beautiful in pink. Like a princess."

Her eyes widen slightly. "Really?"

"Really. You have dark hair like me, and pink would make your eyes stand out." I pause, then add carefully, "Do you like braids? I could braid your hair sometime, if you want. My friend used to let me practice on hers all the time."

Something shifts in her small face. Interest mixed with caution. "Mama used to braid my hair. Every morning."

Mama. Her mother, who had died.

My throat tightens, but I keep my voice steady. "I bet it was beautiful. I'd be honored to try, if you'd let me. But only if you want to."

She studies me for a long moment, and I can see her weighing risks, cataloging whether I'm a threat or something else. Something safe.

"Okay," she says finally. "But you have to be gentle."

"I will be. I promise."

She takes a step closer, and then another, until she's standing right beside me. Close enough that I can see the shadows under her eyes, the way her small hands grip the fabric of her dress like it's armor.

"Do you like waffles?" The question comes out of nowhere, tentative and testing.

"I love waffles," I say honestly. "Especially with strawberries and whipped cream."

Her face brightens slightly—not a smile, but close. "Mama used to make waffles. Every Sunday. With strawberries."

"That sounds perfect. Your mama must have been a very good cook."

"She was." Mila's voice goes quieter. "But she's gone now. Papa says she's in heaven, but I don't know what that means."

Oh goodness, she's seven and has lost her mother, and she doesn't even understand what death means.

"It means she loved you very much," I say softly. "And even though she's not here anymore, that love doesn't go away. It stays with you always."

Mila looks at me with those too-old eyes, and for a second, I see something crack in her careful composure. "Elena says I shouldn't talk about Mama. She says it makes Papa sad."

"Sometimes grown-ups get sad when they remember people they loved," I tell her gently. "But that doesn't mean you can't remember her. Or talk about her. Your memories are precious, Mila. Don't let anyone take those away from you."

She nods slowly, and her small hand reaches out to touch mine. Just for a second. A fleeting connection before she pulls back.

"I like you," she says quietly. "You're not harsh and are easy to talk to."

Before I could respond, I could sense the eyes on me.

A presence in the doorway.

The temperature in the room drops, and every instinct screams predator.

I look up, and Lev Volkov is standing there.

He doesn't speak. Doesn't move. Just watches with those pale gray eyes, and the weight of his attention is suffocating, crushing, drowning me where I crouch beside his daughter.

"Papa!" Mila's voice isn't quite bright, just mildly excited. She steps toward him — not running, because this child doesn't run anywhere. It’s as if they have erased every childish trait from her.

He doesn't take his eyes off me, but his hand comes down to rest on Mila's head briefly. The gesture is gentle. Protective. So at odds with the man who held a gun to my forehead that it makes my head spin.

"Go find Elena," he says quietly.

Not a request. An order.

Mila glances between us, and something in her small face tightens with understanding. Or fear. She nods once and leaves quickly, disappearing down the corridor without looking back.

And then I'm alone with him.

He still doesn't move from the doorway. Just stands there watching me with that predator intensity, like I'm prey and he's deciding when to strike.

I can't move. Can't breathe. All I can think about is the gun, the way it felt pressed against my forehead, the certainty that I was about to die.

My hands are shaking. I clasp them together and dig my nails into my palms, trying to stop the trembling, but it's useless.

He sees it. I know he sees it because his eyes drop to my hands, then back to my face.

"Keep cleaning."

What?

"Keep cleaning," he repeats, voice low and cold. "Unless you want everyone in this house to know you're terrified of me."

Everyone already knows. They have to know. I ran out of his wing yesterday like the building was on fire.

But I grab the dust cloth with shaking fingers anyway and turn back to the bookshelf, trying to focus on wiping down spines when all I can feel is his eyes on me.

Watching.

Hunting.

Cataloging.

Minutes pass. Maybe hours. Time stretches and compresses until I can't tell anymore.

Then his voice cuts through the silence, and it comes from directly behind me.

"You'll help with Mila's evening routine tonight."

I jump so hard I nearly drop the cloth.

When did he move? I didn't hear footsteps, didn't feel him approach, and now he's right there, close enough that I can feel his body heat against my back.

"I—yes. Of course."

"Eight o'clock. Elena will show you what needs to be done." He pauses, and I feel him lean closer. His breath ghosts across the back of my neck. "And if you make her cry, I'll make you regret having a tongue."

Then he's gone.

Just like that. Footsteps receding down the corridor, and I'm left pressed against the bookshelf with my heart hammering so hard I think it might break through my ribs.

If you make her cry, I'll make you regret having a tongue.

The threat is clear. Explicit. And I believe every word.

Because this man doesn't make empty threats.

I slide down to the floor, legs giving out, and press my hands over my face.

Forty-eight hours to find something for Patrick.

And Lev Volkov watching my every move, threatening me if I upset his daughter.

I'm going to die here.

One way or another, I'm not surviving this.

Eight o'clock comes too fast.

I find Mila's room in the east wing—the same corridor where I almost died yesterday—and Elena is waiting outside. She's older, maybe sixties, with gray hair pulled back and eyes that have seen too much to be surprised by anything.

"Miss Novak." She looks me up and down, assessing. "Mr. Volkov says you'll be helping with evening routines starting tonight."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Mila has specific preferences. She doesn't like loud noises. She doesn't like to be touched without warning. She reads the same book every night—The Wild Swans—and she needs the nightlight on. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

Elena studies me for a moment longer, and I see the warning in her eyes. Hurt this child and die.

"I'll be nearby. If you need anything, call."

She opens the door and steps aside, and I enter.

Mila's room is beautiful in a way that feels deliberate—soft colors, expensive furniture, toys arranged perfectly on shelves. But it also feels empty. Like a showcase room instead of a child's space. Like something designed to look perfect rather than be lived in.

Mila sits on her bed in pajamas—white with little stars—dark curls brushed and falling around her shoulders. She watches me enter with those careful eyes.

"Hi," I say softly. "Elena said you like a story before bed?"

She nods once and hands me a book. The Wild Swans. Hans Christian Andersen. The fairy tale about a girl who has to stay silent for years to save her brothers from a curse.

Of course, this is her favorite. Naturally, a child who has learned to be quiet would love this story.

I sit in the chair beside her bed and start reading. My voice is shaky at first, but Mila doesn't seem to mind. She listens with complete focus, small body curled under blankets, eyes tracking the illustrations.

Halfway through the second page, I feel it.

His presence.

I don't look up. Don't stop reading. But I know he's there, standing in the doorway just like this afternoon, watching.

The weight of his attention makes my hands shake worse, turns every word into a struggle. But I keep reading because stopping would be worse, would draw more attention, would—

Mila's eyes flicker to the doorway, then back to me. She doesn't seem surprised. This is normal for her—her father standing guard while she falls asleep, watching for threats even here.

What kind of life is this for a seven-year-old?

I finish the chapter, and Mila's breathing has evened out. Sleep pulling her under.

"Goodnight, Mila," I whisper.

She doesn't answer. Already out.

I stand carefully, setting the book on the nightstand, and move toward the door on legs that barely work. Trying not to look at him. Trying to slip past without acknowledging the man blocking my path.

But he doesn't move.

I stop two feet away, trapped between him and the room, and force myself to meet his eyes.

He's staring at me with that same intensity from earlier. But there's something else underneath now. Something I can't read.

"She likes you." His voice is barely above a whisper, mindful of Mila sleeping.

I don't know what to say to that, so I say nothing.

"Don't get comfortable." His eyes narrow slightly. "I'm still deciding if you're a problem I need to eliminate."

Of course, I fucking know.

Then he steps aside, just enough for me to slip past, and I escape into the corridor as fast as I can without running.

But I only make it three steps before his hand wraps around my wrist.

I freeze. Every muscle locking up because the last time someone grabbed me like this was Patrick's men dragging me through my father's blood, and now I'm back in that living room, hearing the shot, seeing Dad's head snap—

The hallway spins. My chest feels too tight, and there's not enough air, and I can't breathe, can't—

"Interesting."

His voice cuts through the panic, clinical and detached. Like he's observing an experiment.

Black spots dance in my vision. My knees are buckling, the world is tilting sideways, and I'm about to pass out right here in his corridor—

He's just holding my wrist. Watching me fall apart like it's entertainment.

I try to pull away, but his grip is iron, and my lungs won't work, and the edges of my vision are going dark—

His free hand comes up to the back of my neck.

Not gentle. Not comforting. Just functional.

He shoves my head down—rough, efficient, leaving no room for resistance.

"Head between your knees. Breathe."

I can't—

"Breathe." His voice is cold. Commanding. "In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Do it."

The oxygen comes in gasps. Slowly. Painfully. But it comes.

His hand stays on my neck, holding me in position, and gradually the panic recedes enough that I can think again.

"Better?" he asks after a minute.

"Yes." It comes out as a whisper.

He releases me, and I straighten up. Now we're standing too close in this empty hallway, and his eyes are searching mine again.

Looking for something. Hunting for whatever darkness he thinks he saw yesterday.

His hand comes up to my face.

Not gentle. His fingers dig into my jaw, forcing my head up, thumb pressing hard enough against my cheekbone that it hurts.

"Yesterday in the bathroom." His voice drops lower. "For one second, you weren't afraid. Where did that come from?"

Nowhere. Everywhere. Some broken place inside me that snapped when the fear got too big.

"I don't know what you're talking about." The lie tastes like ash.

"Liar." His thumb drags across my jaw—rough skin catching on mine, the pressure just shy of painful. "I don't like liars, Valerie."

My name in his mouth sounds like a threat and a promise and something darker I don't want to name.

Heat floods through me—wrong, horrifying heat that pools low in my stomach even though his grip hurts, even though I'm terrified, even though this man held a gun to my head yesterday.

My nipples tighten against my uniform, and I pray he doesn't notice because this is insane, this is wrong, my body shouldn't be responding like this—

"But I like puzzles." His grip tightens, and his eyes drop to my mouth. "And you're both. A lying little puzzle I need to solve."

His thumb moves to my bottom lip, pressing down hard enough that I taste blood where it catches on my teeth. The pressure is rough. Claiming. And the heat in my stomach spreads, turns into something wet and shameful between my thighs.

No. No. No. I can’t be turned on, not for him—

"I'm going to figure you out." His voice is low and intimate and completely terrifying. "Every lie. Every secret. Every dark place you're hiding. And when I do—"

He releases me suddenly, stepping back like he didn't just have his hand on my face, like this is all perfectly normal.

He adjusts his cuffs with precise movements. "Goodnight, Valerie."

Then he walks away, leaving me standing in the hallway with my heart pounding, my face burning, and wetness between my thighs that makes me want to die from shame.

I make it back to my room before my legs give out completely.

Forty-eight hours to find something for Patrick.

And Lev Volkov is watching my every move, touching me like he owns me, threatening to solve me like a puzzle.

I curl up on my bed, shaking from fear and arousal and disgust at myself.

Because the worst part—the absolutely horrifying part—is that when his hand was on my face, when he was hurting me and threatening me and looking at me like I was something to dissect, some twisted part of me wanted him to keep going.

Wanted to know what would happen if he stopped being curious and started being something else.

And that terrifies me more than anything Patrick could do.

Because I'm not supposed to feel heat when a monster touches me.

I'm supposed to feel fear.

But my body no longer seems to understand the difference.

Chapter four

Lev

Ican’t stop watching her.

I can’t stop thinking about her. What the fuck is wrong with me?

I watch her on the security feeds from my office, tracking her movements through the house. She cleans—adequately, nothing Sofia would complain about—but every chance she gets, she's cataloging. Memorizing camera positions. Testing locked doors when she thinks no one's watching. Lingering too long near keypads, eyes tracking the sequences when staff enter codes.

Really amateur. Any professional would know to be subtler.

But that's what makes it interesting. She's not trained. She's desperate. And desperation makes people ready to die rather than fail. And whoever sent her has fully weaponized her desperation.

A genius puppet master.

Last night at 2 AM, she tried my office door. Stood there for three minutes working up the courage, hand on the knob, before walking away when she heard Daniel doing his rounds. The hallway camera caught her face—pure terror mixed with determination.

What are you looking for, little mouse?

I pull up the rest of the week's footage. She's been asking questions. Casual ones that would seem innocent to anyone not looking for patterns. Asks Sofia about my schedule. Asks Daniel which cars I prefer. Asks Elena which rooms I use most often.

Classic reconnaissance. Building a profile. Gathering intelligence.

For who?

Mikhail's report sits on my desk. Phone records for both her devices. The smartphone shows nothing suspicious—calls to her mother, her friend Natasha Markov (Dmitri's daughter, interesting), and a few local numbers. Normal.

But the burner phone has one number. Just one. Called her three times in the past seventy-two hours. Incoming only. No outgoing calls. No texts.

The number's a dead end. Routed through multiple proxies, untraceable without resources I'd need to call in favors for. Which means whoever's running her has money and connections.

The Italians? Someone testing my defenses?

I should kill her. Clean, simple, problem solved.

But I don't.

Because she's also genuinely good with Mila.

I switch to yesterday's footage. Valerie in the sunroom, braiding my daughter's hair while Mila talks. Actually talks—more words in thirty minutes than I've heard from her in weeks. And Mila's smiling. Not the careful, guarded expression she gives everyone else. A real smile.

When was the last time I made her smile like that?

Never.

The thought settles in my chest like broken glass.

I'm her father. I'd die for her. Kill for her. Burn the world down to keep her safe. But I can't make her smile. Can't make her feel safe enough to just be a child, instead of a haunted little ghost, cataloguing threats.

Valerie does it without trying, and that complicates everything.

I really need to get my act together; I have other things to do than thinking about a potential spy maid.

Three days after the bathroom incident, I find her in the west corridor, arms full of fresh linens from the supply closet. She doesn't see me at first. Too focused on not dropping the stack of sheets that reaches her chin.

I step out from the intersecting hallway directly into her path.

She freezes. The linens wobble, but she catches them, and her eyes go wide when she realizes who's blocking her way.

"Mr. Volkov." Her voice comes out thin. Shaky. "I didn't see you there—I was just—"

"Just what?" I don't move. Don't give her space to pass. Just stand there and watch her pulse hammer in her throat.

"Getting linens. For the guest rooms. Sofia asked me to—"

"I didn't ask what you're doing." I take a step closer. She takes one back, her spine hitting the wall.

Her breath quickens. I can see her chest rising and falling faster under the stack of linens, see her eyes dart to the nearest exit—twenty feet away, might as well be a mile—and then back to me.

"You seem nervous, Valerie."

"I'm not—" Her voice breaks. "I'm just trying to do my job."

"Are you?" I tilt my head slightly, studying her. The way her pupils dilate. The way her lips part as if she can't get enough air. The way her body goes rigid, but she doesn't run. "Because it seems like you've been trying to do something else entirely."

"I'm not doing anything else." The lie is immediate. Automatic.

I reach out slowly—giving her time to see it coming—and pluck the top sheet from her stack. She flinches but doesn't drop the rest.

"Then why do you look like you're about to bolt?" I let the sheet unfold between us, examining it like it's fascinating. "Why does your pulse race every time I'm near? Why do you jump at shadows?"

"I don't—"

"You do." I drop the sheet. It puddles on the floor between us. "And I'm trying to decide if it's guilt or fear."

Her eyes drop to the sheet, then back to my face. "Please, I need to—Sofia's waiting—"

"Sofia can wait." I take the last step, eliminating the space between us entirely. She's pressed against the wall now, linens clutched to her chest like armor. "Look at me."

She doesn't want to. I can see it in how her eyes try to focus anywhere else—the floor, the ceiling, the discarded sheet. But eventually, she looks up.

And there it is. That flash of something underneath the terror. Just for a second. Something sharp and defiant before the fear swallows it whole.

There you are.

"Good girl," I murmur. "Now tell me what you're really doing in my house."

"Cleaning. Working. I already told you—"

I lean closer, one hand coming up to rest on the wall beside her head. Not touching her. Not yet. Just caging her in. "Liar."

Her breath hitches, and I notice other things. The way her nipples have tightened against her uniform, visible even through the fabric and the linens. The flush spreading across her chest and up her throat. The way she presses her thighs together like she's trying to hide something.

Arousal.

She wants me. Doesn't want to want me. Horrified by it, perhaps. But her body doesn't lie.

"I'm not lying." But her voice wavers. Unconvincing.

"You're terrible at it." I let my eyes drop deliberately to her mouth, then back up. "But that's alright. I enjoy puzzles."

"I'm not a puzzle." She's shaking now. Small tremors running through her whole body. "I'm just—"

"Just what? A girl who ended up in my bathroom by accident? A girl who asks too many questions about my schedule? A girl with a burner phone hidden in her bag?"

The color drains from her face. "I don't know what—"

"Don't." My voice drops lower. Dangerous. "Don't insult my intelligence by pretending you don't understand what I'm saying."

She opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again like a fish drowning in air.

"Who sent you?" I ask quietly.

"No one."

"Try again."

"I'm just a maid who needed a job—"

"And I'm just a man who enjoys watching liars squirm." I lean close enough that my breath ghosts across her face. "But I'm getting bored of this game, Valerie. So here's what's going to happen. You're going to keep doing whatever it is you're doing. And I'm going to keep watching. And eventually, you'll slip. Make a mistake. And when you do—"

I let the threat hang there. Unfinished. More terrifying for what I'm not saying.

"I'm not—" Her voice breaks completely. "Please, I'm not doing anything, I swear—"

"Shh." I reach up with my free hand and brush my thumb across her cheekbone. She flinches but has nowhere to go. "The more you lie, the more interested I become. And you don't want my interest, little mouse. Trust me."

I push off the wall and step back, giving her space to breathe.

She gasps like she's been underwater, clutching the linens tighter.

"Pick up the sheet," I tell her. "And get back to work."

She scrambles to obey, dropping to her knees to gather the fallen linen with shaking hands. When she stands, she won't meet my eyes.

"Valerie."

She freezes.

"Next time I corner you, try not to look quite so aroused. It's distracting."

The flush on her face deepens to crimson, and she flees down the corridor without another word.

I watch her go, satisfaction curling in my chest.

Fear I can work with. Fear mixed with unwanted attraction? That's leverage.

But I'm still no closer to understanding where that flash of darkness came from. The moment in the bathroom when she stopped being a terrified mouse and became something cold and sharp.

I need to see it again.

And I will.

It's just a matter of time and pressure.

I corner her again two days later. Kitchen this time, late at night when she's getting water.

She sees me enter and her hand jerks, water sloshing over the rim of her glass.

"Can't sleep?" I ask conversationally.

"I—no. Just thirsty."

"Mmm." I move to the refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of vodka from the back. Her eyes track my movements. "Want some? Helps with insomnia."

"I don't drink."

"Liar." I pour two fingers into a glass. "Everyone drinks. It's just a question of how much and why."

She doesn't answer. Just stands there clutching her water glass like a lifeline.

I cross to her slowly. She backs up until her hips hit the counter.

"You're scared of me." Not a question. Observation.

"No, I'm—"

"Yes, you are." I take a drink, never breaking eye contact. "And you should be. But that's not why your hands are shaking right now."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Yes, you do." I set my glass down on the counter beside her, close enough that my arm brushes hers. She jerks away from the contact. "Your body knows even if your mind won't admit it yet."

"I should go—"

"Stay." Not a request. An order.

She stays. Frozen in place. Prey instinct overriding flight response.

"Tell me something, Valerie." I turn to face her fully, one hand coming up to rest on the counter behind her. Caging her again. "When you close your eyes at night, what do you see?"

"I don't—"

"The gun? The way I looked at you? The moment you thought you were going to die?"

Her breath catches, and tears gather in her eyes.

"Or do you see something else?" I lean closer, voice dropping. "Something that scares you more than dying?"

"Stop." It comes out as a whisper.

"Why? Because it's true?" My eyes drop to her mouth, watching her lips tremble. "Because you're terrified that some part of you liked having my attention, even with a gun to your head?"

"No." But there's no conviction in it.

"Liar." My hand comes up to her face, thumb brushing across her jaw. She flinches but doesn't pull away. "You want to know what I think?"

She shakes her head, but her eyes say yes.

"I think you've spent your whole life being invisible. Safe. Boring. And then I saw you. Really saw you. And for one second, you forgot to be afraid and remembered what it felt like to be alive."

"You're wrong." Her voice breaks. "You're insane."

"Maybe." I smile, and watch her pupils dilate. "But you're still here. Still letting me touch you. Still wondering what happens if you stop running."

I release her and step back, picking up my vodka.

"Goodnight, Valerie. Sweet dreams."

I leave her there, shaking and confused and aroused, and head back to my office.

The mouse is starting to crack.

Soon, I'll see the viper again.

And when I do, I'll decide if she lives or dies.

Business pulls me away from my surveillance for two days.

Arms deal with the Chechens. They want American weapons—M4s, grenades, enough firepower to start a small war. I don't care what they do with it as long as the price is right.

The meet is in a warehouse in Red Hook. Neutral territory. My men, their men, product sample in the middle. Standard procedure.

Except Ruslan, their negotiator, thinks I'm stupid.

"I hear that price has decreased," he says in Russian, arms crossed. Behind him, six Chechen enforcers try to look intimidating. "Market conditions. Supply issues. You must be aware of this."

The only thing I’m aware of is that he's trying to shortchange me by two million dollars.

"We agreed on a price." My voice stays calm. Mikhail shifts beside me, hand moving toward his weapon. "That price hasn't change."

"It changed." Ruslan shrugs. "I’ll pay the new price or we walk."

They won't walk. They need these weapons too badly. This is a test. Seeing if I'm weak enough to be pushed.

I'm not.

“I want us to talk privately.” He says, moving his hand subtly, but I notice the glint inside his sleeves.

"Mikhail." I don't take my eyes off Ruslan. "Clear the room."

My men file out immediately. Ruslan's men hesitate, looking to him for direction. He nods once, confident he can handle me alone.

Stupid.

Now it's just us.

"So, you want to renegotiate?" I ask conversationally.

“Yes, and I need to leave with the products tonight.” His eyes gleam greedily. “Did you say the rest are outside?”

It’s obvious he is just fishing.

“Yes, in crates, secured in the trucks outside.”

“Well, it was a pleasure doing business with you.” He smiles before pulling out his concealed weapon.

But I am faster and prepared for his stupid move.

I hit him before he finishes. Fast, brutal, my fist connecting with his jaw hard enough to send him stumbling back into the crates behind him.

He recovers faster than expected, reaches for his gun again, but I'm already moving. I grab his wrist, twist until I hear his bone crack, and the gun clatters to the concrete.

"Wrong move."

I break him methodically. Ribs first—three, four, five rapid strikes that leave him gasping. Then his fingers, bending each one back until they snap. His nose, crushed flat against his face. Several of his teeth, knocked loose with calculated strikes.

He's begging within five minutes. Offering the original price, offering to pay immediately, but I don't stop.

The motherfucker was going to kill me and stroll out of here with my goods.

When his face is unrecognizable, and he's choking on his own blood, I grab his head with both hands.

"Don't fucking disrespect me."

Then I slam his skull into the concrete floor. Once. Twice. Three times until it cracks open and blood pools across the warehouse floor.

The door bursts open. His men rush in, see their boss's corpse, and reach for weapons.

Mikhail and my team are faster. Gunfire echoes. Bodies drop. Over in thirty seconds.

I look down at my hands. Ruslan's blood covers them, dripping from my knuckles, staining my shirt. His brain matter smears my forearms.

Satisfaction pulses through me. Pure and clean. This is what happens when people think they can fuck with me.

"Clean sweep," Mikhail confirms. "No survivors."

"Good. Return the weapons. Keep the money. Send their heads back to the Chechen network with a message from me."

It's nearly 3 AM when I get home.

The house is dark, save for the security lights. I should shower, burn these clothes, but there's a light on in the kitchen.

Voices drift down the hallway. One small and frightened. One soft and soothing.

I move toward them.

Mila sits at the kitchen table in her white nightgown, small face blotchy from crying. Valerie sits beside her, one hand gently rubbing circles on my daughter's back.

"—and the princess realized she was braver than she thought," Valerie's saying softly. "Because bravery isn't about not being scared. It's about being scared and doing the brave thing anyway."

"But what if I'm never not scared?" Mila's voice breaks. "What if I'm scared forever?"

"Then you'll be the bravest person I know." Valerie's hand doesn't stop its gentle motion. "Because being scared and still getting up every day? That's the hardest kind of courage."

Mila sees me first.

Her eyes go wide, and this sound escapes her, part gasp, part whimper, and her whole body goes rigid.

Valerie follows her gaze.

The blood drains from her face when she sees me.

I look down at myself. Shirt soaked with blood spatter. Hands stained. Probably blood on my face and in my hair.

I move toward the sink without a word. Valerie shifts instinctively, putting herself between Mila and me. Protecting a child from a monster.

Smart girl.

I turn on the water and start washing. Blood swirls down the drain—red, then pink, then red again. My knuckles are split open, stinging. I can feel them both watching. Mila with wide, frightened eyes. Valerie with something closer to horror.

I turn my head while my hands are still under the running water.

Look directly at Valerie.

Hold her gaze.

This is what I do. This is who I am. And I don't give a fuck if it terrifies you.

Her breath quickens. I watch her chest rise and fall faster, watch her eyes drop to my bloodstained hands and linger there despite the horror on her face.

There it is again. That twisted arousal you don't understand.

I turn off the water and dry my hands on a kitchen towel. The white fabric comes away red.

"Milaya." I keep my voice soft for Mila's benefit. "Nightmare?"

She nods, not trusting her voice.

"The same one?"

Another nod.

The nightmare where her mother dies. Where she hears gunshots and screaming and can't do anything but hide.

My fault. All of it.

I move toward her slowly. She doesn't bolt. Just watches me with those too-old eyes.

When I'm close enough, I crouch beside her chair.

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

She shakes her head quickly.

"That's okay." I reach out carefully and brush a curl away from her face. "But I'm here now. And nothing's going to hurt you. Okay?"

"Okay, Papa."

"Do you want me to sit with you until you fall back asleep?"

"Can Valerie stay too?"

The question catches us both off guard. Valerie's eyes widen, and I notice her weighing whether she wants to be in a room with me after what she just saw.

But she nods. "If your papa says it's okay."

I should say no. Should send her away.

But Mila's looking at me hopefully, and I've denied her too much already.

"She can stay."

Relief floods Mila's face. "Can we go to my room?"

"Yes. Come on."

I stand and offer my hand. She takes it without hesitation—small fingers wrapping around mine—and doesn't seem to notice or care about the blood still under my nails.

She trusts me. Even covered in someone else's blood, she trusts me.

We walk to Mila's room together. Me, my daughter, and the spy I should probably kill but won't. Not yet.

In Mila's room, I settle into the chair while Valerie helps Mila into bed. There's an ease between them that took Elena months to develop. Valerie adjusts blankets, checks the nightlight, and brushes hair back from Mila's forehead with gentle hands.

"Better?" she asks softly.

"Yes." Mila looks between us. "Will you both stay?"

"As long as you need," Valerie promises.

I nod once. "I'm not going anywhere."

Mila's eyes close. Within minutes, her breathing evens into sleep.

Valerie moves to leave, but I catch her wrist. Not hard. Just enough to stop her.

"Stay."

She freezes but doesn't pull away.

We sit there in darkness, watching my daughter sleep. The silence stretches until it becomes something else. Something charged and dangerous.

"You're good with her," I say finally. Not a compliment. Observation.

"She's easy to love." Valerie's voice is barely audible.

"Is she?" I release her wrist. "Or are you just good at pretending?"

"I'm not pretending." The defensiveness is immediate. Honest.

"No?" I stand, moving toward the door. Stop beside her chair. "The blood didn't surprise you as much as it should have. Which means you've seen violence before. Recently."

She doesn't answer.

"Who hurt you, Valerie?" The question comes out softer than intended. "Who made you understand what real fear looks like?"

Her breath catches. In the dim light, I see tears gathering.

"Goodnight, Mr. Volkov." She stands quickly and moves past me.

I let her go.

Because I'm getting closer. Closer to understanding what broke her. Closer to finding that darkness.

And when I do, everything changes.

I return to my office and pull up the surveillance feeds one more time. Review her phone records. The burner number called again tonight while I was at the warehouse.

Someone's putting pressure on her. Someone wants information badly enough to risk an amateur spy in my house.

I should be threatened.

Instead, I'm fascinated.

Valerie Novak is caught between two predators.

And I want to see which one breaks her first.

Or if that flash of darkness will surface and she'll break us both.

I close the laptop, planning tomorrow's tests.

More pressure. Closer proximity. Push until something cracks.

The mouse is useful. Good with my daughter. Easy to manipulate.

But the viper?

The viper is what I'm really hunting.

And I always catch what I hunt.

Always.

Chapter five

Valerie

It’s a Tuesday, and I'm busy dusting the library when Sofia's sharp voice echoes down the corridor, followed by a woman's resigned response—drained, apologetic, but firm.

"My own child needs me. There’s been a medical emergency.”

"You're under contract—" Sofia hisses.

"I don't care! Find someone else! I need to go to my child!"

Footsteps storm past the library. A middle-aged woman I've seen with Mila—stern-faced, always impatient—rushes toward the exit clutching her bag. She doesn't look back.

Sofia appears in the doorway moments later, tablet in hand, expression thunderous.

"Miss Novak."

I straighten immediately, heart already racing. "Yes, ma'am?"

"The nanny position just opened unexpectedly." Her eyes narrow. "You've been helping with evening routines. Mila responds well to you. Mr. Volkov has noticed."

He's noticed. Of course, he's noticed. He sees everything.

"I—okay?"

“Full-time care for Mila, along with ongoing housekeeping duties. You would move to the east wing to be closer to her room. More responsibility.”

That basically means more access. More trust. Exactly what Patrick wants.

My stomach knots, but I keep my face calm. "I'd be honored."

"Good. Mr. Volkov would want to speak with you before finalizing arrangements.” She taps into her tablet, then looks back up at me. “His office. Three o'clock." She turns to leave, then pauses. "Don't be late. He doesn't tolerate it."

She's gone before I can respond.

I sink into the nearest chair, hands shaking.

More access. Patrick will be thrilled. This is perfect for the mission.

And I hate myself for thinking that way.

Because Mila deserves better than a spy pretending to care while gathering intelligence on her father. Deserves better than someone who braids her hair and reads her stories while calculating how to use the trust she's giving me.

Deserves better than me.

But Ethan's face flashes in my mind—trembling with fear, and trusting me to keep him safe. And I don't have a choice.

I pull out my phone and call Tash.

She answers immediately. "Please tell me you have good news because I'm dying in this godforsaken economics lecture."

"The nanny quit. Sofia offered me the position."

Silence. Then: "Holy shit, Val. That's—that's perfect! You'll have access to everything now!"

"I know."

"Then why do you sound like someone died?"

"Because Mila trusts me." My throat tightens. "She's seven, and she's been through hell, and she actually believes I care about her. And I'm lying. Using her to get to her father."

"You're surviving." Tash's voice goes firm. "Doing what you have to do to keep your family alive. That's not using her—that's staying alive long enough to figure a way out."

"Feels the same."

"It's not." She pauses. "Look, this is huge. We should celebrate! I'm taking you out tonight. Club, drinks, dancing—"

"No. Absolutely not."

"Come on! You've been trapped in that fortress for a week—"

"Exactly. One week. I can't just disappear to a club. What if Lev has someone following me? What if Patrick sees me not taking this seriously? What if—"

"What if, what if." She sighs dramatically. "You're so boring now."

"I'm trying not to die."

"Fine. No club." I can hear the smile creeping into her voice. "But you could use this promotion to your advantage in other ways. Get closer to Lev. Personally closer."

"Tash—"

"I'm just saying, the man clearly has a thing for you! Use it. Seduce him. Get him talking. Men are stupid when they're thinking with their—"

"I'm not seducing anyone!"

"Why not? You're already living in his house, taking care of his daughter. Just bat your eyelashes, wear something low-cut, and—"

"Have you completely lost your mind?"

"I'm being practical!" She's fully laughing now. "Or skip the subtle approach. 'Accidentally' walk in on him in the shower again. Worked last time."

"That wasn't—I didn't—" Words fail me completely.

"Or leave your door unlocked at night. Let him come to you. I bet he's the type who likes the chase but also likes taking what he wants—"

"I'm hanging up."

"Wait! What about roleplay? Pretend to be a helpless maid who needs discipline from her big, scary boss—"

"Goodbye, Tash!"

Her laughter follows me until I end the call.

Despite everything—the fear, the guilt, and the impossible trap, I catch myself smiling. Just for a second. Because Tash is ridiculous and inappropriate and exactly what I needed.

But the smile dies fast.

Three o'clock. Lev's office.

Two hours to prepare for whatever comes next.

At 2:58, I stand outside Lev's office door, trying to remember how breathing works.

The east wing is different from the rest of the house. Quieter. Heavier. Like the air itself carries more weight here. Fewer cameras, but I can feel eyes on me anyway. I hate the sensation of being watched, even when I can't see who's watching.

I raise my hand to knock, but the door opens before I make contact, and I freeze in place.

Lev stands there, filling the space, and my breath stops.

He's in black today—shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing those tattooed forearms covered in prison ink and scars. No jacket. No tie. Just lethal elegance and controlled violence wrapped in expensive fabric.

"You're early." His pale gray eyes track over me slowly as I move to step in. "I didn't say enter yet."

"I'm sorry, I thought—"

"Come in."

He gestures, and I'm left with no option but to walk past him into his office.

The space is exactly what I expected—dark wood, steel accents, windows overlooking grounds where armed men patrol. Everything designed for function and intimidation. The desk is massive, the chair behind it more throne than furniture.

The door closes behind me with a soft click that sounds like a cell locking.

"So," he starts to speak, and I move with shaky legs toward a chair across his desk.

But his hand wraps around my wrist before I can reach it, and suddenly I'm being pulled in a different direction, toward the center of the room, away from the desk, into open space where there's nothing to hide behind.

His voice is low and scratchy. "Stand here."

He lets me go of my wrist and steps back before he starts circling. Slowly. Deliberately. Like a predator assessing prey before the kill.

I feel his eyes tracking every detail, my hands trembling at my sides, the way I can't quite meet his gaze, how my breath comes too fast. The scent of his cologne hits me as he passes behind, something dark and expensive mixed with gunpowder that makes my head spin.

"Sofia tells me you've accepted the nanny position." He stops behind me, close enough that I feel his body heat. "Full-time care for my daughter. Correct?"

"Yes." My voice comes out thin.

"Why?"

"Because… because I like working with Mila. She's a good kid."

"That's not what I asked." His breath ghosts across the back of my neck, raising goosebumps. "I asked why. What do you gain from this?"

Money. Access. Information Patrick can use to murder you.

"A stable job. Good pay. A chance to help a child who—"

"Careful." He's in front of me now, suddenly, and I didn't hear him move. "We've discussed lying and how I feel about it."

His hand comes up to my face, and I flinch, but I have nowhere to go.

His fingers dig into my jaw, not gently, not carefully, rough skin catching on mine, forcing my head up so I have no choice but to meet his eyes.

"If you hurt my daughter," his voice drops to something cold and lethal, "I will make you beg for death. Do you understand?"

"Yes." It comes out barely audible.

"I don't think you do." His grip tightens, and pain blooms sharp and bright where he's pressing too hard. "Let me be very clear, Valerie. Mila is all I have left. She is the only thing in this world I care about more than my own survival. And if you, through malice or carelessness or whatever game you're playing, cause her pain?"

He leans closer, until his face is inches from mine. Until I can see the pale ring around his irises, count the individual scars on his face, smell the coffee on his breath mixing with cologne and violence.

"I will break every bone in your body. Slowly. One at a time. Keep you alive through all of it so you feel every second. Then, when there's nothing left to break, I'll make it hurt worse. Much worse. Do. You. Understand?"

"Yes." I'm crying silently now, unable to stop because I’m definitely going to die trying to save my mom and brother. Hot tears roll down my face. "Yes, I understand."

"Good girl." But he doesn't release me. His thumb drags across my jaw, rough, possessive, claiming and heat floods through me despite the threat, despite the pain blooming under his grip, despite everything screaming that I should be terrified and nothing else.

My nipples tighten against my uniform. Sharp and obvious. Wetness pools between my thighs, warm and slick, and I want to die from the shame of it.

His eyes drop to my chest, he notices, of course he fucking notices and something dark and hungry flickers across his face.

"You're afraid of me." Not a question. Statement of fact.

"Yes."

"But that's not all you're feeling right now, is it?"

I don't answer. Can't form words past the shame choking me.

His thumb moves to my bottom lip, pressing down hard enough that I taste copper where the skin splits. The pain should make me want to pull away. Instead, my breath catches in a way that has nothing to do with fear.

"Your body knows what you won't admit." His voice drops lower, intimate and threatening. "That fear and desire aren't as different as you'd like to believe. That sometimes they're exactly the same thing."

"That’s… that’s not true."

"Oh?" He says it almost fondly. His grip on my jaw tightens, pain shooting through me sharp and bright, and my breath hitches in a way I can't control. "You're wet right now. I can see it in how you're standing. How your thighs are pressed together like you're trying to hide what's happening between them. How your breath keeps catching."

Another wave of shame floods through me, hot and overwhelming. "Please—"

What the actual fuck? I did not just say that.

Please?

"Please what?" His face is so close now I can feel his words against my lips. "Please stop? Or please don't stop?"

I don't answer because I genuinely don't know which one I mean.

His hand moves from my jaw to my throat—not squeezing, just resting there, feeling my pulse hammer against his palm like a trapped bird.

"If I slid my hand under your skirt right now," he murmurs, and the words make everything inside me clench, "would I find you dripping? Would you gasp or moan or both?"

Both. Heaven help me, you’ll find both.

"Answer me, Valerie."

"I don't know." It comes out strangled. "I'm not—this isn't—"

"Your body's already answered." His thumb presses against my pulse point, feeling how it races. "You can lie with your words all you want. Your body tells me the truth."

Heat floods my face. My chest. Lower. I am wet, soaking, my underwear damp, my thighs slick, and I want to disappear, want to die from the humiliation of wanting this man who terrifies me, who threatens me, who I'm supposed to betray.

"This is what you don't understand yet." His hand slides from my throat to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair. "The fear makes it better. Sharper. You're so alive right now, you can barely stand it. And part of you, the part you're ashamed of, wants more."

"No—"

"Yes." He tugs my hair, tilting my head back, exposing my throat. "I saw it in the bathroom. That flash of darkness when you stopped being afraid and became something else. And I'm going to pull it out of you again. Make you show me what you're really hiding underneath all this terror."

My legs are shaking so hard I can barely stay upright. My pulse is hammering everywhere, throat, wrists, between my thighs. And I'm so turned on I can't think straight, can't process anything except his hand in my hair, his breath on my skin, and the ache building inside me that I don't understand.

Please, Lev, just fuck me and end this damn assault from my own body.

He releases me suddenly, stepping back like nothing happened.

Like he didn't just threaten to break me while making me so aroused I can barely breathe.

"Your room has been moved to the east wing. Third door on the left. You'll start your new duties tomorrow morning." He moves to his desk and picks up a file. Dismissing me like I'm nothing. "Elena will brief you on Mila's full routines. Don't be late."

I stand there trembling, confused, aroused, terrified, unable to process the shift.

"That's all, Valerie. You can go."

I don’t go, I run.

Out of his office, down the corridor, barely making it to my new room before my legs give out completely.

The room is bigger than my old one. Nicer. Windows overlooking the gardens. En suite bathroom. A bed that looks fit for a queen. And it's thirty feet from Lev's bedroom.

I can hear him through the walls even now. Footsteps. Water running. A door closing. Every sound makes my pulse race, makes me hyperaware of his proximity, makes me imagine what he's doing on the other side of that wall.

He's right there. Just through that barrier. Moving around. Existing. Breathing.

The thought shouldn't affect me the way it does.

I pull out the burner phone with shaking hands. Patrick's been waiting. I need to send him something, or he'll escalate the threats.

My fingers tremble as I type, documenting everything I've memorized over the past week:

Guard rotation: 6-hour shifts with a total of 8 men. Change occurs at 2PM and 8PM. The northeast corner has a blind spot between cameras that lasts about 30 seconds during shift change.

Vehicles: Daniel drives the Mercedes for daily errands. Uses the town car for formal events. Black SUV (bulletproof) is for Lev's business meetings. SUV departs Tuesday and Thursday mornings, returns by 6PM.

Layout: Main floor - study (locked, keypad 6-digits), library (unlocked), sitting room (unlocked). Second floor - 4 guest bedrooms (unused), Lev's office (locked, requires fingerprint). East wing - Lev's quarters, Mila's room, staff rooms.

Nothing critical. Nothing that could get anyone killed immediately. Just enough to satisfy Patrick for another week.

But my hands are shaking so badly I almost drop the phone.

Because I'm documenting the home of a little girl who now trusts me. Mapping vulnerabilities in the fortress of a man who threatened to break me, but also made my body respond in ways I don't understand.

I'm a traitor. A spy. A liar.

Patrick's response comes immediately:

Good. Keep going. One week. Then I want his schedule. Where he goes, when, with how many men.

One week to find information that will definitely get Lev killed.

I delete the messages, my body trembling, and hide the phone.

My real phone buzzes. Tash.

TASH: How'd the meeting go???

ME: He threatened to break every bone in my body if I hurt Mila

TASH: Hot

ME: TASH!

TASH: WHAT? Intensity is sexy! also you're alive, meaning he likes you.

ME: He terrifies me.

TASH: And?

ME: And WHAT?

TASH: Does he turn you on too?

I stare at the screen for a long moment, unable to type the truth.

ME: I hate you.

TASH: That's a yes. I knew it! Val, you have to use this.

ME: Use what? My horrifying trauma response?

TASH: Your ATTRACTION! He wants you. You want him. Use that to your advantage.

ME: It's not that simple.

TASH: It never is. But babe... you can't risk getting attached. Not to him, not to Mila, not to any of this. It's too dangerous. You understand that, right?

Her words settle in my chest like stones.

ME: I know.

TASH: Do you? Because you already sound attached.

ME: She's seven, and she's been through hell.

TASH: So have you. Don't forget why you're there. Don't forget what happens if you fail. Do not forget you are still in hell. You do not yet have the luxury to say you have been through it.

ME: I know.

But I'm lying. To her and to myself.

Because I am attached. To Mila's small hand in mine. To the way she smiles when I braid her hair. To the trust in her eyes that I don't deserve and can't return honestly.

And worse, so much worse, I'm drawn to Lev in ways that should horrify me more than they do. Ways that make my body respond even when my mind knows it's wrong. Ways that make me crave his attention even when it comes wrapped in death.

I lie in my new bed and listen to him move around through the wall.

Footsteps. Water running in what must be his bathroom. The creak of floorboards as he walks from one room to another.

My imagination fills in the gaps I shouldn't be thinking about.

Is he showering? Getting ready for bed? Touching himself the way I touched myself thinking about him?

The thought makes heat flood through me again, makes my thighs press together, makes my hand slide down my stomach before I can stop it.

No. This is wrong. I can't—

But my fingers keep moving, slipping under my underwear, finding wetness that's been there since his office. Since he threatened me, grabbed my jaw, and made me feel things I shouldn't feel.

I'm soaked. Embarrassingly wet. And I hate myself for it, hate that his violence turned me on, hate that I'm touching myself while thinking about pale gray eyes and rough hands and the way he looked at me like he wanted to break me open and see what spilled out.

But I can't stop.

My fingers move in slow circles over my clit, and I bite my lip hard to stay quiet because he's right there, just through that wall, and what if he can hear? What if he knows what I'm doing?

The thought makes me wetter.

I imagine his hands instead of mine. Imagine him walking through that door and finding me like this—desperate and ashamed and aching. Would he be disgusted? Amused? Would he finish what I started or make me beg for it?

My fingers move faster, and I press my face into the pillow to muffle the sounds trying to escape.

This is wrong this is wrong this is so fucking wrong but…

But I can't stop imagining him. The way his fingers dug into my jaw. The rough drag of his thumb across my lip. The promise in his voice when he said he'd pull the darkness out of me.

What would that feel like? What would he do if I let him?

My other hand comes up to my breast, pinching my nipple through my shirt the way I imagine he would—rough, demanding, taking what he wants without asking.

I'm close. So close. Pressure building sharp and tight inside me.

And then I hear it.

Footsteps. On the other side of the wall. Moving closer. Coming toward the wall we share.

Then stopping.

Right there. Right on the other side of where I'm lying.

Oh God. He knows. He can hear me. He knows what I'm doing.

The thought pushes me over the edge.

I come hard, biting down on my fist to muffle his name as it tries to escape my lips. Pleasure crashes through me in waves—sharp and intense and followed immediately by crushing shame.

I lie there in the dark afterward, hand still between my thighs, breath coming in ragged gasps, listening.

The footsteps don't move.

He's still there. Standing on the other side of the wall. Listening to me fall apart.

Knowing exactly what I just did.

Minutes pass. Maybe longer. Time does something strange when you're drowning in shame and satisfaction.

Finally, the footsteps move away. Back toward what must be his bedroom. A door closes softly.

I curl into a ball, pulling my hand away and wiping it on the sheets like I can erase what just happened.

But I can't.

Because I just masturbated thinking about a man who threatened to break me. Came with his name almost on my lips. And he may have heard me do it.

Tomorrow I have to face him. Have to pretend this didn't happen. Have to take care of his daughter while knowing I'm betraying them both.

I'm caught between two predators—Patrick, who'll kill my family if I fail, and Lev, who'll kill me when he finds out what I'm doing.

And the worst part—the absolutely horrifying part—is that lying here in the dark, still feeling the aftershocks of orgasm, still hearing his footsteps in my head, I'm more afraid of Lev finding out than I am of Patrick's threats.

Because at least Patrick's violence is straightforward. Expected. Something I can prepare for.

But Lev? Lev is unpredictable. Dangerous in ways I don't understand. And somehow, impossibly, that makes him more terrifying and more fascinating in equal measure.

I fall asleep listening for his footsteps, wondering if he's thinking about me the way I can't stop thinking about him.

Wondering what he'll do tomorrow when he looks at me, and we both know what happened tonight.

Wondering if that flash of darkness he's hunting for is already surfacing.

And terrified that I want him to find it.

Chapter six

Lev

I know she wakes at 6:04 AM because I've watched her do it seventeen mornings in a row.

Not approximate. Exact. 6:04 on the dot, like her body has an internal clock calibrated to the second.

I could tell you she takes four breaths before opening her eyes. Stares at the ceiling for twelve seconds before moving. That her T4 and T5 vertebrae crack when she stretches, and she winces slightly, even though the sound is too quiet for anyone else to hear.

I’m that fucking gone, and I can’t even find it in myself to be terrified of that.

Black coffee, two sugars. Drinks it standing at the kitchen window, looking at the gardens like she's mapping escape routes she'll never use. She hums something classical—Tchaikovsky, I finally identified it—when she thinks no one's listening. The sound does something to my chest I don't want to examine.

At this point, everything she does has some sort of effect on me.

I should look into it before I find myself going mad.

When she's nervous, her hand goes to the back of her neck. When she's lying, she touches her collarbone. When she's scared, she presses her thumb into her palm hard enough to leave crescents in her skin.

Forty-two steps from her room to the kitchen. I counted. Forty-two opportunities to intercept her, corner her, press her against any of six different walls and find out if she'd scream or moan or both.

I've mapped every possibility. Played out every scenario in my head until I know them better than my own security protocols.

This is insane.

I know it's insane.

I don't fucking care.

Because I want to know everything. Want to catalog every breath and heartbeat until I can predict her movements before she makes them. Want to own her so completely she forgets she ever existed as something separate from me.

And then I want to break her open like a geode and see what's inside. Pull out every secret, every fear, every dark thought she's too scared to acknowledge. If she shatters in the process? Good. I'll put her back together the way I want her.

Mine. Remade. Perfect.

"Boss."

Mikhail's voice cuts through fantasies I shouldn't be having during a business discussion.

I sharply look up from my laptop—where I've been watching Valerie dust the library for twenty-three minutes instead of reviewing the Italian contracts that are the entire fucking point of this meeting.

"What?" I growl.

His eyes narrow. He's been with me fifteen years. Long enough to read the signs. "I said the Italians want to renegotiate terms. Claiming market conditions have shifted since the agreement."

"Fuck their market conditions." I close the laptop before he can see the security feed on the screen. "The terms stand. They pay what they agreed to pay, or they can explain to their boss why they lost the best weapons pipeline on the East Coast."

"They won't find another supplier."

"I know." I lean back, forcing my attention to the actual problem in front of me instead of the one thirty feet away, dusting picture frames. "Which means this is a test. They're seeing if I'll bend."

"And when you don't?"

"They’ll think they can take me and I'll remind them why people don't fuck with me."

Mikhail shifts his weight. Arms crossed. That look on his face—concern wrapped in loyalty. "You've been distracted lately, boss."

It's not a question. I raise a brow.

"I'm handling it."

"Are you?" He doesn't push. Doesn't need to. The evidence is sitting right here—me watching security feeds during business prep, losing focus mid-conversation, spending more time tracking one girl than running an empire worth half a billion dollars.

In my world, distraction kills.

But I can't stop.

Can't stop watching her move through my house like she belongs here. Can't stop filing away the small sounds she makes as she works. Can't stop imagining what other sounds I could draw from her if I stopped watching and started touching.

I can’t fucking help this obsession. This need.

"The Italians arrive in an hour," Mikhail says finally. "Where do you want them?"

"Sitting room. Keep it casual." I stand, rolling tension from my shoulders. Business. Focus. This is what I'm good at—reading people, calculating angles, knowing exactly how hard to push before someone breaks.

The same skills I'm using on Valerie, just in a very different context.

"And Mikhail? When they push on the renegotiation—because they will—we handle it my way."

"Understood." He heads for the door, pauses. "Boss. Whatever you're planning with the girl. Be careful."

I don't answer.

Because careful stopped being an option the moment I decided not to put a bullet in her brain.

The Italians arrive precisely on time.

Marco Ricci leads them—mid-forties, expensive suit, cologne so strong I can smell it from across the room. Trying to project confidence while his eyes track exits and armed men.

He's nervous. Good.

Nervous men make mistakes.

"Lev." He extends his hand, smile too wide. "Thank you for seeing us."

I shake briefly. His palm is sweaty. "You said it was urgent."

"Yes. We've been reviewing the agreement, and given current market volatility—"

"No." I cut him off before he can build momentum. "The agreement stands as written."

His smile tightens. "Of course, but surely you understand that circumstances have changed. Shipping costs have increased substantially. Competition has driven prices down in certain sectors. We're simply asking for a modest adjustment to reflect—"

"You're asking me to take less money because you fucked up your cost projections." I keep my voice conversational. Reasonable. "And you thought coming here in person would make me more sympathetic."

"We're not asking for charity, just—"

"You're asking me to bend. To let you renegotiate terms we both signed because market conditions—which existed when we made the deal—suddenly matter more than your word."

Marco's jaw tightens. I see the calculation in his eyes—how far can he push before this goes wrong?

Not far enough, apparently.

"Lev, be reasonable—"

"I am being reasonable." I lean forward slightly. "Reasonable would be honoring your contract. What you're doing is insulting my intelligence and wasting my time. And I don't appreciate either."

"We're simply pointing out economic realities—"

"That doesn't exist in our agreement." I stand slowly. Deliberately. "You signed a contract. You'll honor it. Or you'll find another supplier and explain to your boss why you destroyed the relationship that's been keeping you competitive for three years."

He stands too, face flushing red. Authority challenged. Pride wounded.

Stupid.

"Now wait just a goddamn minute—"

"No. You wait." I step closer, and his men tense, hands moving toward weapons. "You came into my house. Tried to fuck me on a deal we both agreed to. That's disrespect, Marco. And in my world, disrespect has consequences."

"To hell with those, Volkov, sit down, let’s talk.”

I hit him.

Fast, brutal, my fist connecting with his jaw hard enough to snap his head back and send him stumbling into the chair behind him.

His men move—reaching for guns—but Mikhail and my team are already there. Weapons out, trained on the Italians before they can clear leather.

"Don't." Mikhail's voice is flat. Final.

They freeze. I almost wish they didn’t. It’s not a bad idea to work out my current obsession and sexual frustration with some shed blood.

I grab Marco by his collar and haul him upright. Blood streams from his nose where my ring caught it. Eyes wide with shock—didn't think I'd actually do it.

Everyone makes that mistake once.

"You want to renegotiate?" I slam him against the wall hard enough that picture frames rattle down the hallway. "Let's renegotiate."

Because fuck it, I need to shed some blood.

I beat him methodically. Not in rage—rage is sloppy, inefficient. This is calculated violence. Every strike designed for maximum pain and damage without killing.

Break his nose—cartilage cracking under my knuckles, blood spraying.

Split his lip—teeth cutting through soft tissue.

Shatter his cheekbone—the bone giving way with a wet crunch that's satisfying in a way I stopped questioning years ago.

He's begging within ninety seconds. Trying to say the deal is fine, terms are acceptable, anything to make it stop.

I don't stop.

Because this isn't about the deal anymore. This is about the message. About making sure every Italian who hears this story knows exactly what happens when you disrespect Lev Volkov.

And maybe—just maybe—because I'm frustrated and obsessed and taking it out on Marco's face is easier than admitting I'm losing control over a girl who's probably working for my enemies.

When his face is hamburger, and he's choking on his own blood, I let him drop.

He hits the floor hard, gasping, broken.

"Get him out." I address his men without looking at them. My knuckles are split, bleeding. Marco's blood covers my hands, my shirt, probably my face. "And tell your boss that the next person who tries to fuck me will not leave breathing."

They scramble to grab Marco, dragging him toward the exit. Blood trails across my floor in a pattern that will need cleaning.

And fifteen feet away, pressed against the wall, between picture frames she was probably dusting, Valerie stands frozen.

Blood spatters decorate her white uniform—tiny red dots across her chest and shoulder. Her face is white. Lips parted. Eyes wide with shock.

But she's not running.

And when our eyes meet, I see it again.

That flash of something underneath the terror. Something dark she doesn't understand yet. Something that looks at violence and doesn't just see horror—sees something else entirely.

There you are, little viper.

My insides soar at that. My muscles stiffen, and I growl softly under my breath.

I should let her go. Should walk away. Should give her space to process what she just witnessed.

Fuck that.

I move toward her deliberately. Slowly. Giving her every opportunity to run.

She doesn't.

Just watches me approach with those wide brown eyes, breathing fast and shallow, frozen like prey that knows it's caught.

I stop close enough that she has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. Close enough that she can smell Marco's blood mixing with my cologne and sweat.

"Scared?" My voice comes out rougher than intended.

She nods. Can't seem to form words.

"Good." My hand comes up to her throat—not squeezing, just resting there, feeling her pulse hammer against my palm like a trapped bird. "I like how you look when you are terrified and scared."

Her breath catches. I feel it under my palm—that tiny hitch that could be fear or arousal or both.

"If you could run right now," I murmur, thumb brushing across her racing pulse, "would you?"

She opens her mouth. No sound comes out.

"Or would you stay?" I lean closer until my lips are near her ear, until I can smell lavender and fear and something sweeter underneath. "Would you let me see what happens when you stop fighting what scares you?"

A shiver runs through her. I feel every tremor against my palm.

And underneath the terror, underneath the shock, her pulse is racing in a pattern I recognize.

Arousal.

She's turned on.

By the violence. By my hand on her throat. By whatever fucked up chemical reaction happens in her brain when fear and desire get tangled together.

Perfect.

"That's what I thought." I release her throat slowly, dragging my fingers down the column of her neck, feeling her swallow hard against my touch.

My cock is so hard it's painful. Every instinct screams to press her against this wall and find out what other sounds I can pull from her. What she'd do if I slid my hand under her skirt right here, right now, with Marco's blood still wet on my knuckles.

Would she fight? Or would that darkness surface, and she'd take what I gave her?

I step back before I find out. Before I do something that crosses lines I'm not ready to cross yet.

Not until she breaks first.

"Clean this up." I gesture to the blood on the floor. "And Valerie?"

She looks up, still pressed against the wall, still trembling.

"Next time you witness something you shouldn't, try not to look quite so aroused by it. It's fucking distracting."

I walk away before she can respond.

Before I can change my mind and take what I want.

My hands are shaking slightly. From adrenaline or desire or the effort of walking away, I don't know.

Don't fucking care.

Because tomorrow I'll push harder. Test more boundaries. See how far I can bend her before she breaks or that viper surfaces.

One way or another, I'm going to drag her darkness out.

And when I do, she'll be mine.

I try to work that night.

Pull up files. Review contracts. Go through security reports, but my focus isn’t worth shit.

My mind keeps circling back to Valerie against that wall. The way her pulse raced under my palm. The heat in her eyes before terror drowned it.

The burner phone records sit on my desk. Mikhail traced the number as far as possible—dead end. Routed through multiple proxies, encrypted, would take resources I don't want to spend to crack.

Someone with serious money and connections is running her.

Who the hell could it be?

The smart play is elimination. Put a bullet in her brain. Problem solved. Message sent.

But I don't want her dead.

I want her corrupted. Want to drag her so deep into darkness she forgets what light looks like. Want to own every part of her—the fear, the arousal, the twisted desire, and especially that flash of cold calculation I saw in my bathroom.

The mouse is useful. Good with Mila. Easy to manipulate.

But the viper? The viper is what I'm really hunting.

And I'm going to find it even if I have to break her completely to do it.

I close the files and pull up the security feeds instead.

The hallway camera outside her room shows her door slightly ajar. Light spilling out. Movement inside.

I shouldn't look.

I adjust the camera angle anyway.

It catches just enough through the gap—her silhouette against the lamp, moving around. Getting ready for bed.

She pulls off her uniform. Down to plain white underwear. Nothing seductive about it.

Doesn't matter. My mouth goes dry watching her move.

She sits on the edge of her bed, shoulders slumping. Exhaustion in every line of her body. Hands come up to her face—she's crying.

The sight does something to my chest. Something uncomfortable I don't want to examine.

What are you hiding, little mouse? What's breaking you from the inside?

Then she lies back.

And her hand slides down her body.

Oh fuck.

I watch her hand disappear between her thighs. Watch her back arch. Watch her free hand come up to her breast.

My hand moves to my belt on instinct.

I can't see details—the angle's wrong, lighting too dim. But I see enough. The arch of her spine. The rhythm of her hips. The way her head tilts back.

I free my cock, already hard, already aching.

Stroke myself while watching her pleasure herself twenty feet and one wall away.

"That's it, milaya," I murmur to the empty room. "Touch yourself. Show me what you do when you think no one's watching."

Her movements get more desperate. I match the rhythm, imagining it's my hand between her thighs. My fingers inside her. My name on her lips.

"Ty moya," I breathe. You're mine. "You just don't know it yet."

What is she thinking about? Who's in her head right now?

Is it my face she sees? My hand on her throat? The violence she witnessed?

Is she getting off on fear or me, or both?

My grip tightens, rhythm increasing. Russian falls from my lips mixed with English—possessive claims, filthy demands, promises of what I'll do when I stop watching and start taking.

"Mine. Fucking mine. Every breath, every moan, every dark thought you're too scared to admit."

On screen, her body goes rigid. She's coming. I can tell by how she freezes and then melts into the mattress.

I come with her, jaw clenched, her name torn from my throat. "Valerie. Blyad. Moya."

The orgasm hits hard enough that I have to brace against the desk.

Afterward, I clean up mechanically. Eyes still on the screen.

She's curled on her side now. Small. Vulnerable. One hand tucked under her cheek. The other still between her thighs.

I should feel satisfied.

I feel hungrier.

Because watching isn't enough anymore. Touching her throat isn't enough. These stolen moments through cameras aren't enough.

I want more. Want everything. Want to replace her hand with mine and hear my actual name when she comes instead of whatever fantasy she's playing out alone.

Want to see that viper again. Pull it out. Make it permanent.

The phone on my desk buzzes. Mikhail.

Marco's people have received the message. They’ll pay the original terms.

Good. Business handled. Message sent.

I should feel satisfied about that too.

Instead, all I can think about is Valerie twenty feet away, probably still trembling from orgasm, definitely still clueless that I watched every second.

I pull up her file again. Study her face in the photo Marina Petrov sent over.

Innocent. Sweet. Exactly the kind of girl who shouldn't be in my world.

But she's here anyway. Gathering intel for someone. Lying to my face. Playing a game she doesn't have the skills to win.

And I'm going to make her pay for it.

Not with her life.

With everything else.

I close the laptop and head to my room. But I stop at the wall we share. Press my palm against it.

On the other side, she's sleeping. Dreaming. Completely unaware that I'm standing here thinking about all the ways I'm going to corrupt her.

Sleep well, little mouse. Tomorrow, the real game starts.

I head to bed, mind already planning.

More tests. More pressure. More opportunities to see if that darkness will surface.

Because I've made my decision.

She's not leaving. Not alive. Not intact. Not unchanged.

She's mine now.

And I'm going to own her.

I’m going to own her spirit, soul, and body.

Chapter seven

Valerie

Three weeks.

I've been living in this fortress for three weeks, and every day I feel the walls close in a little tighter.

Every morning I wake up at 6:04 and wonder if today's the day Lev figures out what I'm doing. Every night I lie in bed listening to him move around on the other side of the wall and wonder if he already knows.

I can’t breath.

Patrick calls every three days like clockwork. Demands more. Better intel. Faster results.

I give him what I can—guard schedules, vehicle patterns, the names of men who come and go from business meetings. Small things. Nothing that could get anyone killed.

Or so I tell myself.

But it's never enough. It's never going to be enough.

And the deadline he gave me three weeks ago? It came and went. Now there's a new one. Always a new one. Always Ethan's safety hanging in the balance.

Just survive one more day. Just get through one more week.

That's what I tell myself every morning when I braid Mila's hair and pretend I'm not planning to betray her father.

Today is Thursday. Lev has a security meeting at the east perimeter—something about upgrading cameras, Mikhail mentioned it at breakfast. He'll be gone for at least two hours.

Two hours is enough.

I've been watching his study for three weeks. Memorizing his patterns. The door is locked, but I've seen Sofia use the keypad. Six digits. I couldn't see the exact sequence, but I saw enough. Her hand moved in a pattern—down, left, down, right, up, center.

I can figure this out.

I have to figure this out.

Because Patrick's latest demand isn't for guard schedules or car routes. He wants Lev's calendar. Wants to know where he'll be and when. Wants specifics.

And I know what that means. I'm not stupid.

He's planning something. An ambush. An attack. Something that requires knowing exactly when and where Lev will be vulnerable.

I can't do this. I can't give him that information.

But then my phone buzzes with a photo of Ethan leaving school, and the message is clear: Tick tock, Valerie.

So, with rubbery legs, I'll walk into that study, photograph whatever I can find, and hand my brother's safety over to Patrick one more time.

And I'm going to hate myself for it.

I wait until I hear the front door close. Lev's voice drifting back as he gives Mikhail instructions. The sound of multiple footsteps heading toward the east wing.

Then silence.

I give it five more minutes, heart hammering the entire time, before I move. The hallway to his study is empty. Security cameras blink red in the corners, but I've learned their blind spots. Learned how to move through this house like a ghost.

Three weeks of practice.

The keypad glows beside his door. Six digits. I replay Sofia's hand movement in my mind—down, left, down, right, up, center.

Numbers on a keypad. Down-left is 1. Down is 2. Down-right is 3. Left is 4. Center is 5. Right is 6. Up-left is 7. Up is 8. Up-right is 9.

So the pattern would be... 1, 4, 2, 6, 8, 5.

I punch it in with shaking fingers.

The lock clicks.

Oh God. It worked.

I push the door open and slip inside, closing it quickly behind me.

Lev's study is exactly what I expected—dark wood, steel accents, everything meticulously organized. His desk dominates the center of the room, laptop closed on top. Filing cabinets line one wall. Windows overlook the grounds where I can see guards patrolling.

I have maybe ninety minutes before he returns. Less if the meeting finishes early.

Move. Focus.

I head for the desk first. Pull out my phone and open the camera.

The laptop is password-protected—I'm not stupid enough to try that. But there's a physical planner beside it. The kind important people keep for meetings they don't want digitally tracked.

I flip it open to this week.

Thursday—today—shows the security meeting. 3:00 PM. East perimeter.

But Friday has something else: Shipment arrival. Pier 17. 11:00 PM. M + 4.

My hands shake as I photograph the page. Then the next week. And the week after that.

Meeting locations. Times. Names I don't recognize but Patrick probably will.

This is wrong. This is so fucking wrong.

But I keep photographing. Keep gathering exactly what Patrick demanded.

Because Ethan's life is worth more than my conscience.

I'm flipping to next month when I hear it.

A voice. Low and cold and coming from directly behind me.

"Looking for something?"

My blood turns to ice.

I spin around, and Lev is standing in the doorway.

Not at the east perimeter. Not at the security meeting. Right here. Watching me with those pale gray eyes that see everything.

How long has he been there?

"I—" Words die in my throat. There's no explanation. No excuse that would make sense. I'm holding his planner, my phone in my other hand, clearly photographing his private schedule.

I'm caught.

This is death.

He steps into the room and closes the door behind him with a soft click that sounds like a

I back up instinctively. My hip hits the edge of his desk.

Nowhere to go.

"I set traps for you, Valerie." He's close enough now that I can smell his cologne. See the cold calculation in his eyes. "Left doors unlocked. Made sure you saw Sofia's keypad entry. Scheduled a meeting I had no intention of attending."

A trap. This whole thing was a trap. I’m such a fool.

"And you walked right into it." His mouth curves into something that isn't quite a smile. "Just like I knew you would."

My phone slips from my shaking hand and clatters onto the desk. The planner follows.

"Please—"

"Please what?" He takes the final step, crowding me against the desk, hands bracing on either side of my hips. Caging me. "Please don't kill you? Please let you go? Please believe whatever bullshit excuse you're about to give me?"

I can't answer. Can't breathe. Can't do anything but stand here trapped between his body and the desk while my heart tries to hammer through my ribs.

"Who sent you?" The question comes out quiet. Deadly.

I can't tell him. Patrick will kill Ethan. Will kill Mom. Will make me watch.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

His hand comes up to my throat so fast I don't see it coming. Wraps around my neck—not squeezing yet, just resting there, a promise of what he could do if I keep lying.

"Try again, mouse."

"I'm not—there's no one—"

His grip tightens slightly. Not cutting off air, but making it harder to get. Making the threat very, very clear.

"Last chance, Valerie. Who. Sent. You."

Tears burn my eyes. I shake my head because I can't speak with his hand on my throat, can't explain that answering him means death for my family, can't make him understand that I'm trapped between two monsters and there's no right choice.

His grip tightens. Not cutting off air completely, but making it harder. Making the threat very, very clear.

"I can make this very painful, Valerie. Or you can tell me the truth and maybe—maybe—I'll let you live." His thumb presses against my pulse. "Who. Sent. You."

Tears burn my eyes. I can't answer. Can't breathe. Can't—

"Last chance." His voice drops to something colder. "Or I call Mikhail in here and we do this a different way. You know what I’m capable of, Valerie, do not test me. I’ll find your family—”

No. No no no—

"My father!" It tears out of me. "My father owed money. A lot of money. To someone—I don't know who. And when he couldn't pay, they killed him."

His grip loosens slightly. Enough to let me breathe. "Go on."

"The debt didn't die with him. It transferred to us. To me, my mom, and my brother." The lie pours out mixed with truth. "They said if I didn't pay it off, they'd kill my family. Kill Ethan."

"How much?"

"I don't know exactly. Hundreds of thousands. Maybe more."

"And spying on me pays this debt how?"

"They said—" I swallow hard. "They said if I gathered information on you and reported back, they'd consider it payment. That each piece of intel was worth money off what we owe."

His eyes narrow. Searching my face for lies. "Who are 'they'?"

"I don't know." This part has to sound convincing. "I never met them directly. Just got phone calls. Instructions. They never gave names."

"Bullshit." His hand tightens again. "You're working for someone, and you don't know who?"

"I swear! I only ever talked to one man on the phone. He never said his name. Never met face-to-face. Just calls and tells me what to find and where to send it."

"What phone?"

"Burner. He gave it to me after—after my dad died."

His jaw clenches. He doesn't believe me. I can see it in his eyes—he knows I'm lying, or at least not telling the whole truth.

But he can't prove it.

"You're a terrible liar, Valerie." His voice is soft. Dangerous. "But that story is just believable enough that I can't dismiss it entirely."

"It's the truth—"

"Part of it, maybe." His thumb brushes across my jaw. "The part about your family being threatened? That I believe. The terror in your eyes is real. But the rest?" He leans closer. "You're hiding something."

"I'm not—"

"Yes, you are." His other hand slides into my hair, gripping tight. "And I'm going to find out what."

His eyes search mine for a long moment.

Then something shifts in his expression. His grip on my throat loosens slightly, and his other hand comes up to my face. Thumb brushing across my cheek, wiping away a tear that escaped.

"You're terrified." It's not a question. Observation. "Shaking. Crying. Convinced I'm about to kill you."

I nod because what else can I do?

"And yet..." His thumb drags across my jaw, and I feel the roughness of his skin catching on mine. "Your pulse isn't just racing from fear, is it?"

What?

"Your pupils are dilated. Your breath keeps catching. Your thighs are pressed together like you're trying to hide something." His face is so close now I can feel his words against my lips. "You're turned on. I have the power to always turn you own.”

"No—" The denial is automatic. "I'm not—"

"Liar." But he says it almost fondly. "Your body doesn't lie, Valerie. Even when your mouth does."

His hand slides from my throat down to my collarbone. Then lower. Palm pressing against my chest where my heart is trying to escape.

"Feel that? That's not just fear." His eyes lock onto mine. "That's attraction. Desire. Your body responding to mine even though you're terrified. Even though you know I could kill you right now."

"You're wrong—"

"Am I?"

Then he kisses me.

Brutal. Claiming. His mouth crashing against mine with no gentleness, no hesitation, just raw possession.

I should fight. Should push him away. Should do anything except what I actually do.

Which is melt into it.

Three weeks of tension explode all at once. Three weeks of watching him move through this house like a predator. Three weeks of listening to him through walls and touching myself while thinking about his hands on my throat.

All of it detonates in this kiss.

My hands come up to his chest—I don't know if I'm pushing him away or pulling him closer—and a sound escapes my throat that definitely isn't a protest.

He takes it as invitation.

His hand tangles in my hair, tilting my head back, deepening the kiss until I can't tell where I end and he begins. His tongue invades my mouth, demanding submission, taking what he wants without asking.

And I give it to him.

Because some broken part of me has wanted this since the shower. Since the gun to my forehead. Since every moment he's touched me and walked away, leaving me desperate and confused.

When he finally breaks the kiss, I'm gasping. Lips swollen. Body trembling.

He studies my face with dark satisfaction. "Still going to tell me you're not attracted to me?"

I can't answer. Can't form words past the arousal and shame flooding through me.

"That's what I thought." His hands go to my waist, and suddenly he's lifting me. Shoving me back onto his desk.

Papers scatter. His laptop slides to the side. And I'm sitting on the edge of his desk with my skirt riding up and his body between my thighs.

"Let me show you what happens to liars in my house." His voice is dark. Promising. "What happens to girls who spy on me and get caught."

His hand slides up my thigh. Slow. Deliberate. Giving me time to stop him.

I don't.

Can't.

Some sick part of me wants to know what happens next. Wants to see how far he'll go. Wants to feel something other than fear, and guilt, and the crushing weight of impossible choices.

His fingers reach the edge of my underwear, and he pauses. Eyes locked on mine. Asking a question without words.

Stop this. Push him away. This is insane.

But I don't move.

And that's answer enough.

He rips my underwear off in one brutal motion. The sound of fabric tearing echoes in the quiet study, and I gasp in fear. This could go wrong very quickly.

"These are in my way." He tosses the ruined fabric aside without looking at it. His hand slides between my thighs, and I feel his fingers brush against me. "And fuck, you're soaked, Valerie."

A scalding wave rolls through me, and I hate that he’s right. I'm wet. Embarrassingly wet. My body responding to violence and dominance and everything I should be running from.

"Please—" I don't even know what I'm begging for.

"Please what?" His fingers slide through my wetness, teasing but not entering. "Please stop? Please continue? Please make you come?"

"I don't—I don't know—"

"Yes, you do." His thumb finds my clit and presses—just enough pressure to make me gasp. "Your body knows exactly what it wants even if your mind won't admit it yet."

Then his fingers slide inside me.

Two at once. Rough. No gentleness. Just brutal invasion that makes me cry out and arch against him.

"That's it." His voice is dark satisfaction. "Let me hear you."

He doesn't give me time to adjust. Just starts moving his fingers with relentless efficiency, curling them inside me in a way that makes stars explode behind my eyes.

I should fight this. Should hate this. Should do anything except grip the edge of his desk and let him fuck me with his fingers while I fall apart.

But I can't.

Because it feels too good. Because three weeks of tension are unraveling. Because my body doesn't care that this is wrong—it only knows that it's finally getting what it's been craving.

His thumb circles my clit while his fingers work inside me, and the dual sensation is overwhelming. Building pressure low in my stomach. Heat spreading through my body like wildfire.

I'm close. So close. Just need a little more—

He stops.

Pulls his fingers out completely, thumb leaving my clit, and I make this sound—desperate and broken and begging.

"No, no—please—no"

"Shh." His fingers, wet with my arousal, come up to my lips. "This is what happens to liars, remember? They get fucked with. Denied. Made to understand exactly who's in control."

He slides his fingers back inside me before I can respond. Works me even harder this time. Faster. More brutal. Curling his fingers against that spot inside me that makes my vision go white.

Pleasure builds impossibly fast. Overwhelming. I'm going to come. Can't stop it. Can't—

He pulls out again.

"No!" It tears out as a sob. "Please, please—"

"Please what?" His hand goes back to my throat, tilting my face up. "Beg me properly."

"Please let me come." The words spill out shameless and desperate. "Please, I need—"

"What do you need?" His fingers slide back in, and I nearly scream from relief and frustration. "Say it."

"I need to come. Please. I'll do anything—"

"Anything?" His eyes gleam with dark amusement. "Careful what you promise, little mouse."

He works me to the edge again. Brings me right to the precipice where one more touch, one more second would push me over—

And stops.

I actually sob this time. Tears streaming down my face. Body shaking with need and denial and humiliation.

"Please—" I sob in a small, broken voice.

"This is what you deserve." His voice is cold. Clinical. "For lying. For spying. For thinking you could betray me and get away with it."

His fingers slide in one more time, and I think maybe—maybe this time he'll let me—

He pulls out and steps back completely.

The loss is devastating.

I'm left sitting on his desk, legs spread, skirt bunched around my waist, wet and wanting and so desperate I can barely think straight.

"Get out." His voice is flat. Final.

"What?" I can't process the words. Can't understand.

"Get out of my study. Go back to your room." He adjusts his cuffs like nothing happened. Like he didn't just take me apart with his fingers and leave me shattered. "And Valerie? Next time I catch you spying on me, it won’t be pretty. I will not be this kind.”

Kind?

There's nothing kind about this. Nothing kind about making me beg and cry and then denying me. Nothing kind about the humiliation burning through me.

But I slide off his desk on shaking legs. Try to smooth my skirt down even though my underwear is gone and I'm still wet and aching.

“You don’t get to touch yourself.” He growls on my way out.

I run out of there for the second time. Down the hallway on trembling legs. Past guards who probably know exactly what just happened. Into my room where I lock the door and slide down to the floor.

My whole body is shaking. Aching. The need between my thighs is almost painful.

And the worst part—the absolutely horrifying part—is that I'm not just crying from fear or humiliation.

I'm also crying because he stopped.

Because I wanted him to keep going. Wanted him to make me come even though it meant giving him that power over me. Wanted to feel something other than guilt and terror and the crushing weight of impossible choices.

I press my hands between my thighs, and they come away wet.

His warning echoes in my head: Don't touch yourself tonight.

But the ache is unbearable. The need is consuming. And I'm so close to just—

My phone buzzes.

I pull it out with shaking hands.

Patrick.

Got the photos. Good work. But I need more. His home security codes. You have 48 hours.

I stare at the message, and reality crashes back in.

I just betrayed Lev. Photographed his schedule. Gave Patrick exactly what he needed to plan whatever he's planning.

And Lev caught me.

Knows I'm a spy. He didn’t kill me.

He probably thinks I’m working for some useless person. That’s probably why I’m still alive because he didn’t kill me.

Instead, he punished me with pleasure I couldn't have.

And I let him.

Melted into it. Begged for it. Would have given him anything if he'd just let me come.

What's wrong with me?

I curl into a ball on my floor and cry for real this time.

Not from arousal or denial or humiliation.

But from the crushing realization that I'm trapped.

Patrick will kill my family if I don't give him more.

Lev will kill me when he decides I'm more trouble than I'm worth.

And some sick part of me is more terrified of Lev's punishment than Patrick's threats.

Because at least Patrick's violence is straightforward.

But Lev? Lev knows exactly how to break me. Knows my body responds to him even when my mind knows better. Knows I'm twisted enough to get wet when he threatens me.

And he's going to use that against me until there's nothing left.

I lie on my floor and listen to him moving around on the other side of the wall.

And I ache.

And I hate myself.

I'm caught between two predators with no way out.

The only question is which one destroys me first.

Chapter eight

Lev

I crossed a line today.

Shoved Valerie over my desk, pushed my fingers inside her, and made her beg for something I never planned to give her. Watched her run from my office with her thighs slick and trembling, mascara streaking down her face, completely overwhelmed.

It was the most satisfaction I've had in years.

I should feel guilty. Should feel something resembling regret for taking advantage of a girl who's clearly desperate and in over her head.

I don't.

I feel hungry for more. I’m going to have more.

The story she told me—father in debt, family threatened, forced to spy to pay it off—is partially bullshit. I know it is. Can taste the lies underneath the fear. But the core of it? The terror in her eyes when she mentioned her brother? That was real.

She's hiding something. Someone specific sent her. Someone who wants information on me badly enough to threaten a civilian family.

I should dig deeper. Should find out who. Should eliminate the threat and anyone connected to it.

But whoever sends an amateur, naïve little mouse like Valerie is not worth my time or investigation.

I know I’m not really being logical right now.

But damn, I can’t help it. Because when I think about Valerie—about how she melted into that kiss, about how wet she was when my fingers slid inside her, about the sounds she made when I edged her over and over—logic disappears.

All that's left is need.

Need to touch her again. Taste her. Fuck her properly instead of just tormenting her with what she can't have. Make her understand that whatever trouble she's in, whatever debts she owes, whoever threatened her family—none of it matters anymore.

She's mine now.

And I protect what's mine.

Even if it destroys us both.

Business pulls me away from obsessive thoughts for exactly six hours.

I’m out handling a major arms shipment coming in from overseas. Coordinating with the Colombians on distribution. Dealing with the Armenians who've been circling my territory like vultures, testing boundaries, seeing if I'll push back.

Of course, I'll push back.

It takes several hours to make sure every truck is loaded and heading to the right place. Each truck has at least four of my men escorting it to ensure it reaches its destination.

As I head home, a sense of satisfaction runs through me—clean and simple, the kind that comes from solving problems without violence. But beneath that feeling, hunger returns. I feel it surging back like a damn flood.

This hunger is not for blood. It's for my little mouse.

The house is quiet when I enter. Late enough that Mila should be asleep.

But I hear voices from upstairs. Soft and familiar.

I take the stairs silently, following the sound to Mila's room.

The door is cracked open. Through the gap, I see Valerie sitting on the edge of Mila's bed, book in her lap, reading quietly.

"—and the princess realized that bravery wasn't about not being scared," Valerie's voice is gentle, soothing. "It was about doing the right thing even when you were terrified."

Mila is curled against her side, small body tucked under Valerie's arm, eyes already closing.

The image does something to my chest. Something uncomfortable that I refuse to examine.

Because Mila hasn't trusted anyone like this since Katya died. She hasn't let anyone hold her, braid her hair, or offer comfort without flinching away.

But she trusts Valerie. Curls into her like she's safe. Like the nightmares won't come if Valerie's there. And Valerie—who's terrified of me, who I caught spying, who I shoved over my desk and tormented hours ago—holds my daughter like she's precious. Like she actually cares.

Fuck.

I don't know what to do with that.

Don't know how to reconcile the spy gathering intel with the girl who braids Mila's hair, reads her stories, and makes my daughter smile for the first time in years.

Valerie finishes the chapter and carefully extracts herself from Mila's grip. Tucks the blankets around her. Turns on the nightlight. Moves with practiced ease like she's been doing this forever instead of three weeks.

When she turns toward the door, she sees me and freezes completely, her eyes going wide. She raises her hand to her throat in that nervous gesture I've memorized.

She's really terrified of me.

I step aside to let her pass, and she slips out of Mila's room like a ghost. Starts heading toward her own room, moving fast, trying to escape.

I let her get five steps before I move.

My hand wraps around her wrist, and she gasps, a small sound of shock and fear as I pull her in a different direction.

Toward my study.

"Please—" She tries to pull away. "I need to—I should—"

"Come with me." My grip tightens. "Now."

She doesn't fight. Just follows on trembling legs because what choice does she have?

I pull her into my study and close the door. Lock it with an audible click that makes her flinch.

The room still smells faintly like her—lavender and fear and arousal from this afternoon. The planner is back on my desk, where it belongs. Her torn underwear is gone—I kept it after she left.

She stands in the center of the room, arms wrapped around herself, looking anywhere but at me.

I move to the cabinet and pull out vodka. Pour two glasses. Turn back to find her watching me with those wide brown eyes.

"Drink." I hold one out to her.

"I don't—"

"I don't care. Drink it."

Her hand shakes when she takes the glass. She brings it to her lips, takes a tiny sip, and winces at the burn.

"All of it." My voice is flat. "Now."

She hesitates, then tips the glass back and drains it, coughing as her eyes water.

Good.

I want to throw her off balance. I want her defenses to fall. I want to see what's beneath all that fear.

"Are you still wet from this afternoon?" The question comes out conversational. Like I'm asking about the weather.

Her face flushes red. "W-What?"

"You heard me." I take a drink of my own vodka, savoring the burn. "When I sent you away dripping and desperate. Did you touch yourself after? Or did you follow my order and suffer through it?"

"I—I didn't—"

"Don't lie to me, Valerie." I set my glass down and move toward her. "Not after the day we've had. Not when I can still taste you on my fingers."

She backs up instinctively. Hits the wall. Nowhere left to go.

I cage her in, hands braced on either side of her head, body close enough to feel her heat.

"Answer the question." My voice drops lower. "Are you still wet? Or did you make yourself come thinking about my hands on you?"

"I didn't touch myself." It comes out strangled. "Y-You said not to."

"And you obeyed?" Surprise filters through the hunger. "Good girl."

My hand slides down her side, over her hip, to the hem of her skirt. She tenses but doesn't move away.

"Let me check." My fingers slide under the fabric, up her thigh, and she makes this sound—half protest, half plea.

When I reach the juncture of her thighs, I find exactly what I expected.

No underwear. Still.

And soaking wet.

"Fuck." The word comes out rough. "You've been wet all day, haven't you? Walking around my house, taking care of my daughter, dripping for me."

"I'm not—" But her protest dies when my fingers slide through her wetness. "Oh, men."

"Not men." I press closer, until she can feel exactly how hard I am. "Me. Say my name, Valerie."

"Lev—"

"Again."

"Lev, please—"

"Please what?" My fingers circle her clit, and she gasps. "Please stop? Please continue? Please fuck you properly this time?"

She can't answer. Just stares at me with those eyes that are more pupil than iris, breathing fast, body trembling.

And I see it.

That flash of darkness underneath the fear. That moment where she stops being the terrified mouse and becomes something else.

Something that wants this. Craves it. Would take everything I give her and ask for more.

There you are, viper.

I kiss her.

Not gently. Not asking permission. Just taking what I want.

She melts into it immediately—all that resistance disappearing the second my mouth claims hers. Her hands come up to my chest, and this time she's definitely pulling me closer, not pushing away.

When I break the kiss, we're both breathing hard.

"I need to fuck you." The words come out raw. Honest. "Right fucking now, before I lose my mind."

Fear flickers across her face. But underneath, I see hunger matching my own.

"Okay," she whispers.

That one word destroys my control completely.

I spin her around, press her face-first against the wall. My hands go to her skirt, shoving it up around her waist. She gasps, hands bracing against the wall, and I can see her thighs trembling.

I need a condom. Somewhere in this office I have—

Desk drawer. Left side. I always keep a box there.

I step back just long enough to grab one, and Valerie looks over her shoulder. Eyes wide. Watching me unbuckle my belt with shaking hands.

"Face the wall." My voice is rough and unhinged. "And spread your legs, little mouse."

She obeys. Both commands. Turns back around and shifts her stance wider.

Fucking perfect.

I roll the condom on, position myself behind her, and pause with my cock pressed against her entrance.

"Last chance to tell me to stop." I lean forward, lips against her ear. "Because once I start, I'm not stopping until you're screaming my name."

"D-Don't stop." Her voice is barely audible. "Please don't stop."

I thrust into her in one brutal stroke.

She cries out—loud enough that I clamp my hand over her mouth, swallowing the sound.

"Quiet, Milaya," I murmur against her ear. "Mila's sleeping down the hall. Can't wake her up while I fuck her nanny against my study wall."

She whimpers against my palm, and the sound goes straight to my cock.

I don't give her time to adjust. Just start moving—hard, deep, claiming strokes that make her whole body jerk forward with each thrust.

My hand stays over her mouth, catching the moans and cries that keep escaping. My other hand grips her hip hard enough to bruise, holding her in place while I take what's mine.

"Ty tak khorosha," I breathe in Russian. You feel so good. "Taking my cock like you were made for it. Like this pussy was designed to be mine."

She makes a sound against my palm that might be agreement or protest or just incoherent pleasure.

I fuck her harder. Lose myself in the tight heat of her, in the way she keeps trying to push back against me despite the fear, in how her body betrays every lie her mouth tells.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" I lean closer, biting down on the junction of her neck and shoulder. She jerks, and I feel her clench around me. "Wanted me to stop being patient. Stop teasing. Just bend you over and take what's mine."

Her response is muffled but sounds like yes.

"Say it clearly." I remove my hand from her mouth just long enough to hear her.

"Yes!, yes, I wanted this—"

I cover her mouth again before the sound carries. And increase my pace until she's sobbing against my palm, hands scrabbling at the wall for purchase that doesn't exist.

I can feel her getting close—her body tensing, inner muscles fluttering around my cock, breath coming in desperate pants against my hand.

"You want to come?" I slow down just enough to torment her. "Want me to let you finish this time?"

She nods frantically.

"Then come for me." I reach around with my free hand and find her clit. Circle it with just enough pressure to push her over the edge. "Right fucking now. Let me feel you fall apart on my cock."

She detonates.

Whole body going rigid, a scream trapped behind my palm, clenching around me so tight I nearly lose it right there.

But I hold on. Keep fucking her through it. Draw out her orgasm until she's shaking and whimpering and completely destroyed.

Then I let myself go.

Pull her hips back hard and bury myself as deep as possible, and the orgasm hits like a freight train. Rips through me with an intensity that makes my vision white out for a second.

"Moya," I growl against her neck. Mine. "Ty moya, Valerie. Fucking mine."

I come so hard I have to brace my other hand against the wall to stay upright.

When it finally subsides, we're both gasping. Shaking. Completely wrecked.

I remove my hand from her mouth carefully, and she sags against the wall like her legs won't hold her.

They won't.

I catch her before she falls. Turn her around and pull her against my chest, holding her while she trembles.

"I've got you." I find myself whispering. “I've got you."

She's crying. Silent tears streaming down her face. I don't know if it's from relief or shame or the overwhelming intensity of what just happened.

Don't care.

I just hold her. Let her shake apart against me while I stroke her hair and murmur things in Russian she probably doesn't understand.

Eventually, her breathing evens out. The shaking subsides.

She pulls back slightly and looks up at me with those wide, vulnerable eyes.

"What happens now?" Her voice is hoarse.

"Now you're mine." I cup her face, thumb brushing away tears. "Whatever trouble you're in—this debt, these threats, whoever's pulling your strings—it doesn't matter anymore."

"Lev—"

"I'll handle it." I cut her off. "You tell me what you need protected, and I'll protect it. But you stay. You're mine now. Understand?"

She nods slowly.

And I choose to believe it.

Choose to believe that she'll stop spying. Stop reporting to whoever sent her. Stop lying to my face.

Because I need to believe it.

Because the alternative—that she'll betray me again, that I'll have to kill her, that I'll lose the first person besides Mila who's made me feel something in five years—that's unbearable.

So I believe her.

Believe that this—her in my arms, her body still trembling from orgasm, her eyes looking at me like maybe I'm not just a monster—is real.

Even though I know better.

Even though every instinct screams that she's still hiding something.

I choose to believe.

Because addiction doesn't care about logic.

And I'm addicted to her now.

Completely.

Irrevocably.

Dangerously.

I kiss her forehead and pull her closer.

"Come on. Let's get you cleaned up."

Chapter nine

Valerie

The burner phone rings at 2:47 AM.

I'm lying in my own bed for the first time in hours—Lev finally let me leave around midnight, after holding me in his arms like I was something precious instead of a spy he caught red-handed.

My body still aches. Still feels him inside me. Still trembles with aftershocks every time I shift position.

The phone rings again, vibrating against my nightstand, and dread pools in my stomach like ice water.

Patrick.

I grab the phone with shaking hands and answer. "Hello?"

"You missed your deadline." His voice is cold. Controlled. The kind of calm that precedes violence. "I gave you forty-eight hours for security codes. That was three days ago."

"I'm sorry, I couldn't—there was no opportunity—"

"Don't give me excuses." The temperature in his voice drops even lower. "I've been very patient with you, Valerie. Very understanding about your situation. But my patience has limits."

"Please, I just need more time—"

"No. No more time. No more chances." Papers rustle in the background. "You want to know what happens when you fail me?"

"Patrick, please—"

My phone buzzes. Incoming photo.

I pull it away from my ear with trembling hands and open the message.

The world stops.

Ethan.

My baby brother. Seventeen years old. Tied to a chair in what looks like a basement. His face is swollen, bruised purple and black. Blood streams from his nose, his split lip. One eye is completely shut.

He's crying. I can see tear tracks cutting through the blood on his face.

And he's looking directly at the camera with an expression that says he knows exactly what's happening. Knows I'm supposed to see this. Knows this is my fault.

"No." The word tears out of me. "No no no, you said—you promised you wouldn't hurt him—"

"I promised I wouldn't kill him if you cooperated." Patrick's voice is pleasant now. Conversational. "But you're not cooperating, are you? You're fucking with my intelligence instead."

"I'm not—I didn't—"

"Don't fucking lie to me, girl." He pauses. "Ethan paid the price for your distraction. Next deadline, he pays with more. Eventually, he pays with his life."

I'm crying so hard I can barely breathe. "Please don't hurt him. Please, he's just a kid, he didn't do anything—"

"Then do your job." Patrick's voice goes cold again. "You have twenty-four hours to send me Lev Volkov's complete schedule for the next two weeks. Every meeting. Every location. Every movement. If I don't have it by this time tomorrow, I send you another photo. Except next time, Ethan will be missing fingers."

"I can't—"

"Yes, you can. You photographed his planner didn’t you? That means you’re smarter than you look.”

How do I tell him I’m actually not smarter than I look? That Lev set traps for me, and I fell for it, and that’s the only reason I was able to take those pictures?

“I saw the images you sent. But they were incomplete. Old information. I need current data. I need to know where he'll be and when so I can plan accordingly."

Plan accordingly.

"If I give you that information, you'll kill him." My voice breaks completely. "You'll kill Lev and his men will investigate and know it was me."

"That's not your concern. Your concern is keeping your brother alive. Your mother safe. Yourself breathing." He pauses. "Twenty-four hours, Valerie. Don't disappoint me again."

He hangs up.

I stare at the photo of Ethan for a long time. At his swollen face. At the blood. At the fear in his eyes.

This is my fault. All of it. He's being tortured because I couldn't get Patrick what he wanted fast enough.

But if Lev dies, what happens to Mila?

Seven years old. Already lost her mother and baby brother to violence. Finally starting to trust again. To smile again. To feel safe.

I'd be destroying her. Again.

But Ethan is my brother. My actual family. And he's being tortured right now because of me.

I pull up my photos. Find the ones from Lev's planner. Stare at the schedule entries.

Friday: Shipment arrival. Pier 17. 11:00 PM. M + 4.

Monday: Meeting. Warehouse District. 2:00 PM. M + 6.

Thursday: Dinner. Russo's. 8:00 PM. Personal.

All I have to do is forward these. Hit send. Patrick gets what he needs. Ethan gets released.

Lev dies.

My finger hovers over the send button.

I can't do it.

Why can't I do it? Ethan is my brother. This should be easy.

But it's not easy. Because in three weeks, a lot has changed.

I love Mila. Actually love her. That part isn't pretend. I can’t bear to hurt her. I can’t do it.

And Lev—

But Ethan is my brother.

I throw the phone across the room before I can hit send.

It hits the wall and clatters to the floor, and I curl into a ball and sob until there's nothing left.

I call Tash at 3:30 AM because I have no one else.

She answers immediately, voice alert despite the hour. "Val? What's wrong?"

"Patrick has Ethan." The words come out broken. "He sent me a photo. Ethan's tied up, bleeding, and Patrick says if I don't send Lev's schedule in twenty-four hours, he'll start cutting off fingers."

Silence. Then: "Fuck."

"I have the schedule. I photographed his planner days ago. All I have to do is send it, and Ethan goes free."

"But if you send it—"

"Lev dies. I know." I'm crying again. Can't stop. "Patrick will ambush him. Kill him and probably everyone with him. Maybe even little Mila. Definitely Lev."

"And you care about that." It's not a question.

"I don't know! I shouldn't care. I barely know him. He's terrifying and violent, and he's using me just like Patrick is—"

"Val." Tash's voice cuts through my spiral. "Do you care about Lev Volkov? Yes or no."

I open my mouth to say no. The truth comes out instead. "I'm addicted to him. To the way he looks at me. The way he touches me. The darkness in him that matches something in me I didn't know existed. I can't stop thinking about him even though I know I should."

"That's not the same as caring."

"No. It's worse." I press my hand over my mouth to muffle a sob. "Because I'm drawn to him in ways I can't control. And I love Mila. Actually love her. She trusts me. She feels safe with me. And if I send this schedule, Lev dies, and she loses her only parent, and I’ll live with knowing I did that to her."

"But if you don't send it, Ethan dies."

"I know!"

The silence stretches.

"What do I do, Tash? How do I choose?"

"I don't know." Her voice is quiet. Honest. "There's no good answer here. Either way, someone you care about gets hurt. Either way, you live with the consequences."

"I can't send it." The words come out certain. Final. "I can't kill Lev. Can't orphan Mila. I just—I can't."

"Then you need to tell Lev what's happening. Let him help—"

"No! If I tell him, he'll know I've been lying this whole time. Know the debt story was bullshit. He'll kill me, Tash. Or worse."

"Worse than watching your brother get tortured?"

I don't have an answer for that.

"Twenty-four hours," I whisper. "I have twenty-four hours to figure this out, or Ethan loses fingers."

"I'm sorry, Val. I'm so sorry."

She hangs up, and I'm alone again.

Alone with impossible choices and no good options, and the knowledge that whatever I decide, I'll hate myself for it.

I don't sleep.

Can't sleep. Just lie in bed staring at the ceiling, playing out scenarios that all end in blood.

Send the schedule: Lev dies. Mila loses her father. I live with that guilt forever.

Don't send it: Ethan gets tortured. Maybe dies. Mom loses her son. I live with that guilt forever.

Tell Lev: He kills me for lying. Or hands me over to Mikhail. Or something worse.

Run: Patrick finds me. Kills my whole family. Probably kills me too.

There's no way out.

No solution where everyone lives.

I'm trapped in a nightmare with no exit.

At 6:04 AM, I give up on sleep and get ready for the day. Put on my uniform. Braid my hair. Try to make my face look like I haven't been crying for over three hours.

It doesn't work.

My eyes are red and swollen. My face is blotchy. I look exactly like someone whose world is ending.

Perfect.

I go through the motions. Make coffee. Take care of Mila—braid her hair while she chatters about a dream she had, and I have to force myself to smile and nod and pretend my heart isn't shattering.

Lev appears at breakfast. Our eyes meet across the table, and something hot and dangerous passes between us.

He doesn't say anything. Just looks at me like he's remembering last night. Like he's planning tonight.

And my traitorous body responds. Heat pooling low. Aching for his touch despite everything.

I'm so fucked up. My brother is being tortured, and all I can think about is Lev's hands on me.

The day drags. Every minute feels like an hour. The deadline ticking closer.

At 8:00 PM, after Mila's in bed, someone knocks on my door.

I know who it is before I open it.

Lev stands there, still in his shirt and slacks from whatever business he handled today. His eyes are dark and hungry.

"Come with me."

I should say no. Should tell him I'm tired. Should do anything except follow him.

I follow him.

Down the hallway to his private quarters. Into his bedroom—massive, dark, everything expensive and masculine and smelling like him.

He closes the door behind us and locks it.

Then he just looks at me for a long moment.

"I need to fuck you." The words come out blunt. Raw. "I need you."

I should say no.

Every rational part of my brain is screaming to say no. To run. To put distance between myself and this man who's become an addiction I can't control.

"Yes." The word falls out before I can stop it.

Something in his expression shifts. Goes darker. Hungrier.

He moves.

Fast. Brutal. Backing me against the door we just came through, hands already shoving my skirt up around my waist.

"No underwear again?" His fingers find me bare and already wet. "Good girl. Fucking hell, Valerie."

"Lev—"

He kisses me. Swallows whatever I was going to say. His tongue invades my mouth while his fingers work between my thighs, and I'm lost.

Completely, utterly lost.

His other hand fumbles with his belt. Gets it open. Shoves his pants down just enough.

"Wrap your legs around me." His voice is rough. Desperate. "Now."

I obey without thinking. Jump slightly, and he catches me, pins me against the door, and positions himself.

Then he's inside me in one brutal thrust.

I cry out—it's too much, too fast, I'm not ready—but he swallows the sound with another kiss.

And starts moving.

Hard. Fast. Desperate. Like he needs this to survive. Like I'm oxygen and he's drowning.

The door rattles with each thrust. My back hits the wood over and over. His hands grip my thighs hard enough to bruise.

It's frantic. Raw. Nothing gentle or controlled about it.

Just need.

"Ty svedyosh' menya s uma," he growls against my neck. You're driving me insane. "Can't think about anything except this. Except you. Except being inside you."

His teeth find my shoulder. Bite down hard enough that I gasp and clench around him.

"Fuck. Do that again." He bites harder, and I can't help it—my body responds, tightening around him, pulling him deeper.

"Lev—oh God—"

"Not God." He reminds me again as his hand slides between us, finds my clit, circles it with brutal efficiency. "Me. Say my name."

"Lev—"

"Again."

"Lev, please, I'm going to—"

"Come for me." He thrusts harder, fingers working my clit faster. "Right fucking now. Let me feel it."

I shatter.

The orgasm rips through me so hard I see stars. My whole body goes rigid, clenching around him, and I'm screaming his name against his shoulder while he fucks me through it.

"That's it. That's my good girl. Taking my cock so perfectly. Coming so hard for me." He's still moving, chasing his own release. "Moya. Ty moya, Valerie."

He comes with a Russian curse, slamming into me one final time and going still. I feel him pulse inside me, feel the heat even through the condom he somehow remembered to put on.

We stay like that for a moment. Both gasping. Both trembling. Still connected.

Then he carefully lowers my legs and pulls out.

I expect him to let me go. To send me back to my room like last time.

Instead, he picks me up.

Actually lifts me into his arms like I weigh nothing, carries me across the room, and lays me down on his bed.

"Stay." He strips off his shirt, kicks off his pants, deals with the condom. "Tonight you stay here."

"Lev, I should—"

"Stay." His voice leaves no room for argument. "I'm not done with you yet."

He climbs into bed beside me, pulls me against his chest, and wraps his arms around me like he's claiming territory.

And I let him.

Because even though my brother is being tortured, even though I have a deadline ticking down, even though I should be planning or escaping or doing literally anything productive—

All I want is to stay right here.

In the arms of a monster who's become my addiction.

We lie there in the dark. His breath warm against my neck. His hand stroking my hair. His body solid and real against mine.

"Whatever you're afraid of," he murmurs into the darkness, "I'll protect you from it. You're mine now. That means you're under my protection."

The words should comfort me.

They break me instead.

Because he can't protect me from this. Can't save Ethan without dying himself. Can't fix the impossible choice I'm facing.

And lying here in his arms, feeling safe for the first time in weeks, I realize the truth.

I am really in trouble.

Can't kill this man. Can't orphan Mila. Can't destroy this fragile, twisted thing between us.

The tears come silently, soaking into his pillow, and I press my face harder against his chest to muffle the sound.

His arms tighten around me.

"I've got you," he whispers. "Sleep, Milaya. I've got you."

But he hasn't got me.

Nobody does.

I'm fracturing.

Coming apart at the seams.

And the worst part?

I don't want to stop.

Because being in Lev's arms, even while my world burns down around me, feels more right than anything else in my life.

And that terrifies me more than Patrick's threats ever could.

Chapter ten

Lev

Iwake up with a woman in my bed for the first time in five years.

Not just any woman. Valerie.

She's curled against my chest, small body tucked under my arm, wearing nothing but my shirt that she grabbed at some point during the night. The white fabric swallows her frame, sleeves falling past her wrists, hem riding up to reveal the curve of her ass.

Mine.

The possessiveness that slams through me is irrational. Dangerous. The kind that makes men stupid and gets them killed.

But lying here watching her sleep—dark hair spread across my pillow, lips slightly parted, one hand curled against my chest—I want to keep her exactly like this. Claimed. In my bed. Wearing my things.

She stirs, making this small sound that's half sigh, half whimper, and burrows closer.

The sunlight streaming through windows says it's past 7 AM. Late for me. I'm usually up by six, already coordinating shipments and reviewing security reports.

Instead, I stayed in bed watching her breathe.

Her eyes flutter open. Confusion first, then recognition when she sees my face. Fear flickers through her expression before something darker takes over—arousal mixed with terror in that twisted combination I'm addicted to.

"Morning," I murmur, hand sliding down her back to rest on her hip.

"Morning." Her voice is rough from sleep. "What time is it?"

"Late." I pull her on top of me in one motion. She gasps as she straddles my waist, my shirt riding up to expose everything underneath. "Shower. Now."

"I should —"

"No." The word comes out flat. Final. "You shower here. With me."

She opens her mouth to protest. I silence it with a kiss that turns her arguments into soft sounds of surrender.

My bathroom is all marble and chrome, glass shower big enough for six people. I turn on the water and strip while it heats, then pull her shirt over her head.

The sight of her naked in my space does things to me that aren't rational.

I back her against the tile wall under the spray. Not rough like last night. Slower. Methodical.

"I'm going to learn your body." My hands map every curve, every dip, cataloging what makes her breath hitch. "Every spot that makes you gasp. Every way to take you apart."

"Lev—"

I drop to my knees and hook her leg over my shoulder before she can finish the thought.

Put my mouth on her.

She cries out, hands flying to my hair, gripping hard enough to hurt.

I take my time. Learning what makes her hips jerk forward. What makes her thighs tremble. The exact pressure and rhythm that make her voice go high and desperate.

She tastes like arousal and mine, and I could stay here memorizing her responses indefinitely.

When she's close—thighs shaking, fingers pulling my hair, breath coming in pants—I stand and lift her in one motion.

Pin her against the wall.

"When you come this time, it's with me inside you." I line myself up, no barrier between us this time. "Understand?"

She nods frantically, too far gone for words.

I thrust inside her.

And fuck me, but she’s so tight and wet and perfect, and the feel of nothing between us—just her wrapped around me, no barriers, completely claimed—rewires something in my brain.

I fuck her slowly. Deliberately. Watching her face as I work her higher, learning every expression, every gasp.

"Ty moya," I murmur against her neck. You're mine. "Ne tol'ko zdes'. Vo vsyom." Not just here. In everything.

"Yes—" Her nails dig into my shoulders. "God, yes—"

"Say it properly." I slow down, making her work for it. "Say you're mine."

"I'm yours!" It comes out strangled. Desperate. "Lev, please, I'm yours—"

I increase the pace, angle to hit that spot inside her that makes her eyes roll back. "Then come for me. Show me who you belong to."

She shatters around me. Whole body going rigid, clenching so tight I nearly lose control. Her nails break skin on my shoulders, and she screams my name like it's the only word she knows.

I follow her over. Bury myself as deep as possible and come harder than I have in years, marking her in the most primitive way possible.

Mine. Completely mine.

Afterward, I clean us both with efficient hands. Wash her hair, run soap over her body, take care of what's mine.

She lets me. Stands still while I handle her, doesn't flinch when my hands linger on her throat or the marks I left on her thighs.

I wrap her in a towel and find clothes—another one of my shirts because seeing her in my things satisfies something primitive, and jeans from her room that I had retrieved.

She dresses while I watch, every movement memorized.

"Stay in my wing today." I button my own shirt, eyes still tracking her. "Don't leave without telling me first."

"Lev, I have responsibilities—"

"Elena can handle Mila's morning routine." I cross to her, tilt her chin up. "This morning, you stay where I can see you."

She searches my face, then nods. "Okay."

Good.

Mikhail finds me in my office after lunch.

"Boss. Got results on that burner number trace."

I look up from shipment manifests. "And?"

"Routes through multiple proxies. Endpoint traces to Brooklyn. Signature's consistent with small-time debt collection operations in that area. Could be O'Rourke's network, could be any of a dozen operators running protection rackets."

Small-time debt collectors squeezing a dead man's family. Exactly what Valerie told me. Nothing worth my immediate attention when I have Armenians testing borders and Colombians renegotiating terms.

"Conclusive?" I ask.

"No. Just patterns. Without more data, it's speculation."

I grunt and close the report. "Keep monitoring. Passive surveillance only. Anything changes, you let me know."

Mikhail hesitates. "Boss, if someone's running an asset inside your house—"

“Conclusive?” I ask.

“No. Just patterns. Without more data, it’s speculation.”

I close the report. “Then we treat it like a live wire anyway.”

Mikhail hesitates. “Boss, if someone’s running an asset inside your house.”

“We are not calling it an asset until it proves it can survive the word,” I say, voice flat. “We are calling it a possibility.”

He waits.

“Double the internal sweep. Staff communications, device checks, and access logs for the last fourteen days. I want every other staff verified. Quietly.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Put a watcher on Valerie. Not to babysit her. To watch who watches her. No contact, no intimidation. Just eyes and a report.”

Mikhail nods once and leaves.

I pull up security feeds instead of reviewing the rest of his data.

Find Valerie in Mila's room. She's reading to my daughter, and Mila is curled against her side, completely trusting.

The image makes something tighten in my chest—possessiveness, satisfaction at seeing what's mine exactly where I want it.

Whatever small-time operator is squeezing Valerie's family can wait. Bigger problems demand attention.

The Bratva family dinner is tonight.

It’s where Bratva Pakhans and members gather from time to time to talk and, mostly, show off.

I tell Valerie to get ready.

She looks at me, confused. "For what?"

"Bratva family dinner. You're coming."

"Lev, I can't just—"

"You can because I say you can." I move closer, crowding her space. "I want everyone to see you with me. To know you're mine. That means if anyone looks at you wrong, they answer to me."

Terror flickers in her eyes, but underneath it, there is also heat. "Wear the black dress I sent to your room."

She nods and disappears to change.

Forty minutes later, she emerges, wearing a simple black dress that hits mid-thigh — elegant and understated. Her hair is down in soft waves. She looks beautiful and a little frightened.

Exactly how I want her.

I keep my hand on her thigh the entire ride to Manhattan. Possessive. Claiming. She trembles slightly but doesn't pull away.

At Russo's, I keep my hand on her lower back as we walk inside. Making it very clear she's with me.

The private room is full. Everyone is here.

"Lev." Daniil Karpov stands. "You're late."

"Had business." I pull out Valerie's chair, then take the seat beside her. "Everyone, this is Valerie Novak."

"Welcome, Miss Novak." Daniil says.

"Thank you." Valerie's voice is steady despite trembling hands under the table. I find her hand, squeeze once. A claim, not comfort.

Dinner proceeds. After that, we move to the games table. Business is discussed in careful language: territory disputes, shipment schedules, revenue projections.

Valerie stays quiet, listening. I can see her memorizing names and faces, logging connections.

Halfway through, Pavel Moroznik, half drunk on vodka—leans forward.

"So, Lev. The girl. She your new whore or something more permanent?"

The table goes silent.

Valerie goes rigid.

"Careful." My voice stays conversational. "She's with me. Disrespect her, you disrespect me."

"No disrespect." His smirk says otherwise. "Just curious what makes this one special enough for family dinners. She spread her legs better than—"

Valerie's hand tightens on mine. And I feel it—that shift. Steel underneath fear.

She turns to look at Pavel directly. Eyes cold.

"I don't know what others you're referring to," her voice drips with sweet venom, "but maybe if you spent less time obsessing over who's spreading their legs and more time focusing, you'd actually notice everyone else on this table wiping the floor with you."

The table goes dead silent.

His face turns purple. "How dare you—"

"She dares because she's right." I lean back. "Your game tonight is shit, Pavel. In fact, have always been. Maybe address that instead of my personal life."

Daniil turns to him, trying to stifle his laughter alongside others at the table. "Pavel, you threw the first punch. Don’t flinch when it’s returned."

Pavel sits back, fuming but silenced.

And Valerie calmly takes a sip of wine like she didn't just eviscerate a made man in front of the entire family.

That flash of darkness. The viper I've been hunting.

The need to fuck her right here on this table is overwhelming.

The rest of the evening goes on. Valerie answers questions from others with unexpected calmness. She's nervous—I can sense it in how she keeps reaching for my hand—but she gets through it.

We leave around midnight. Valerie leans against me in the car, exhausted.

"You did well tonight," I say. "The thing with Pavel. That's exactly what I wanted to see."

She looks up. "I shouldn't have said that. I should have stayed quiet—"

"No. Never hide that part of you. The steel underneath. That's what I want."

"Why?" Genuine confusion. "Why do you want that?"

"Because it's real." I tilt her chin up. "Because most people hide their darkness and pretend to be something they're not. But you—you have steel underneath all that fear. And I want that part of you."

She doesn't argue.

Back at the house, I take her to my room. She follows without protest.

We get ready for bed. She borrows my shirt again. I let her because seeing her in my things satisfies the possessiveness that never quite settles.

In bed, she turns to face me.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Depends."

"Your wife. Mila's mother. What happened?"

Everything goes cold. "Why?"

"Because Mila asked if I thought her mama was watching from heaven. And I didn't know what to say."

I should shut this down.

But the question is reasonable, and she needs to understand what happens to people who threaten what's mine.

"Her name was Katya." The words come out flat. Clinical. "We were married six years. Had Dmitri first, then Mila."

"What happened?"

"Someone made a move on our territory. Sent men to my house while I was handling business across town." The memory plays behind my eyes with perfect clarity. "They broke through security. Got inside."

I pause, studying Valerie's face in the darkness. She's listening intently, not interrupting.

"I got the alert ninety seconds after the breach. Drove like hell. Still took twelve minutes." Twelve minutes that cost everything. "By the time I arrived, they were gone. Katya and Dmitri were dead."

"Lev—"

"I found them in our bedroom. Katya was on the floor between the bed and the wall where she'd tried to run. Two bullets—back of the head, execution-style. Clean. Professional." My voice stays flat, emotionless. This is just facts. Data. "Dmitri in his crib. They shot a two-year-old in his fucking crib. Three times to make sure he was dead. Not wounded. Dead."

Valerie makes a sound but doesn't speak.

"Mila was in the corner. Sitting in a pool of their blood. It had spread across the floor, and she was just sitting there, covered in it. Brain matter on her pajamas. Her mother's brain matter. Her brother's." I pull Valerie closer, not for comfort but for possession. "Her voice was gone from screaming and wailing for so long while they bled out around her."

"Oh God—"

She was supposed to be too young to remember, but she does. The nightmares prove it. Something imprinted on her mind while she sat there waiting for someone to come. Now, she looks at the world as if it's full of monsters.

"Because it is," Valerie whispers.

"Yes." I stroke her hair, the motion more possessive than gentle. "That's why I protect what's mine. That's why threats don't get second chances. That's why anyone who comes after the people I care about ends up in pieces."

I don't mention the seven men I found. Don't mention the warehouse where I kept them chained for days. Don't mention the recordings I made, or the boxes I sent to their families afterward containing parts of them.

Don't mention that I still have trophies in a safe. Reminders.

She doesn't need to know those details.

"I'm sorry," she says quietly.

We lie there in silence. Her fingers trace patterns on my chest—nervous energy, processing what I told her.

After a while, her breathing evens out. Sleep pulling her under.

I stay awake longer, staring at the ceiling, replaying the memory of finding them. Of Mila's screams. Of the moment I realized I'd failed to protect what was mine.

It won't happen again.

Chapter eleven

Valerie

The next place Lev takes me is a nightclub is called Apex.

We pull up in the black Mercedes—bulletproof glass, Mikhail driving, two more cars full of armed men flanking us—and my stomach drops at the line of people wrapped around the building. Waiting. Hoping to get inside.

We don't wait.

The doors open for us like Moses parting the Red Sea.

"What is this place?" I ask as Lev helps me out, his hand immediately claiming my waist.

"Mine." He guides me past the velvet ropes, past the angry looks from people who've been waiting for hours. "Neutral territory for business. And somewhere I want people to see you."

That last part makes my chest tighten.

He keeps wanting to be seen with me. Keeps parading me in front of his family, his associates, his world. Is this some kind of game? A power play I don't understand? Or does he actually want me around?

The thought terrifies me either way.

Inside, the club is a fever dream of wealth and violence barely contained.

The main floor is packed—bodies grinding against each other under lights that pulse like a heartbeat. The bass is so deep I feel it in my bones. But it's not the dancing that catches my attention.

It's everything else.

In the corners, men in suits that cost more than houses conduct business like they're at a boardroom table instead of a nightclub. Money exchanges hands openly. Drugs flow freely at certain tables—not hidden, just... accepted.

Violence simmers under the surface like heat shimmer off asphalt. I see it in how certain men move—predators in expensive clothing. See it in the scars some of them carry openly. See it in a flash of something in one man's jacket that's definitely a gun.

This isn't just a club.

This is the Bratva world, stripped of pretense.

Beautiful people doing ugly things in beautiful spaces.

And Lev is leading me right into the heart of it.

We head toward an elevated VIP section—glass walls, plush seating, perfect view of everything below. Like a throne overlooking chaos.

As we approach, I see familiar faces.

An older man at the center—gray hair, sharp eyes, commanding presence even while sitting. Tash's father, Dmitri. I recognize him from photos she's shown me, though she's always been careful about how much she reveals about her family.

Some men I remember from the dinner are scattered around.

And Tash.

She's perched on the arm of a leather couch, red dress that probably costs a fortune, drink in hand. Looking every inch the Bratva princess.

When she sees me, her eyes go wide.

"Oh my GOD!" She jumps up, nearly spilling her drink. "Babe! What are you—"

Then her hand flies to her mouth. Eyes darting to her father. Back to me. To Lev.

"I mean—" She tries to recover. "You look like—you remind me of someone I—" She's turning red. "Can we just pretend I didn't just—"

"Natasha." Dmitri's voice is amused. "You know this girl?"

"I—she—we—" Tash looks at me helplessly.

I decide to save her. "We went to Columbia together. Same literature class freshman year."

"Right! Yes!" Tash latches onto it. "Literature. We studied... books. Together."

Lev's looking between us, one eyebrow raised. "You studied books?"

"So many books," Tash says, completely straight-faced now. "That’s why it’s called literature."

I press my lips together to keep from laughing. Even Dmitri looks amused.

Sometimes I wonder how this lady is mafia-born.

"Well then." Lev guides me to the couch and sits, pulling me down beside him. His hand stays on my thigh—high enough to be possessive, not quite inappropriate. "Small world."

"Tiny," Tash agrees, taking a long drink. "Microscopic, really."

Dmitri shakes his head, but he's smiling. "Lev, I see you've brought interesting company."

"I have." Lev's hand tightens on my thigh. Claiming. "Everyone, this is Valerie Novak. She's under my protection."

The words ripple through the space. Men who were engaged in other conversations turn to look. Trying to assess what it means that Lev Volkov brought a woman here.

I try not to squirm under the attention.

The next hour is surreal.

Men approach our section constantly. Some to pay respects, some to report, some to ask permission for things I don't fully understand.

"The shipment from the coast?" A younger man, nervous, hands clasped.

"Arrived. No issues." Lev's voice is calm. Measured.

"The property dispute?"

"Settled. Petrov saw reason after we had a conversation."

The word "conversation" sounds ominous. I see the young man swallow hard.

"The Italians want to renegotiate the Brooklyn arrangement."

"Tell them no. They had their chance. If they push harder, I'll push back."

Not a threat. A promise.

I watch faces as men interact with Lev. Some show respect—bowing heads slightly, keeping their voices deferential. Others show fear—stammering, unable to maintain eye contact, and even seem relieved when he dismisses them.

These are dangerous men. I can see it in the scars some carry, in how they move like violence is muscle memory, in the cold calculation behind their eyes.

And they're all terrified of him.

At one point, a man gets dragged past our section—literally dragged, two huge enforcers holding his arms while he begs in Russian. Blood streams from his nose. His expensive suit is torn.

"Please, please, I can explain—"

They haul him past the VIP area, toward a back door marked PRIVATE. The music swallows his protests.

No one in our section even looks up. Like this is normal. Expected.

I stare after him, heart pounding.

"Don't worry about it." Lev leans close, lips against my ear. "Just business being handled."

Business. Right.

I watch them disappear through the door, and my imagination fills in what "handled" means. The soundproofed rooms. The tools. The screams no one will hear.

My stomach flips—terror and something darker I don't want to examine.

A woman in a barely-there dress delivers bottle service to our section. She pours with practiced grace, but I see how her hands shake slightly when she gets to Lev. How she won't meet his eyes.

Even the staff are afraid.

Downstairs, the dancing has devolved into something more primal. Couples grinding against each other, hands everywhere, some barely clothed. In one corner, I see a man push a woman against the wall and kiss her aggressively while his hand slides under her dress. She doesn't push him away. Just lets him.

In another section, three people are doing something that definitely constitutes public indecency.

No one stops them. No one cares.

This is the Bratva world. Money and power and violence and sex all tangled together until you can't tell where one ends and another begins.

And I'm sitting in the VIP section, Lev's hand on my thigh, watching it all like I belong here.

The thought makes my chest tight.

Because part of me—some sick, twisted part—is drawn to this. To the danger. To watching Lev command absolute loyalty. To seeing this world that exists in the shadows.

But another part—the part that remembers I'm supposed to be spying, that Ethan is being tortured, that I'm going to get Lev killed—is screaming that this is wrong.

That I don't belong here.

That I'm playing a game I don't understand.

What am I doing? Sitting here beside him like I'm his, when I'm the one who's going to betray him?

Guilt crashes over me. I see Mila's face—trusting, finally feeling safe. Then Lev telling me about finding his family dead. About Mila sitting in their blood.

My chest tightens so hard I can't breathe.

"Valerie." Lev's voice cuts through my spiral. "You alright?"

"Fine." The lie is automatic. "Just... a lot to take in."

His eyes narrow, studying me. Then his hand moves higher on my thigh. Possessive. "Stay close. This world can be overwhelming if you're not used to it."

I nod because I can't speak.

Tash catches my eye from across the section and slightly jerks her head. A clear signal for me to follow her lead.

I wait a few minutes, then lean close to Lev. "Bathroom?"

He looks at me for a long moment, as if he's deciding to dictate nature’s call. Then nods. "Don't take long."

I stand on shaking legs and head toward the back.

The bathroom is all black marble and gold fixtures, designed to match the club's excess. Tash is already inside, grinning.

"So." She crosses her arms. "You're fucking him."

"Tash—"

"Don't even try to deny it. I can see it all over you." She gestures at me. "The way he touches you. The way you let him. How long?"

"A few days." I move to the sink, needing something to do with my hands. "It's... complicated."

"Of course it's complicated. You're sleeping with the man you're supposed to be spying on." She lowers her voice, glancing at the door. "Have you told him?"

"No. And I can't. If he finds out—"

"He'll kill you. I know." She moves closer. "But this can't go on forever, Val. Something has to give."

"I know!" It comes out too loud. I lower my voice. "You think I don't know that? Patrick has Ethan. He sent photos—Ethan's face is destroyed, Tash. He's being tortured because I'm not moving fast enough. But if I give Patrick what he wants, Lev dies. And Mila—"

"Loses another parent." Her expression softens. "This is so fucked."

"I know." I press my hands over my face. "Every choice ends with someone I care about bleeding."

She grabs my shoulders. "Then pick the choice you can live with. Because this middle ground? It's going to implode. And you need to know which side you're on when it does."

"I don't know—"

"Yes, you do." Her eyes are serious. "You're falling for him. I can see it."

"It's not love—"

"I didn't say love. I said falling. And Val?" She squeezes my shoulders. "For what it's worth? Enjoy it while you can. The sex, the danger, all of it. Because life's too short for regrets, and you might not get another chance."

She leaves, and I'm alone with my reflection.

I look different. Eyes wilder. Lips swollen. Like someone who belongs in this dangerous world.

The thought terrifies me.

I fix my appearance and head back out.

Lev's eyes find me immediately, tracking my movement across the club. When I sit beside him, his hand returns to my thigh. Higher than before.

"Everything okay?" His voice is low.

"Fine."

A man approaches our section—older, fifties, expensive suit, cold eyes. I don't recognize him, but I see Lev's posture shift. Tension.

"Volkov." The man's accent is thick. Armenian. "Didn't expect to see you here."

"Grigor." Lev's voice is pleasant. Too pleasant. "Could say the same. Thought we agreed you'd stay in your territory."

"This is neutral ground." Grigor's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Besides, I wanted to see if the rumors were true. That the great Lev Volkov has found himself a weakness."

His gaze slides to me. My stomach drops.

"Careful." Lev's hand tightens on my thigh hard enough to hurt. "That sounds like a threat."

"Not a threat. Observation." Grigor shrugs. "Just noting that men with weaknesses make mistakes. And mistakes are... costly."

The temperature drops.

Lev stands slowly. And suddenly the pleasant facade is gone.

"Let me make something clear, Grigor." His voice is quiet but carries perfectly. "The girl is under my protection. That means she's untouchable. If you look at her wrong, I remove your eyes. If you threaten her, I take your organization apart piece by piece. Your men, your family, everyone you've ever cared about—scattered across three states in pieces small enough to fit in jars. Do you understand?"

Grigor's smile falters. "I didn't mean—"

"Do you understand?"

"Yes." Grigor steps back. "No disrespect intended."

"Good."

Grigor leaves quickly.

Lev sits back down, hand returning to my thigh like nothing happened.

My stomach flips—terror and that dark arousal I can't control.

The night continues. More business. More drinks. More watching Lev command this world while guilt eats me alive.

Around midnight, he stands and pulls me with him.

"Come."

"Where—"

"My office."

“You have an office here?”

“You’d be surprised at how many business deals have been struck here.”

He guides me through the club, past the PRIVATE door, up stairs to a corridor lined with heavy doors.

At the end, he unlocks one and pulls me inside.

The office is sleek—desk, leather chairs, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the chaos below. The music becomes muffled. Soundproofed.

He locks the door.

"Lev—"

He kisses me. Hard. Hands already pulling at my dress.

"I've been watching you all night." His voice is rough against my lips. "Sitting beside me, looking like that, driving me insane."

He lifts me onto the desk, pushes my dress up. Finds me already wet.

"No underwear again." His eyes darken. "Making it so easy for me to take what I want."

"Lev, someone could—"

"These walls are soundproofed." He unzips his pants, positions himself. "You could scream and no one would hear."

The words hit differently than he means them.

No one would hear.

If he killed me here, right now, I could scream and beg and it wouldn't matter. These walls swallow sound.

I'm completely at his mercy.

The thought makes me wetter.

He feels it—how I clench at the realization. "You like that. Knowing no one can hear you. Knowing you're trapped here with me."

"Yes—"

"Then scream." He thrusts inside, and I cry out. "Let me hear you fall apart where no one can save you."

I do.

Scream his name as he fucks me on his desk. Scream when his hand finds my clit. Scream when the orgasm builds impossibly fast.

The danger of it—being trapped, helpless, completely his—makes it overwhelming.

I come so hard I see white. Body rigid, clenching around him, sobbing his name.

"That's it." He doesn't stop. "Taking me so perfectly. Coming so hard where no one can hear you beg."

The words push me over again—smaller but intense—and I'm shaking, falling apart.

He follows. Buries himself deep with a Russian curse, hand in my hair, holding me exactly where he wants me.

Afterward, he helps me down. My legs barely work.

He fixes his clothes while I try to straighten my dress.

"Beautiful like this." He cups my face. "Wrecked and trembling. Mine."

My phone buzzes.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Lev's eyes drop to my purse. "Answer it."

"It's just spam—"

"Valerie." His voice goes cold. "Answer it."

Terror grips me because I know who it is.

Patrick.

I pull out my phone. Seven missed calls.

"Spam." The lie falls out. "I'll block it."

Lev's eyes narrow. "Spam doesn't call seven times. Who is it?"

"Old job. They keep trying—"

My phone buzzes again.

Lev doesn't grab it. Just watches my face. "We're leaving."

The drive home is silent. Tense.

When we arrive, he walks me to my room.

"Sleep. We'll talk tomorrow."

Then he's gone.

I pull out the burner.

Fifteen missed calls. Ten texts.

24 hours to send updated intel or Ethan loses a finger.

What do I do?

Chapter twelve

Lev

She checks her phone seventeen times during the drive home from Apex, and I count every single one.

Not obvious about it—quick glances when she thinks I'm focused on Mikhail's report, subtle shifts to see the screen. But I notice everything about Valerie Novak now.

And right now? She's scared of that fucking phone.

We arrive at the estate past 2 AM. She's exhausted, mumbles something about checking on Mila before bed. I let her go, watch her disappear up the stairs, then head to my office.

Pull up her phone records—both devices. The smartphone shows normal patterns. Nothing suspicious.

The burner is different.

Fifteen incoming calls in the past seventy-two hours. All from that same untraceable number Mikhail identified weeks ago. The one that routes through multiple proxies, encrypted to hell, connected to whoever the fuck is running her.

She hasn't answered any of them.

That should reassure me. Should prove she's done with whoever sent her here, whoever threatened her family into this situation.

Instead, it makes my jaw clench hard enough that my teeth ache.

Because if she's not answering, it means they're getting desperate. And desperate people do stupid, violent things.

I close the laptop and pour vodka. Drink it standing at the window overlooking the grounds where my men patrol in careful patterns. This fortress I built to keep threats out, and somehow one walked right through the front door wearing a maid's uniform and big brown eyes.

I need to confront her and finally get to the bottom of what’s happening.

But my mind supplies an image—Valerie's face when that phone buzzed at the club. The way her hand flew to it, then away, like touching it burned. The terror that flashed across her features before she smoothed it away.

She's trapped in something. That much is obvious.

The question is whether I give a shit enough to help or just eliminate the problem entirely.

I drain the vodka, set the glass down harder than necessary.

Tomorrow. I'll confront her tomorrow when I'm thinking clearly instead of with my cock.

Except when I head toward the hallway, I hear it.

Screaming.

Mila's screaming.

No!

I'm moving before conscious thought catches up, instinct and five years of nightmares propelling me down the corridor toward my daughter's room.

The door's open. Valerie's already there, kneeling beside Mila's bed, trying to calm her.

"—not real, sweetheart, you're safe, I promise you're safe—"

But Mila's thrashing, small hands clutching her blanket so tight her knuckles are white, face blotchy with tears and terror. "Mama! Mama, wake up! Please wake up!"

The same nightmare. Always the same fucking nightmare.

Her mother's body on the floor. Blood spreading. Dmitri in his crib. The men with guns. All of it seared into a brain too young to process that kind of trauma.

I move to the bed, and Mila sees me. Reaches for me with desperate hands. "Papa—Papa, I saw them again—"

"I know, Cielo." I lift her, hold her small, shaking body against my chest. "I know. But it was just a dream. Just a bad dream."

"It felt real." Her voice breaks on a sob. "It always feels real."

Valerie's still kneeling beside the bed, and I see wetness on her face. She's crying too, quietly, like my daughter's pain is her own.

I have no idea how to react to that.

"Can you tell us about the dream?" Valerie's voice is gentle, careful. "Sometimes talking about it helps make it smaller."

Mila shakes her head against my chest. "I don't want to. It's too scary."

"That's okay." Valerie reaches out, strokes Mila's hair with tentative fingers. "You don't have to talk about anything you don't want to. But we're both here now. Your papa and me. And we're not going anywhere."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Mila's breathing starts to even out. The shaking subsides into occasional tremors. She's exhausting herself, adrenaline crash pulling her toward sleep despite the fear still lingering.

I sit on the edge of her bed, keep holding her. Valerie settles beside me—close enough I feel her body heat, smell that lavender scent that's become familiar.

"Sing the song," Mila whispers. "The one Mama used to sing."

My throat closes. I can barely remember Katya's voice anymore, let alone the lullabies she sang. Five years is long enough to fade even the sharpest memories.

But Valerie starts humming. Soft, melodic, some Russian lullaby I recognize from childhood. Where the fuck did she learn that?

Mila's eyes drift closed. Her grip on my shirt loosens. Within minutes, she's asleep—real sleep this time, not the nightmare-plagued kind.

I carefully lay her back down and tuck the blankets around her small body. Turn on the nightlight she still needs, and back away slowly.

In the hallway, Valerie leans against the wall like her legs won't hold her.

"How did you know that song?" My voice comes out quieter than intended.

She looks up, eyes still wet. "My father used to sing it to me as a child. I thought—I thought maybe if Mila heard something her mama might have sung to her, it would help."

Something shifts in my chest. Uncomfortable. Unfamiliar.

Thoughtful. She was being thoughtful about my daughter.

I move closer, crowding her against the wall. Not threatening, just... close. Needing proximity in a way I don't want to examine.

"She's having them less," I say. "The nightmares. Since you came, they've decreased."

"Really?" Hope lights her face, genuine and unguarded.

"Really." My hand comes up, cups her face. She leans into the touch instinctively. "You're good with her, Valerie. Good for her."

"She's easy to love." The words come out simple, honest. "She's just this sweet, brave little girl who's been through hell, and all she wants is to feel safe. How could I not love her?"

The honesty does something to me.

Cracks something open that's been sealed shut since I found Katya's body, since I held my dead son, since I realized love makes you vulnerable and vulnerability gets you or people around you killed.

But Mila's thriving. Laughing again. Talking more. Clinging to Valerie like she's safety incarnate.

And maybe—maybe that's worth the risk.

"Come on." I pull her down the hallway, not toward her room but toward the main stairs. "There's something I want to show you."

She follows without question, and that trust does something to me too.

Downstairs, I lead her through corridors she's cleaned a dozen times. Past the formal rooms where I meet with other Bratva families. Past the study where I handle surface business.

To the west wing offices, where the real work happens.

"This is the legitimate side." I unlock a door, flip on the lights. "Real estate holdings, import/export companies, construction firms. All legal, all profitable, all boring as fuck."

She steps inside, eyes wide. The office is sleek—glass and steel, computers displaying property portfolios and shipping manifests. Nothing illegal, nothing that would raise flags with authorities.

"You run all this?"

"Mikhail handles day-to-day operations. I oversee strategy, acquisitions, expansion." I pull up files on the nearest monitor. "We own sixty-three properties across the tri-state area. Twelve construction companies. Six import firms that move everything from furniture to electronics."

"That's... massive."

"It's cover." I close that file, open another. "But it's also real. Employs over two thousand people. Generates enough revenue that the other side funds itself without drawing attention."

She's looking at the screen, genuinely interested. Asks intelligent questions about revenue streams, property values, and expansion strategies. Not pretending to understand, but actually understands.

Smart. She's fucking smart when she's not busy being terrified.

We spend an hour going through files. I show her the organizational structure, explain how legitimate businesses interface with less legitimate operations, and point out which companies are pure cover and which actually turn a profit.

She absorbs it all, asks questions that prove she's tracking the complexity.

"Why are you showing me this?" She finally asks, looking up from a shipping manifest.

"Because you're part of this now." The words come out easier than expected. "Part of my world. And I want you to understand it."

"Your world." She repeats it slowly. "The world where people get dragged out of nightclubs bleeding. Where you come home covered in blood. Where armed men patrol your house like it's a military compound."

"Yes." I don't apologize for what I am. "That world. The one you walked into when you agreed to spy on me."

She flinches.

"But also this world." I gesture at the monitors. "Legitimate business. Building something that lasts. Providing for my daughter's future." I move closer, back her against the desk. "The world I'm letting you into because Mila loves you. And because I want to trust you."

"Want to?" Her voice is small. "But you don't."

"Not completely." Honesty seems important right now. "You're still hiding something. Still scared of whoever keeps calling. Still lying about parts of your story."

Tears well in her eyes.

"But I'm choosing to believe the important parts are real." My thumb brushes her cheek. "The way you care about Mila. The fear when you thought I'd hurt your family. The relief when I touch you instead of threatening you." I lean closer. "Those parts I believe."

"They are real." She's crying now. "Everything I feel, that's real. I swear it's real."

I want to believe that.

The realization should terrify me.

Mikhail walks into my office a week later, face grim.

"Boss, we need to talk."

I know that tone. That's his 'you're fucking up, and I'm going to tell you about it' tone.

"Make it quick."

"You're getting sloppy." He doesn't sugarcoat it. "Distracted. You missed the Armenian situation escalating because you were showing Valerie the import manifests. Nearly lost the Ricci deal because you were too busy explaining organizational structure to notice he was testing you."

My jaw tightens. "I'm handling it."

"Not anymore, it doesn’t look like it, boss." He steps closer, voice dropping. "Because from where I'm standing, you're letting a woman we know is a spy deeper into operations every day. You're sharing information that could destroy us. And you're doing it because your daughter smiles at her and she's good in bed."

"Watch it."

"I'm your Vor, Lev. My job is to tell you when you're about to fuck yourself." His eyes are hard. "And right now? You're about to fuck yourself. That girl is still hiding something. Still getting calls she won't explain. Still lying about who sent her and why."

"I know."

"Then why—"

"Because Mila's thriving." The words come out harsher than intended. "Because my daughter laughs now. Talks. Doesn't wake up screaming every night. Because Valerie's the first person since Katya who's made this house feel less like a fucking mausoleum."

Mikhail's expression softens slightly. "I get it, boss. I do. But you're vulnerable right now. And vulnerable men make mistakes that get them killed."

"Noted."

"That's it? Just noted?"

"What do you want me to say?" I turn to face him fully. "That I'm being stupid? That I should terminate her and move on? That I'm risking everything for sex and my daughter's happiness?"

"Are you?"

Yes. Probably. Almost certainly.

"I don't know anymore." I pour vodka, don't offer him any. "But I'm not stopping. Not yet."

He shakes his head but doesn't argue further. Just leaves with a warning. "When this blows up—and it will blow up—don't say I didn't warn you."

The door closes behind him, and I'm alone with the truth.

He's right. I'm sloppy, distracted, making choices with my cock and my heart instead of my brain.

But I can't stop.

Chapter thirteen

Valerie

"Higher, Valerie! Push me higher!"

Mila's laughter rings across the park, bright and carefree, and my chest tightens with how normal this feels.

Weeks ago, she barely spoke. Now she's a chatty seven-year-old who begs for park trips and ice cream, who holds my hand without hesitation, who calls my name when she wakes from nightmares instead of screaming into the void.

I push the swing higher, watching her dark curls fly behind her. "High enough, Cielo?"

She giggles at my terrible Russian pronunciation. "Papa says it better."

"Papa's had more practice."

Two of Lev's guards stand fifteen feet away—Sam and Juno, both covertly armed, scanning the park with professional laxity. A third patrols the perimeter. Overkill for a Tuesday afternoon playground visit, but this is Lev's daughter. There's no such thing as too much security.

"Can we go on the slide now?" Mila's already scrambling off the swing before I answer, running toward the elaborate jungle gym with the kind of fearless energy only kids possess.

I follow, keeping her in sight, Juno shadowing me while Sam moves to a better vantage point.

The park is mostly empty—a couple of moms with toddlers on the far side, an old man feeding pigeons, a jogger doing laps on the path. Normal. Safe.

Mila reaches the top of the slide and waves at me. "Watch this!"

"I'm watching—"

Just then, a van suddenly appears out of nowhere.

Black. No plates. Screeching around the corner too fast, jumping the curb, barreling straight across the grass toward the playground.

Sam’s already moving, gun drawn, shouting in Russian.

Everything happens in seconds that stretch like hours.

The van's side door flies open. Men pour out—four, no five, all armed, moving with military precision toward Mila.

Oh hell. Ice snaps through my veins.

Please, don’t let this be real.

I'm running before conscious thought catches up. Pure instinct. Pure terror.

Mila sees them. Her face goes white. She freezes at the top of the slide, that same paralyzed fear I've seen in her nightmares, and my heart fucking shatters.

"MILA!" I'm screaming, legs pumping, closing the distance. "SLIDE DOWN. NOW!"

She moves. Slides down fast, stumbles at the bottom.

I catch her, haul her up, and spin around looking for escape routes.

Juno’s engaging the attackers—gunfire erupting, the sharp crack echoing across the playground. One of the men goes down. The mothers scream, grab their kids, and flee.

More men from the van. They're spreading out, trying to flank us.

Patrick. These are Patrick's men. I recognize one from the photo he sent—the one with the scar bisecting his eyebrow, the enforcer who broke Ethan's fingers.

Rage floods through me, hot and sharp.

You're not taking her. I don't care what you do to me; you're not fucking taking this child.

I run. Mila's sobbing against my shoulder, arms locked around my neck, legs around my waist. She's heavy, but adrenaline makes her weightless.

"It's okay, baby, I've got you, I've got you—"

Gunfire behind me. Viktor's down—I see him fall, blood spreading across his chest.

Sam’s shouting into his radio, firing at the men pursuing us.

I cut left, heading for the tree line. If I can reach the woods, lose them in the vegetation—

A man steps out from behind the public bathroom. Blocking my path. Gun raised.

I pivot hard, nearly dropping Mila, and run the other direction.

Another man is there.

Trapped. We're fucking trapped.

Mila's screaming now, face buried in my neck, small body shaking violently. "Don't let them take me, don't let them take me, please—"

"I won't." My voice comes out fierce, feral. "I promise, baby, I won't let them—"

The man behind me is close. I can hear his footsteps, heavy boots on grass.

I spin to face him, putting my body between him and Mila. Backing up toward the playground equipment, looking for anything I can use as a weapon.

"Give us the girl." His accent is thick—Eastern European, maybe Ukrainian. "No one has to get hurt."

"Fuck you." The words tear out of me. "You're not touching her."

He raises his gun, aims at my head. "Last chance."

Mila whimpers against me.

And a savage, beastly instinct takes control of my senses.

Over my dead fucking body.

"You want her?" My voice drops cold, flat, completely empty of fear. "You'll have to go through me."

The man's eyes narrow. He sees it—that flash of darkness Lev keeps hunting for, the part of me that stops being afraid and starts being dangerous.

His finger tightens on the trigger.

Gunfire erupts from behind him.

He goes down, skull exploding in a spray of red and gray matter.

I duck, shielding Mila, and more shots ring out. Our reinforcements—three black SUVs screaming into the park, doors flying open, Lev's men pouring out with military precision.

The attackers scatter. Two try to run, get cut down before they reach the van. One makes it inside, van peeling out, but Mikhail's team is already pursuing.

It's over in thirty seconds.

Four dead on the grass. One wounded, writhing and screaming, trying to crawl away with both kneecaps shattered.

I'm on my knees, still holding Mila, shaking so hard my teeth chatter. The adrenaline is crashing, leaving me hollow and sick.

"Valerie." Mikhail's beside me, hands on my shoulders. "Are you hurt? Is Mila hurt?"

I can't speak. Can't form words past the terror choking me.

He checks us both anyway—efficient, professional, searching for injuries. Finds nothing but my scraped palms from where I fell, Mila's tears soaking my shirt.

"You're okay." His voice is calm, grounding. "You're both okay. Breathe, Valerie. Just breathe."

I try. Air shudders in, out, in again.

Sirens in the distance. Police responding to reports of gunfire.

"We need to move." Mikhail's already lifting me, guiding me toward the SUV. "Before authorities arrive. Can you walk?"

I nod. My legs work somehow, carrying me and Mila to the vehicle.

Inside, I finally let myself look at her. Her face is blotchy, her eyes red and swollen, and her whole body is trembling. But she's alive. Whole. Safe.

"I'm sorry." I'm crying now too, can't stop. "I'm so sorry, baby, I should have—"

"You saved me." Her voice is small, broken. "They were going to take me and you—you stopped them."

"Of course, I stopped them." I hold her tighter, like I can press her into my ribcage and keep her there forever. "No one is going to hurt you on my watch."

The SUV tears out of the park. Mikhail's on the phone, talking in rapid-fire Russian.

We're ten minutes from the estate when I see it.

Another vehicle approaching fast. Black sedan, windows tinted.

More of them. They're coming back.

I brace, ready to shield Mila again, but the sedan slows. Falls into formation behind us.

Escort. Protection.

My heart's still hammering when we pull through the estate gates. They close behind us with a clang that sounds like safety, like fortress walls, like nothing can touch us here.

Lev's already outside. He must have run back from wherever he was. Must have gotten the call the second shots were fired.

The SUV barely stops before he's ripping the door open.

"Mila." His voice cracks on her name. "Milaya, are you—"

She launches herself at him, and he catches her, holds her so tight I hear her gasp. His hands are shaking—Lev Volkov's hands are actually shaking—as he runs them over her hair, her back, checking for injuries he can't see.

"I'm okay, Papa." She's crying again. "Valerie saved me. The bad men came, and Valerie—she wouldn't let them take me—"

His eyes meet mine over her head.

The look there is indescribable. Terror and rage and relief and something else, something that makes my chest cavity feel too small.

"Let’s get you both inside."

He carries Mila. I follow on legs that barely work, Mikhail's hand steadying my elbow when I stumble.

The foyer is chaos—men everywhere, weapons out, securing perimeters. Elena appears, face pale, reaching for Mila.

"Take her upstairs." Lev's voice is pure command. "Stay with her. Don't leave her side."

Elena nods, takes Mila gently. The little girl reaches back for me. "Valerie—"

"I'm right here." I touch her hand. "I'm not going anywhere. I promise."

She disappears up the stairs with Elena, Lev turns to me. "You're okay." He's saying it like a mantra, hands running over me the same way he checked Mila. "You're okay, you're safe, you're—"

"I'm fine." My voice sounds distant. Disconnected. "They didn't touch me."

"They almost did." His hands cup my face, forcing me to look at him. "I saw the footage, Valerie. I watched you run. Watched that bastard aim at your head. Watched you stand there and dare him to pull the trigger with my daughter in your arms."

Footage. Right. The guards have body cams.

"I couldn't let them take her." It's the only explanation I have. "I couldn't—"

"I know." He kisses my forehead, my cheeks, my mouth. Desperate, claiming kisses that taste like fear. "I know. You protected her. Risked your life. And I—"

His voice breaks completely.

I've never seen him like this. Never seen Lev Volkov come apart at the seams.

"I thought I was going to lose you both." The words come out strangled. "When Mikhail called, when he said shots fired, attackers on site—I thought I'd get there and find you dead. Find Mila gone. Find everything that matters ripped away again."

"But you didn't." I press closer, needing his solidity. "We're here. We're safe."

"Because of you." His grip tightens. "Because you're fucking fearless when it matters."

I want to tell him I wasn't fearless. I was terrified. But the terror got buried under rage, under the absolute certainty that no one was taking this child while I still breathed.

Mikhail approaches, face grim. "Boss. The survivor's secured in the basement. He's ready to talk."

Lev's expression goes cold. Murderous. "Good."

He releases me, and I see the shift—from terrified father to Bratva boss in a heartbeat.

"Stay with Mila." He's already moving toward the basement. "Don't leave this house. Don't leave her side."

"Wait—" I catch his arm. "Who were they? Why did they—"

"I'm about to find out." The promise in his voice is dark. Final. "And then I'm going to kill every single person involved."

He disappears down the corridor, Mikhail and three armed men following.

He’s going to find out they were sent by Patrick, and then he’s going to find out Patrick sent me? Then what’s going to happen?

I head upstairs on autopilot. Find Mila in her room with Elena, curled in her bed, still crying.

"Valerie!" She reaches for me the second I appear.

I climb into bed beside her, let her burrow against me. Elena quietly leaves, closing the door.

"I was so scared." Mila's voice is muffled against my shirt. "I thought—I thought they were going to take me like they took Mama."

Oh God. She thinks this is the same. She thinks she's reliving that nightmare.

"No, baby. No." I stroke her hair, the motion automatic. "This was different. Your mama—what happened to your mama was different. This was just bad men being stupid. And we're okay. We're both okay."

"Because you protected me."

"Yes."

"Like Mama tried to protect me."

The comparison makes my throat close.

Katya died protecting her children. Stood between them and the guns. And I just did the same thing.

"Your mama loved you so much," I whisper. "She would be so proud of how brave you were today."

"I wasn't brave. I was scared."

"Being brave means being scared and doing it anyway." I kiss the top of her head. "You ran when I told you to. You held on tight. You were so, so brave."

We lie there until her breathing evens out. Exhaustion pulling her under despite the trauma.

I stay, watching her sleep, replaying everything in my head.

Patrick's men. I'm sure they were Patrick's men. Which means he knows about Mila. Knows she's Lev's weakness. And he tried to use her to get to him.

Guilt crashes over me.

This is my fault. I brought Patrick into their lives. If I'd never come here, if I'd found another way, if I'd just—

The door opens. Lev stands there, covered in blood.

Fresh blood.

"Is she asleep?" His voice is quiet.

I nod.

He crosses to the bed, looks down at his daughter. Something in his expression cracks, just for a moment, before the mask slides back.

"Come with me."

I carefully extract myself from Mila's grip, follow him out. Elena's waiting in the hallway—she slips into the room to watch over Mila while we're gone.

Lev leads me to his bedroom. Closes the door. Locks it.

Then just stands there, staring at me.

"What did he say?" I ask. "The survivor. Who sent them?"

"Armenian family." His voice is flat. "Testing my defenses. Seeing if I was distracted enough to strike."

Not Patrick.

Relief and disappointment flood through me so intensely that I nearly collapse.

But Lev's still talking. "He gave up names, locations, everything. Begged for his life." A dark smile tugs at his lips. "I killed him anyway. Slowly."

I should be horrified. Should flinch away from the casual brutality.

I don't.

"Good." The word comes out vicious. "He deserved it."

Lev's eyes flash. "You mean that."

"Yes." And I do. "They tried to take Mila. They would have—if they'd succeeded—" I can't finish the thought.

He crosses to me in two strides. Pulls me against him again, and this time I feel him shaking. “Thank you.”

I groan softly at the feel of him. “I would do it over and over.”

He pulls back a little to look at me. "You're not the scared little mouse I caught in my bathroom anymore."

"No." I'm not. "I'm not."

"What are you then?"

His. Mila's. Part of this world, whether I intended to be or not.

"I'm whatever I need to be to protect your daughter."

The honesty chips away at something between us.

He kisses me, and this time it's different. Not desperate, or claiming, or angry.

We end up in his bed, still fully clothed, just holding each other. His hands keep running over me like he's checking I'm still here, still whole.

"I was terrified," he admits into the darkness. "When Mikhail called. First time I've felt that kind of fear since I found Katya."

"I was terrified too." My fingers trace patterns on his chest. "But I couldn't let them take her. Couldn't let her relive that nightmare."

"You saved her."

"We saved her." I correct. "Your men, Mikhail, you. Team effort."

"You put yourself between her and a gun." His voice is fierce. "That was all you."

We're quiet for a long time. His breathing evens out, and I think he's finally asleep.

Then he speaks again. "I trust you."

My breath catches. "What?"

"I trust you." He pulls back enough to look at me. "After today, watching you protect her with your life, risk everything without hesitation—I trust you, Valerie. Completely."

The words should make me feel relief. Victory.

Instead, guilt crashes over me.

He trusts me. And I'm still lying to him about Patrick. Still hiding the fact that my father was an informant against him. Still keeping secrets that could destroy us.

"Lev—"

"Whoever keeps calling, whatever it is that is threatening your family—we'll handle it together. But I need you to know you're safe here. Protected. Mine."

Mine.

The word settles over me like a brand.

"Okay," I whisper.

He kisses my forehead. "Sleep. Tomorrow, I start the retaliation. But tonight, just sleep."

I try.

But hours later, still wrapped in his arms, listening to him finally rest, all I can think is that I need to end this with Patrick.

Before Lev finds out the truth, before this tentative trust shatters.

Before Patrick tries again and succeeds.

Before I lose everything that's become worth protecting.

Tomorrow, I’ll start figuring out how to end this.

Tonight, I just hold onto Lev and pray he forgives me when he learns the truth.

Chapter fourteen

Lev

The Armenian organization burns hot and wild; it has to be the most beautiful sight of the night.

Orange flames lick at the night sky, consuming the warehouse where Grigor Markaryan ran his distribution network. The heat hits my face even from thirty feet away, mixing with the tangy smell of blood and the acrid bite of gasoline.

Inside, what's left of Grigor's organization is dying.

A normal person would be puking their guts out. Not me though.

I watch the fire through the scope of my rifle, waiting. Three men try to escape through the back exit—exactly where I knew they'd run. The first one makes it two steps before my bullet takes him in the spine. The second stumbles over his corpse, and Mikhail puts one through his skull. The third gets smart, throws his hands up, tries to surrender.

I shoot him anyway.

No mercy. Not for men who tried to take my daughter.

Fucking bastards.

"Boss." Yaroslav appears at my shoulder, face streaked with soot. "Building's clear. Everyone inside is dead or burning."

"Grigor?"

"Basement. Alive. Waiting for you."

I nod and hand off the rifle, head inside through the front entrance we breached an hour ago. Bodies litter the floor, sixteen men who chose to fight instead of run. Their stupid mistake.

The basement stairs are slick with something I don't care to examine too closely. Down here, the heat is oppressive, and smoke is already creeping through the ventilation.

Grigor is chained to a support beam in the center of the room, kneeling in water from burst pipes. His expensive suit is ruined, torn and dirty, his face is already swelling from the beating my men gave him during the extraction.

He looks up when I enter and immediately starts to panic. "Lev. Please. I—"

I hit him. Hard. My fist connecting with his jaw brutal enough to snap his head sideways. Blood and a tooth hit the wet floor, staining my knuckles.

"Explain what?" My voice is calm as I wipe the blood on his stupid face. "Explain why you sent five men to kidnap my seven-year-old daughter from a public park? Explain why you thought that was acceptable? Explain why you're stupid enough to still be breathing like you were waiting on me to dole out the punishments since that was a failed operation?"

"I-It wasn't supposed to happen like that!" He's crying now, words slurring through split lips. "Just supposed to be a message, a warning, we weren't actually going to hurt her—"

I kick him in the ribs. Bones crack. He screams so loud my ears pop.

"You fucking aimed guns at my child." I crouch down to his level, grab his hair, force him to look at me. "Put her in danger. Made her relive the worst day of her life. And also pointed a weapon at my woman."

His eyes widen. "Lev, please, I have information. I can give you names, locations, please!"

"I don't need your information." I laugh and pull out my knife, a hunting blade, eight inches, sharp enough to shave with. "I have everything I need. Your organization is dead or dying. Your operations are burning. Your family will wake up tomorrow to find your pieces in boxes on their doorstep, and they will only wake up because, as monstrous as I am, I don’t mess with family."

"No—wait—"

I start with his fingers.

He screams. The sound echoes off concrete walls, mixing with the crackle of flames above us, and I work methodically. Each finger severed at the knuckle, cauterized with a lighter so he doesn't bleed out too fast.

He begs. Pleads. Offers me everything he has.

I keep cutting.

When I'm done with his hands, I move to other parts. Taking my time. Making it last. Making sure the message is clear to anyone who hears this story later.

Touch what's mine and die screaming.

By the time I put the final bullet in his brain, he's barely recognizable as human.

I stand, covered in blood and viscera, and look at Mikhail. "Clean this up. Leave the pieces where they'll be found. I want everyone to know what happens."

"Already handled, Boss."

Outside, I strip off my jacket and shirt since they’re both ruined beyond saving now. Stand in the parking lot watching the flames while my men finish the cleanup. Seven locations hit tonight. Seven pieces of the Armenian operation burning simultaneously across the city.

This message will be well received.

Yaroslav appears with a bottle of vodka and a clean shirt. I take the vodka, ignore the shirt. Pour it over my hands, watching Grigor's blood wash away in clear streams.

"It's done," Mikhail says, approaching with his phone. "All targets confirmed eliminated. No survivors except the ones we left barely alive to spread the word."

"Good." I take a drink straight from the bottle. The burn is satisfying. "Pull everyone back. I want full perimeter security at the estate for the next week. No one goes in or out without my express approval."

"Already arranged." He pauses. "Boss, this was... extensive. The kind of response that makes everyone nervous."

"That was the goal, Mikhail. Let them be nervous." I hand back the bottle. "Let every organization from here to Moscow know what happens when they threaten mine. Let them understand that Lev Volkov doesn't forgive and doesn't fucking forget."

He nods and moves off to coordinate transport.

The drive back to the estate takes forty minutes. I spend it staring out the window, watching the city pass in blurs of light, coming down from the adrenaline high that always follows violence.

Grigor's screams still echo in my head. The wet sound of his fingers separating from his hands. The way he begged at the end, voice breaking, promising anything if I'd just make it stop.

I feel nothing about it.

He threatened my daughter. Threatened Valerie. That's unforgivable.

We pull through the gates just after 3 AM. The house is quiet, most lights off except security perimeters.

I should shower in the guest wing. Should deal with the blood and soot before anyone sees me like this.

Instead, I head straight upstairs to my bedroom.

She's there.

Valerie, curled in my bed wearing one of my shirts, reading something on her phone. She looks up when I enter, and her eyes widen at the state of me.

Blood spatter across my chest and face. Soot streaking my arms. Grigor's blood still under my fingernails.

Three weeks ago, she would have screamed. Flinched. Run. Looked like she would faint.

Tonight, she just sets her phone aside and stands.

"Is it done?" Her voice is steady.

"Yes."

"Thank goodness." She moves toward the bathroom. "Come on. Let me help you clean up."

“You did not sleep?”

“I couldn’t.” She takes my hand. “Come.”

The domesticity of it is surreal. She runs a bath while I strip off the rest of my clothes, dumps expensive salts into the water that smell like lavender and rosemary. Steam fills the space, and my muscles involuntarily relaxes.

When the tub is full, she helps me in, and I allow her because I need her touch, no matter how little. Her hands are gentle as she uses a washcloth to scrub blood from my shoulders, my chest, my face.

"Did he suffer?" she asks quietly.

"Yes."

"Good." No hesitation. No moral conflict. Just satisfaction that the man who threatened Mila paid the price. "He deserved it."

I catch her wrist, pull her closer. "You're not bothered by this? By what I am? What I do?"

"I am… I mean, I would have been bothered three weeks ago." She continues washing, methodical and careful. "Now I just see a man protecting his family. Doing what needs to be done, now I think if it were my daughter, I’d do the same."

I chuckle under my breath, "That's a dangerous way to think."

"Maybe." She shrugs and rinses the cloth, wrings it out. "But it's honest."

Her fingers find the split skin on my knuckles, damage from hitting Grigor's face repeatedly. She examines them with a small frown, then reaches for antiseptic.

"These need tending."

I let her work. Watch her clean each wound, apply ointment, wrap them carefully in gauze. The care she takes is almost painful in its tenderness.

When she's done, I pull her into the bath with me.

"Lev—my clothes—"

"Take them off then."

She grumbles under her breath, but does it anyway. Strips out of my shirt and her underwear, steps into the water, settles between my legs with her back against my chest.

Perfect.

I wrap my arms around her, need her close, need this contact after hours of violence and death. She melts against me, head tilting back onto my shoulder.

"What now?"

"Right now." My hands slide up her sides, cup her soft, sensitive breasts. "The Armenians are destroyed. Anyone left will spread the message. No one touches what's mine."

"What's yours." She repeats it quietly.

"Yes. You and Mila both. Mine to protect. Mine to keep safe. Mine."

She shivers despite the hot water.

I grin. “Are you afraid of belonging to me, little mouse?”

"I should be."

"Are you? Does it scare you?”

"No." Her hand covers mine, where it rests on her ribs. "It doesn’t."

I turn her in the water, need to see her face. She straddles me easily, knees bracing on either side of my hips, and suddenly we're eye to eye.

"I need you." I find myself saying. "Need to feel you. Need to be inside you."

"Then take me." Her hands cup my face. "I'm right here."

I lift her slightly, position her, and she sinks down slowly onto my cock.

The sensation steals my breath. Hot water, her body wrapped around mine, the way she gasps and clenches as I fill her completely.

"Fuck." I grip her hips, hold her in place. "Don't move yet. Just... let me feel this."

She stays still, trembling slightly, and I memorize this moment. The weight of Valerie on my lap. The heat of the water. The smell of lavender and arousal. The tightness of her walls against my hardness. The way she looks at me—no fear, no hesitation, just want, despite.

Then she starts moving.

Slow. Rolling her hips in lazy circles that make my vision blur. Not frantic or desperate like before. Just steady, deep, taking her time.

I let her set the pace. Watch her face as she rides me, savouring every expression. The way her lips part when I hit deep. The flush spreading across her chest. How her eyes go unfocused when pleasure builds.

She’s going to fucking kill me. This woman.

"Lev—" My name sounds like a prayer.

"I've got you, Milaya." My hands slide up her back, tangle in her wet hair. "I've got you."

She leans forward, kisses me while still moving, and the intimacy of it cracks something open in my chest. This isn't just fucking. This is something else. Something I don't have words for.

Her rhythm changes. Faster now, chasing release, and I help her. One hand between us, finding her clit, circling it the way I've learned she likes.

"Come for me," I murmur against her mouth. "Let me feel you clench around me."

She does. Milking my cock so hard I’m groaning in pleasure, fingers gripping the soft flesh of her hips as she gasps my name, nails digging into my shoulders as her orgasm rocks over her body in waves.

I follow immediately after. Bury myself deep and come harder than I have any right to, her name torn from my throat.

I mildly notice water sloshing everywhere.

Afterward, she collapses against my chest, both of us breathing hard. I hold her while the water cools, running my hands over her back, her hair, unable to stop touching her.

We stay in the cooling water until it's uncomfortable, then I carry her to bed. Don't bother with clothes. Just pull her against me under the sheets and hold on.

"Sleep," I murmur into her hair.

"You too."

I try. But hours later, she's finally asleep, and I'm staring at the ceiling, mind churning through problems I'm deliberately ignoring.

Mikhail's latest report sits unread on my phone. Patrick O'Rourke has been quiet lately, no activity, no movement, just silence where there should be noise.

That’s unusual about the bastard.

I should investigate. Should find out why.

Not just that.

Since I’ve claimed Valerie as mine, I should dig deeper into whoever's running her, force her to confess everything, and eliminate threats before they materialize.

Instead, I close my eyes because I want her to come to me herself.

Chapter fifteen

Valerie

As I get ready for bed, the burner phone vibrates, and it's a twenty-three-second video of Ethan. Tied to a chair in that same basement. Two men holding him while a third takes a baseball bat to his ribs. The crack of bones breaking. His screams. Blood streaming from his nose, his mouth, his ears.

And Patrick's voice in the background, calm and clinical: "You have seventy-two hours to give me Lev Volkov's itinerary and full schedule, or your brother will die screaming, and his blood will be on your hands."

The phone vibrates again, and I pick it up with trembling hands.

Tick tock, Valerie.

Your brother is running out of time.

72 hours. Don't make me send you pieces.

I stare at the phone until my vision blurs.

Ethan or Lev. My brother or the man I'm falling for. My blood family or the family I've chosen.

There's no right answer. No solution where everyone lives.

I have to choose.

The thought makes me want to vomit.

I can't sleep. I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, my mind churning through scenarios that all end in blood.

Send Patrick the information: Lev dies. Probably Mila too. I live with that guilt forever.

Don't send it: Ethan dies. Screaming. In pieces. And I live with that guilt forever.

Tell Lev the truth: He kills me. Maybe kills my family too for good measure. Problem solved, no guilt required because I'll be dead.

Run: Patrick finds me. Kills everyone I love. I end up dead anyway.

There's no way out.

At midnight, I give up on sleep. Slip out of my room in pajamas and bare feet, needing to move, needing to do something other than lie there spiraling.

I end up at Mila's door.

It's cracked open since she doesn't like it completely closed since the nightmares started. I push it wider, just enough to see inside.

She's sleeping peacefully. Curled on her side, clutching the stuffed bear Lev got her last week. Her face is relaxed, no trace of the terror that haunts her dreams.

She looks safe. Happy. Healing.

And I'm about to destroy that.

If I send Patrick what he wants, Mila wakes up to find her father dead. Maybe dies herself if Patrick's team is thorough. Relives the worst trauma of her life all over again.

Because of me.

My chest tightens so hard I can't breathe.

I close her door quietly and keep walking.

Past the guest rooms. Past the stairs. To Lev's bedroom.

His door is open too. I stand in the doorway watching him sleep.

He's on his back, one arm thrown over his head, face relaxed in a way it never is when he's awake. He looks younger like this. Less dangerous. Almost peaceful.

I memorize his features. The scar through his eyebrow. The sharp line of his jaw. The way his chest rises and falls with steady breaths.

This might be the last time I see him like this. Peaceful. Trusting. Alive.

The thought makes my eyes burn.

I love him.

The shock of this realization nearly brings me to my knees.

Not just lust. Not just obsession, not just attraction, or the twisted chemistry between us.

I actually love Lev Volkov.

Love the way he is with Mila, awkward and trying so hard. Love his darkness and his violence and the way he protects what's his. Love that he trusted me despite every red flag. Love that he looks at me like I'm something precious instead of a weapon.

And I'm going to destroy him.

My phone buzzes. 3 AM exactly.

Patrick calling.

I step back from Lev's door, move down the hallway far enough that the sound won't wake him, and pull out the burner.

Let it ring. And ring. And ring.

I don't answer.

It goes to voicemail. Thirty seconds later, a text appears.

A photo.

Ethan's hand. Four fingers clearly broken, bent at wrong angles, swollen, and purple.

And a message: Just sending an incentive.

I stare at the image until it blurs, and know that I must make a choice.

Brother or lover. Blood family or chosen family.

Ethan's broken fingers or Mila's trauma.

My salvation or my damnation.

I slide down the wall and sit there in the dark hallway, phone clutched in shaking hands, and weep.

I don’t know how long I stay there crying, but I realize I no longer have any choice but to tell Lev the truth.

Without a second thought, I force my feet to start moving towards Lev’s room. When I slip in, I allow my eyes to rake through his beautiful form, knowing this may be the last time I will see him this peaceful.

"Lev." My voice barely above a whisper.

He opens his eyes and looks at me, confused, then quickly sits up. “Is Mila okay? Did she have another nightmare?”

"No, no, Mila is fine. But I need to tell you something."

Relief washes over him, and then he mutters, "tomorrow."

"It can't wait until tomorrow."

Silence.

Then he rolls over to face me. His expression is blank. Unreadable. "What is it?"

This is it. No going back.

My hands are shaking so badly that I have to clasp them together. "I need to tell you the truth. About everything. About why I'm really here."

His eyes narrow slightly. "Go on."

"My father… Viktor Novak, he didn't just owe money to criminals." The words tumble out faster now, unstoppable. "He was an informant. Working for Patrick O'Rourke. Feeding him information on Bratva operations. On you."

Lev goes completely still.

Well, shit, here goes.

"Patrick killed him right in front of my family and me. Shot him in the head because he gave bad intel that cost Patrick men and money." I'm crying now, can't help it. "And then Patrick said my father's debts were transferred to the family. Said if I didn't finish what my father started, he'd kill my mom and my brother."

"Finish it?" Lev's voice is dangerously quiet.

"Yes, by spying on you." The confession tears out. "He got me the job through Marina Petrov's agency. Told me to gather intel, schedules, locations, security protocols, anything I could find. Said every piece of information was worth my brother and mother’s life."

I pull out the burner phone with shaking hands. Show him the messages. The photos of Ethan beaten and bloody. Patrick's threats in stark black text.

"He has my brother. Has been torturing him for weeks because I stopped sending information. Because I—" My voice breaks completely. "Because I fell for you. Because I couldn't keep betraying you. Because Mila deserves better and you deserve better and I'm so fucking sorry…"

Lev doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Just stares at the phone in my hands.

I keep talking, desperate to fill the silence. "I know this is unforgivable. I know you should kill me for this. I know I don't deserve mercy or help or anything except a bullet. But please—" I grab his hand, hold it tight. "Please, Lev, I need you to save my brother. He's seventeen. He didn't do anything wrong. This isn't his fault. Patrick's going to kill him if I don't send updated information, and I can't—I can't do that to you, can't get you killed, can't hurt Mila like that."

Nothing. He says nothing.

His hand in mine is rigid. Every muscle locked tight. His jaw is clenched so hard I can see it working. His eyes are flat. Dead. Cold as winter.

But he's not moving. Not speaking. Not reacting.

Just sitting there like a statue while I confess everything.

"Please say something." My voice breaks. "Yell at me. Hit me. Kill me. Just please say something—"

He pulls his hand away.

Stands.

Walks to the window and stares out at the darkness.

His shoulders are so tense they're nearly at his ears. His hands are fists at his sides. I can see him shaking with rage so profound it's making his whole body vibrate.

He's going to kill me.

The certainty settles over me like ice water.

This is how I die. In Lev Volkov's bedroom. At the hands of the man I fell in love with. Because I betrayed him.

"Lev—" I stand on shaking legs. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I know it doesn't—"

"Get out." His voice is barely above a whisper. Controlled. Too controlled.

"W-What?"

"Get. Out." Each word is clipped. Precise. "Before I do something we'll both regret."

"But Ethan—"

"OUT!"

The word explodes out of him, and I run.

Out the door, down the hallway, into my room, where I lock the door and collapse against it.

My whole body is shaking. Trembling so hard my teeth chatter.

He's going to kill me. Or he's going to let Patrick kill Ethan. Or both.

I told him the truth, and now everything is going to burn.

Through the wall, I hear movement. Heavy footsteps. Something crashes—glass shattering. His voice in Russian, words I don't understand but the rage in them is crystal clear.

Then silence.

Terrible, deafening silence.

I slide down to the floor, pull my knees to my chest, and wait.

Wait for him to come through that door.

Wait for the bullet or the hands around my throat or whatever method he chooses.

Wait for the end I just guaranteed by confessing everything.

The burner phone buzzes in my pocket.

Patrick's deadline is here.

But I can't move. Can't think. Can't do anything except sit on my floor and shake and pray that if Lev kills me, at least it'll be quick.

At least Mila won't have to watch.

At least I'll die knowing I tried to tell the truth.

The silence stretches.

And I wait for death.

Chapter sixteen

Lev

Every suspicion has been confirmed.

Every red flag has been validated.

Every instinct I ignored because I was thinking with my cock instead of my brain—all of it proven right.

Everything I was trying to pretend I don’t know about, everything I’ve been praying isn’t real.

She was a spy the entire time.

In my house. In my bed. With my daughter. In my fucking heart.

Patrick O'Rourke's asset. His weapon. His revenge for the men I killed, planted right under my nose while I was stupid enough to fall for big brown eyes and lies wrapped in silk.

The rage that floods through me is black. Consuming. The kind that makes vision go red and hands shake with the need to destroy something.

To destroy her.

My hand moves toward my gun on instinct. Muscle memory. The solution is simple. One bullet, problem solved, betrayal punished.

Behind the door, I hear her sobbing. Broken sounds that might be words, but I can't process them past the roaring in my ears.

She betrayed me. Made me vulnerable. Made me trust again after I swore I'd never be that stupid.

And I fell for it. Fell for her. Let her into every corner of my life while she was feeding information to the man who murdered my family.

The gun is in my hand before I consciously decide to grab it.

I'm moving down the hallway. Past my destroyed bedroom, shattered glass from the mirror I put my fist through, vodka staining the carpet, the scent of expensive cologne mixing with blood from my split knuckles.

To her door.

Locked. Like that would stop me.

I kick it open. The lock splinters. The door slams against the wall hard enough to crack plaster.

She's on the floor, curled in a ball, sobbing so hard her whole body shakes. When she sees me and the gun in my hand, her eyes go wide with terror.

I cross the space in three strides. Grab her by the throat. Haul her up and slam her against the wall hard enough that her head cracks against it.

Her hands fly to my wrist, trying to pry my fingers away, but I'm not squeezing yet. Just holding. Just showing her how easy it would be.

"Give me one reason." My voice comes out cold. Deadly calm. "One fucking reason I shouldn't kill you right here, right now."

"I'm sorry—" She's choking on tears, on fear, on words that won't save her. "Lev, please, I'm sorry—"

"Sorry?" I tighten my grip slightly. Watch her eyes go wider. "You're sorry? You spied on me for weeks. Gathered intelligence for my enemy. Put my daughter at risk. And you think sorry fixes that?"

"No, I know it doesn't, but please… I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry."

"How do I know any of this is real?" I lean closer, until we're eye to eye, until she can see the rage burning in me. "How do I know you're not still playing me? That this confession isn't just another manipulation? That Patrick didn't send you here to gain my trust so you could destroy me from the inside?"

"Because I love you!" It tears out of her, desperate and broken. "I love you, Lev. I know I don't have the right. I know I fucked everything up. But it's true. I fell for you. For Mila. And I couldn't go through with it anymore. Couldn't keep betraying you—"

"Liar." I squeeze harder. Watch her face start to change color. "You don't love me. You love staying alive. You love whatever Patrick promised you. This is just another lie in a long line of lies—"

"It's not—" She's gasping now, clawing at my hand. "Please, Lev… can't… breathe"

My fingers tighten.

She makes a small, broken, terrified sound, and something in it cracks through the rage.

I release her.

She collapses to the floor, gasping, sobbing, hands at her throat where my fingers left marks.

And I stand there shaking with the need to finish it. To end her. To make the pain stop by eliminating its source.

The door opens behind me.

Mikhail. Gun drawn. Assessing the situation with one look, me standing over Valerie, her on the floor crying, the rage radiating off me like heat.

"Boss?" His voice is carefully neutral.

"Lock her in the basement." The words come out flat. "Secure holding. No contact. No phone. Nothing."

"Lev, please—" Valerie reaches for me, and I step back like her touch burns. "Please don't do this! My brother… Patrick's going to kill him!"

"Your brother isn't my problem." I holster my gun before I use it. "You made your choices. Now you live with the consequences."

"But you said—you said you'd help with whatever trouble I was in."

"I said nothing." I turn to Mikhail. "Get her out of my sight. Now."

He gestures, and two guards appear. They grab Valerie under the arms, haul her up.

She fights. Tries to pull away. Screams my name like it'll change anything.

"Lev, please! He's going to kill Ethan! Please, I'm begging you!"

The guards drag her toward the stairs. Her screams echo through the house, raw, desperate, breaking on my name over and over.

I don't follow. Don't watch. Just stand in her room surrounded by her things and let the rage consume me.

When her screams finally fade, I walk back to my office. The one place that's still mine, still untouched by her lies.

Except it's not, because every space in my home has been tainted by her.

I punch through the painting on the wall, and my knuckles begin to bleed, split open from the shattered glass of the painting. Blood streaks across the floor, but I don't feel it. Don't feel anything except rage and pain and the crushing weight of my own stupidity.

I trusted her. Let her in. Showed her everything. Made myself vulnerable for the first time in five years.

And she was working for Patrick the entire time.

The pain is worse than when Katya died.

Worse because I chose this. Chose to ignore the red flags. Chose to believe her lies. Chose to fall for her despite every instinct screaming that something was wrong.

I collapse into the chair, head in my bloody hands, and let the reality crash over me.

I fell for her. Actually fell. Somewhere between watching her with Mila and feeling her in my arms, I stopped seeing her as a potential threat and started seeing her as mine.

And she was never mine. She was always his.

Eventually, the anger burns itself out. Leaves nothing but cold calculation and the need for answers.

I pull myself up. Wash the blood off my hands. Change into clean clothes.

Then I head to the basement.

It’s time to interrogate my prisoner.

The holding cell is exactly what it sounds like, concrete walls, steel door, a cot bolted to the floor. We use it for interrogations. For people who need convincing before they talk.

Valerie is curled on the cot, arms wrapped around herself, face blotchy from crying.

When I enter, she flinches. Presses herself against the wall like she can disappear into it.

I scoff, pull out the chair, and sit, studying her in silence.

She looks small. Broken. Nothing like the woman who stood between my daughter and a gun.

"We're going to have a conversation," I say finally. Voice cold. Clinical. "And you're going to tell me everything. No lies. No omissions. Complete truth. Understand?"

She nods frantically.

"How long have you been working for Patrick?"

"Since my father died almost three months ago." Her voice is hoarse, probably from screaming. "He told me my mother and brother’s lives depended on me completing the assignment my father failed to carry out."

"What did you pass him?"

"Guard rotations at first. Vehicle schedules. Property layouts. Nothing critical." She's shaking. "But he kept demanding more. Kept threatening Ethan when I didn't deliver fast enough."

This is everything she’s said before.

"When did you stop?"

"Two weeks ago. After the park. After I realized I—" She chokes on the words. "After I couldn't do it anymore."

"And Patrick's response?"

“The photos. The videos. The escalating violence against my brother. A seventy-two-hour deadline to send your complete schedule, or Ethan dies.”

I stand. Move to the table against the wall where interrogation tools wait. Pliers. Knives. Things designed to extract truth through pain.

I pick up the pliers. Let her see them. Let her imagine what I could do with them.

My fingers shake. Just slightly. Just enough that I have to grip harder to hide it.

Because part of me, some sick, twisted part, can’t hurt her. Still sees her as mine despite everything.

I hate that part of myself.

"Here's what's going to happen." I turn to face her, pliers in hand. "You're going to tell me everything Patrick knows. Every piece of intel you passed. Every conversation you had. Every plan he's made."

"Lev, please—"

"And if I think you're lying," I take a step closer. Let the tool catch the light. "I'm going to start removing pieces of you until the truth comes out. Starting with fingers. Then toes. Then, other parts you'll miss more."

The fear in her eyes is absolute. Primal. The kind that says she believes every word.

It's a dagger to my heart.

But I deserve this hurt. Deserve this pain. Because I let my guard down. Because I chose to trust. Because I was weak.

"I'm not lying." She's crying again, hands held up defensively. "I swear I'm not lying. I'll tell you everything. Just please don't—"

"Then start talking." I set the pliers down but keep my hand on them. A reminder. "And Valerie? If you leave anything out, I'll know. And you won't like what happens next."

She talks. For an hour straight. Tells me everything all over again, no inconsistency.

The specific intel she passed. The photos of Ethan progressively more beaten. The demands that escalated from simple guard schedules to complete operational details.

And the trap.

"He's planning an ambush." Her voice is barely above a whisper. "That's why he wants your location. He's planning to kill you and anyone with you."

My jaw clenches. "So did you tell him the location?"

Even though I already know the answer.

"No." She presses her hands over her face. "I haven’t said anything; he’s still waiting on that information before he can make his move."

Interesting.

An ambush I know about is an ambush I can reverse.

"What else?"

"He has Ethan in a warehouse on the docks. Pier 47. " Her voice breaks.

I process this. The intel she's giving me is detailed. Specific. The kind that would be hard to fabricate on the spot.

Either she's telling the truth, or she's a better liar than I gave her credit for.

“And how do you know this?”

“My best friend, Tash, had her bodyguard find out the information because she is trying to help me. He found out Ethan’s whereabouts and told her.”

"Why should I believe any of this?" I move closer. "Why should I believe you're not still playing me? That this isn't just another layer of Patrick's plan?"

"Because I love…I love Mila!" It explodes out of her. "Because that little girl trusts me and I can't—I won't—be the reason she loses you. Because I'd rather die than hurt her like that."

"But you did hurt her. You put her at risk by being here."

"I know." She's sobbing now. "I know, and I hate myself for it. But I'm telling you the truth now. All of it. Because even if you kill me, at least you'll be alive. Mila will still have her father. And I will not have to live with the pain of knowing I sent my brother to an early grave."

I study her face. The tears are real. The fear is real. The guilt is real.

I want to believe it's manipulation. Want to believe she's incapable of actual feeling. Want to believe this is all an act.

But that look in her eyes when she talks about Mila—that's not something you can fake.

I make a decision.

"Here's what's going to happen." I lean against the table, arms crossed. "I'm going to use your intel. Reverse Patrick's trap. Kill him and his men. Extract your brother."

Hope flashes across her face. "You're going to save Ethan?"

"I'm going to eliminate a threat to my organization and recover a potential asset for leverage." My voice stays cold. "Don't mistake that for mercy."

"I don't—thank you."

"And after?" I cut her off. "After Patrick's dead and your family is safe? We're done. You're finished here."

She flinches like I hit her.

"You'll leave. Take your mother and brother and disappear. I don't care where. Just somewhere I never have to see your face again."

"But Mila—"

"Will be told you had a family emergency and couldn't stay." The words taste like ash. "She'll cry. She'll ask for you. And eventually, she'll forget. Children are resilient that way."

"Lev, please…"

"This isn't a negotiation." I push off the table. "You betrayed me. Lied to me. Put everything I've built at risk. The only reason you're not already dead is because killing you would hurt my daughter. But I will not keep you here. Do you understand?"

She nods. Tears streaming down her face. Looking absolutely destroyed.

Good.

She should hurt. Should feel a fraction of what she's put me through.

I head for the door, then pause. Look back at her one last time.

"For what it's worth?" My voice softens just slightly. "I believe you love Mila. That part was real. Everything else? I'll never know for sure. And that's the part that's going to haunt us both."

Then I leave.

Lock the door behind me.

And go plan how to kill Patrick O'Rourke.

I'm going to paint the docks with his blood tonight.

Chapter seventeen

Valerie

The basement is cold.

Not just temperature, though concrete walls and no heating make my breath fog in the air, but the kind of cold that seeps into your bones and stays there.

I deserve worse.

Deserve the pliers Lev held. Deserve the knives on that table. Deserve every brutal thing he threatened to do to me.

But he left me alive. Locked in this cell with nothing but a cot and my guilt.

My face throbs where it hit the floor when the guards dragged me down here. I can feel swelling around my left eye, taste blood where I bit my tongue. Small injuries. Nothing compared to what Ethan's endured.

Nothing compared to what I've done to Lev.

I don't know how long I've been down here. Hours? A day? Time moves strangely in the dark.

The door opens and Lev stands in the doorway. Face blank. Eyes cold. He's changed clothes, black suit, no tie, looking every inch the Pakhan.

"Get up." His voice is emotionless. "You're making a phone call."

I stand on shaking legs. "What kind of call?"

"The kind that saves your brother and kills Patrick." He gestures for me to follow. "Move."

I do. Up the stairs on legs that barely work. Through hallways I used to clean. Into his office, still destroyed from whatever rampage he went on after I confessed.

The desk is upright now, cleared except for a phone. A burner, different from mine.

"Sit." He points at the chair.

I sit.

He places the phone in front of me, then pulls out a piece of paper covered in his handwriting. "You're going to call Patrick. Tell him exactly what's written here. Nothing more, nothing less. Understand?"

I scan the script. It's detailed information about tonight's supply run: route, timing, and the number of guards. All false, I assume. Bait for a trap.

"He'll know I'm lying." My voice comes out hoarse from screaming earlier. "He'll hear it in my voice."

"Then better be fucking convincing." Lev's expression doesn't change. "Because if he doesn't buy it, your brother dies. And then you die. In that order."

He means it.

Shit

I pick up the phone with trembling hands. Dial the number I've memorized but hoped never to use again.

Patrick answers on the third ring. "Valerie. Cutting it close, aren't you? Why must you always wait till it’s your deadline? You know I’m not a very patient man."

"I know. I'm sorry. It's been complicated."

"Complicated how?" His voice sharpens. Suspicious already.

"Mr. Volkov's been paranoid. Changing schedules, increasing security. I couldn't get close enough to verify anything until tonight." The lies flow more easily than they should. "But I have what you want."

Across the desk, Lev watches me with those dead eyes. No expression. No reaction. Just watching.

"Go on."

I read from the script. "Supplies run tonight. Three trucks are leaving the east warehouse at 2 AM. Route takes them through the industrial district—Seventh Avenue to the docks. Four guards per truck, plus Mikhail in the lead vehicle."

"And Volkov?"

"Will be in the second truck. He’s personally overseeing this operation because the shipment is high-value." I swallow hard. "Weapons. Military-grade. Worth millions."

Patrick is quiet for a moment. I can almost hear him calculating, weighing whether to believe me.

"You've been radio silent for two weeks." His voice drops lower. Sounding ominous. "Ignoring my calls. Letting your brother suffer. And now suddenly you have exactly what I need? Sounds suspicious."

My heart hammers. "I was trying to find the right moment. Trying to get close enough without raising suspicion."

"Or you fell in love." He says it like a joke, but there's an edge underneath. "Got so wrapped up in playing house with the Pakhan that you forgot whose side you're on. Maybe started thinking good dick was worth sacrificing your baby brother for."

Lev's eyes narrow slightly. Watching my reaction.

"No." The word comes out too sharp. I force myself to soften it. "God, no. I would never—I could never fall for a man like Lev Volkov. He's a monster. A killer. Everything I hate."

I watch Lev's face as I say it. See his jaw clench. See his eyes harden even more, like stone turning to ice. See something flash through his expression too fast to name, but it looks like hurt.

Then it's gone. Buried under that blank mask.

"He's just a means to an end," I continue, twisting the knife deeper because Patrick needs to believe it. Because if he suspects I've turned, Ethan dies. "A job. Nothing more."

"Good." Patrick's voice relaxes slightly. "Because for a minute there, I thought I'd lost you to Stockholm syndrome and good fucking. Would have been disappointing."

"You didn't lose me. I'm just trying to stay alive long enough to get my family out."

"Smart girl." Papers rustle on his end. "Alright. I'll position men along that route. If your intel is good, this ends tonight. Volkov dies, your debt is paid, your family goes free."

He hangs up.

I set the phone down with shaking hands. Stare at it like it might explode.

Lev picks it up, does something to it, and then pockets it.

"You did well." His voice is flat. Empty. "Even convinced me you meant it. That part about hating me, about me being just a job."

"Lev—"

"Save it." He stands. "Patrick bought it. That's all that matters."

"But I didn't mean it…"

"I’m sure you didn’t." He moves toward the door. "Mikhail will take you back downstairs. Stay there until this is over."

"Lev, please—"

"This conversation is over." He walks out without looking back.

Mikhail appears moments later. Gestures for me to follow him back to the basement.

The cell is somehow colder when I return.

Mikhail lingers in the doorway. "I'll bring food and water in an hour."

"You don't have to." My voice sounds hollow. "If Lev wants me to starve, I deserve it."

"Boss didn't say to starve you. Just said to keep you locked up." He studies me for a moment. "You really love him?"

The question catches me off guard. "W-What?"

"Lev. You love him? Or was that all bullshit for Patrick real?"

"I love him." The admission hurts. "I fell for him despite knowing I shouldn't. Despite knowing it would end like this. And now he hates me, and I deserve that too."

Mikhail nods slowly. "For what it's worth, I don't think he hates you. Hate is clean. Simple. What he feels is messier than that."

"Does it matter? Either way, I'm leaving. Either way, I lose him and Mila and everything that mattered."

"Maybe." He shrugs. "Or maybe the boss surprises you. He's done stupider things for people he cares about."

Hope flickers for just a second before reality crushes it.

"He doesn't care about me anymore. You saw him up there. He looked at me like I was nothing."

"I saw a man trying very hard not to feel anything because feeling anything right now would break him." Mikhail's expression softens slightly. "He trusted you. Let you in. That's not something he does. Ever. And you betrayed that. Doesn't matter that you had reasons. Doesn't matter that you stopped. The betrayal happened. And now he's trying to put himself back together while everything inside him is screaming."

"So, what do I do?"

"You wait. You accept whatever consequences come. And you hope that when the dust settles, there's something left to salvage." He starts to close the door, then pauses. "And Valerie? If you really love him, you'll respect whatever decision he makes. Even if it destroys you."

The door closes. Locks. And I'm alone again.

Hours pass. Mikhail brings food like he promised—soup, bread, water. I eat mechanically, tasting nothing.

Try to sleep. Can't. Just lie on the cot staring at the ceiling, mind replaying everything.

Lev's face when I confessed. The rage. The hurt underneath.

His hands on my throat. The moment I thought he'd actually kill me.

The cold emptiness when he looked at me in his office. Like I was already dead. Already gone. Already nothing.

And Mila.

God, Mila.

She'll wake up tomorrow, and I'll be gone. Elena will tell her some lie about family emergencies. She'll ask when I'm coming back.

Never, baby. I'm never coming back.

The thought breaks something in me that was already cracked.

I curl into a ball on the cot and let myself cry. Not the desperate, terrified crying from earlier. Just quiet tears for everything I'm losing.

For Lev, whom I fell for despite knowing better.

For Mila, who trusted me and deserved so much more.

For the life I built here, that was all based on lies but felt more real than anything I'd ever had.

Chapter eighteen

Lev

"Her mother is at 2247 Cortland Avenue. Third-floor apartment. Two of Patrick's men watching the building, rotating shifts every eight hours."

Mikhail's pointing at building schematics spread across my desk. It's 12:15 AM. I haven't slept. Haven't stopped moving since Valerie made that call to Patrick.

"And her brother?"

"Pier 47, third warehouse from the north end. Exactly where Valerie said. Two guards inside, medical equipment visible through the windows. Someone's keeping him alive." He taps another image. "But barely. Thermal imaging shows he's not moving much."

Internal bleeding. Broken bones. Weeks of torture.

The kid is seventeen. A college student whose only crime was having a father stupid enough to work for Patrick O'Rourke.

Using innocents as leverage is unforgivable.

That's why I'm doing this. Not for Valerie, not for redemption, not for forgiveness.

I'm doing it because Patrick's methods are cruel. Because using civilians creates loose ends. Because the Bratva has rules, and terrorizing families falls outside acceptable parameters.

That's what I tell myself.

"Extraction teams?" I ask.

"Ready. Yaroslav will take the mother. Four men, unmarked vehicles, in and out in under five minutes. Viktor handles the brother—medical team standing by, trauma surgeon on call at the safe house."

"Did you stock the house as ordered?"

"Yes. Fully stocked, secure, off-grid. Patrick won't find them there."

I study the schematics. The timing has to be perfect. Extract Valerie's family simultaneously while Patrick focuses on the fake supply route. Hit his compound while his forces are spread thin chasing ghosts.

"Timeline still remains the same?"

"Yes. According to the intel Valerie fed him, we have an eight-hour window to gut his operation before he realizes he's been played."

"His compound?"

Mikhail pulls up new images. "Warehouse complex in Red Hook. The main building houses his office, armory, and holding cells. Two auxiliary structures for storage and operations. An estimated forty men are on site at any given time, but with twenty pulled for the ambush, that drops to twenty."

"Twenty against our full team."

"Overwhelming force. Exactly how you wanted it."

I lean back, mind calculating angles. "I want Patrick alive. Everyone else dies, but him? I want him breathing."

"Understood. What about the girl?"

Valerie. Locked in my basement. Waiting to find out whether she lives or dies, depending on how tonight goes.

"She stays where she is until this is over."

"And after?"

Good question. I told her she's leaving. Taking her family and disappearing. Never seeing Mila again.

The thought of Mila's face when she realizes Valerie's gone makes my chest tight.

But keeping her here? After the betrayal? After the lies?

Impossible.

"She leaves." My voice is flat. "Her family gets relocated, she gets money to start over, and I never see her again."

Mikhail studies me. "You sure about that?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because you look like a man who hasn't decided anything." He crosses his arms. "Because I saw your face when she called you a monster. When she said she could never fall for someone like you. That hurt you."

"I don’t care what she said about me, and I definitely was not hurt."

"Are you sure?" He tilts his head. "Because you looked like you wanted to believe it was an act but couldn't quite manage it."

I don't answer. Because he's right and I hate it.

"Doesn't matter what it was." I push away from the desk. "After tonight, she's gone. That's final."

"If you say so, Boss."

The teams deploy at 5:45 AM.

I watch from the command center as multiple screens display feeds from body cameras, thermal imaging, and satellite surveillance. Yaroslav's team approaches the apartment building. Viktor's team positions itself around the warehouse where Ethan is held.

"Team One in position." Yaroslav's voice through comms, calm and professional.

"Team Two ready." Viktor sounds tenser. He's got the harder extraction, an injured hostage who is in an unknown condition, and guards who will be trigger-happy.

"Execute." I give the order and watch it unfold.

Team One moves fast. Breach the apartment door with a battering ram. Two guards inside react, but they're overwhelmed in seconds, suppressed gunfire, bodies dropping. Yaroslav appears in frame, talking to someone off-camera.

Valerie's mother. Small woman, terrified, clutching a photo frame to her chest.

"Ma'am, I need you to come with me right now." Yaroslav's voice is gentle but firm. "Your daughter sent us. You're not safe here."

She's asking questions I can't hear. Yaroslav doesn't answer, just guides her toward the exit.

Ninety seconds. In and out.

Clean.

Team Two is messier.

They breach the warehouse and immediately take fire. One guard down in the doorway, the second retreating deeper inside. Viktor's team pursues, camera feeds showing a chaotic interior—surgical equipment, a metal chair with restraints, blood staining concrete.

Ethan Novak is on the floor in the corner. Barely conscious. Face so swollen I wouldn't recognize him from Valerie's photos.

The second guard makes a stand near the back exit. Exchanges fire with Viktor's team for thirty seconds before taking three rounds to the chest.

Then it's over.

Viktor kneels beside Ethan, checking vitals. "He's breathing. Barely. Multiple fractures, possible internal bleeding. Need medical immediately."

"Evac now." I watch the team load Ethan. He doesn't wake. Just lies there broken and bleeding while my men carry him to safety.

Seventeen years old.

Patrick fucking did this to a kid.

The rage that's been simmering since Valerie's confession burns hotter.

Both teams report successful extraction within ten minutes. En route to the safe house. No casualties on our side.

"Doctor Laz is standing by," Mikhail reports. "He'll stabilize the kid, then we move him to a proper facility once it's safe."

"Good." I check the time. 6:15 AM. Patrick's ambush on our fake convoy is scheduled for 2 AM tonight. That gives us nineteen hours to prepare.

"Assemble the strike team. Full tactical loadout. I want fifty men ready to move by midnight."

"Fifty? For twenty targets?"

"I want overwhelming force. I want this over in minutes. And I want Patrick so terrified by the time we reach him that he'll tell me everything I want to know just to make it stop."

Mikhail grins. "Now that sounds like the boss I know."

The day drags. Preparations, briefings, weapons checks. I run through scenarios, contingencies, and backup plans. Make sure every angle is covered.

Around 8 PM, I finally have a moment to breathe.

And realize I haven't thought about Valerie in hours. Haven't checked on her. Haven't sent food or water since Mikhail's delivery this morning.

I should leave her there. Let her suffer. She earned it.

But my feet carry me toward the basement anyway.

She's sitting on the cot when I enter, arms wrapped around herself against the cold. She looks up, and the hope that flashes across her face before she can hide it does something to my chest.

"Is Ethan…" She stands quickly. "Did you find him? Is he—"

"Alive." I stay by the door. "Extracted at 0600 hours. Currently receiving medical treatment at a secure location. Your mother is with him."

The relief that crashes over her is visceral. She actually staggers and has to catch herself on the cot.

"Thank you." Her voice breaks. "God, thank you so much."

"I didn't do it for you." The words come out harsher than intended. "I did it because Patrick's methods are unacceptable. Using civilians, torturing kids, that crosses lines even we don't cross."

"Still. You saved him. You saved them both." Tears stream down her face. "I know I don't deserve it, I know you hate me, but thank you."

I don't hate her. That's the problem.

"Patrick hits our fake convoy at 0200." I change the subject before I can examine those feelings too closely. "We strike his compound simultaneously. By dawn, his entire operation will be ash."

I study her. Bruised face from where she fell. Swollen eye. Split lip. She looks broken. Exactly how I feel.

"If this goes wrong—if Patrick somehow turns the tables, if I don't make it back—Mikhail has orders."

"W-What orders?"

"To let you go. To take Mila somewhere safe. Raise her." The words cost me more than I expected. "Keep her away from this life. Give her something normal."

Valerie stares at me like I've lost my mind. "You'd trust me with Mila? After everything?"

"I saw you take a bullet for her." Simple truth. "Saw you put yourself between her and armed men without hesitation. Saw you protect her like she was yours."

"She's not mine—"

"But you love her like she is." I move closer despite myself. "That's worth something. Maybe not forgiveness. Maybe not trust in other areas. But when it comes to my daughter's safety? I believe you'd die before letting her get hurt."

Fresh tears spill over. "I would. In a heartbeat."

"I know." The admission feels like ripping something open. "That's why, if I die tonight, you get her. Not because I've forgiven you. Not because I trust you with anything else. But because Mila loves you, and you'd protect her, and that's all that matters."

"Lev."

"Don't." I step back before she can reach for me. "Don't make this more than it is. I'm making practical arrangements for my daughter's safety. Nothing more."

"But what if you don't die? What if everything goes according to plan?"

"Then my plan remains." My voice hardens. "You disappear."

"And if I refuse? If I want to stay, want to make this right—"

"There is no making this right." The words come out cold. Final. "You can't unring this bell, Valerie. Can't undo the betrayal. Can't erase the fact that you lied to me for months while gathering intelligence for my enemy."

"I stopped—"

"After you'd already done the damage. After you'd already passed him, God knows how much information. After you'd already proven that when it matters, when you're backed into a corner, you'll betray me to save yourself."

"That's not fair—"

"Fair?" I almost laugh. "You want to talk about fair? Was it fair that I trusted you? That I let you into my life, my home, my bed? That I showed you parts of myself I haven't shown anyone since Katya died? Was any of that fair, Valerie?"

She's crying harder now, but I can't stop.

"I made myself vulnerable for you. Ignored every red flag. Dismissed Mikhail's warnings. Chose to believe you were what you pretended to be. And the whole time, you were working for my arch nemesis.”

"After tonight, you're free." My voice drops back to cold neutrality. "Your family is safe. Your debt to Patrick is paid in blood. You can go anywhere, start over, build whatever life you want."

"Without you. Without Mila."

"Yes."

"That's not freedom. That's punishment."

"Then consider yourself punished." I turn toward the door. "Mikhail will bring you updates as they happen. If I don't make it back, he'll escort you and Mila to safety. If I do, he'll escort you to your family, and you'll leave immediately."

I walk out before she can say anything. Before the look on her face can crack through my resolve.

Lock the door behind me.

And head upstairs to prepare for war.

Because in six hours, Patrick O'Rourke dies.

And maybe then, with my enemy's blood on my hands, I can finally stop thinking about the woman in my basement who destroyed me.

Maybe.

Chapter nineteen

Valerie

Time moves differently in the basement.

I've been trying to track it by counting heartbeats and measuring the intervals between breaths, but everything blurs together into an endless stretch of cold silence and endless waiting.

Waiting to find out if Lev lives or dies.

Waiting to find out if my information was good enough, if Patrick took the bait, if this nightmare finally ends.

The uncertainty is its own form of torture.

I think about Mila. Wonder what she's doing right now. Probably sleeping, curled up with that stuffed bear Lev got her, completely unaware that her world might be falling apart.

She's going to hate me when she finds out. Going to feel betrayed by the woman she trusted, the one who braided her hair and read her stories and promised to keep her safe.

I broke that promise the day I walked into this house.

I think about Lev too. Memorize every moment we had together because they might be all I get.

The way he looked at me that first day in his bathroom—cold calculation mixed with something darker.

His hands on my throat in his study, the power dynamic that should have terrified me but made me wet instead.

Watching him with Mila, so awkward and trying so hard to be the father she needed.

The night he told me about Katya and Dmitri, letting me see the pain underneath the armor.

Every time he called me "milaya" in that rough voice that made me feel claimed.

I'm crying again. Quietly. Just letting the tears fall because what else is there to do?

Minutes pass. Maybe hours. The silence stretches so long I start to lose track of time.

Then I hear footsteps.

Multiple sets, heavy boots on stairs. Men moving with urgency.

The door slams open.

Mikhail stands there, and one look at his face tells me everything I need to know.

Something went wrong.

"Up." His voice is hard. Furious. "Now."

I scramble to my feet. "What happened? Is Lev—"

"Alive. Upstairs. Move."

He doesn't touch me, just gestures sharply toward the stairs. I run up them on shaking legs, heart hammering so hard I taste blood.

The main floor is chaos. Men everywhere, some bleeding, all armed, voices raised in Russian I can't follow.

And in the center of it all is Lev.

Covered in blood. Face streaked with soot and gore. Exhausted and absolutely, devastatingly furious.

But alive.

Relief crashes over me so intense I nearly collapse.

He sees me. His expression doesn't change. Just watches me approach with those cold, dead eyes.

"It was a trap." Mikhail's voice cuts through. "Patrick wasn't there. He sent Rico Alvarez instead. His right-hand man."

My stomach drops. "What?"

"We killed Rico and twenty-three of his men. Burned the compound to the ground. Recovered weapons, cash, records." Mikhail's jaw clenches. "But Patrick wasn't fucking there. He knew. Somehow he knew this was a setup."

No. No no no—

"He sent his second-in-command to die while he disappeared." Lev's voice is flat. Empty. "Which means he didn't buy your performance on that call. Means he suspected you'd turned. Means he's out there right now, planning retaliation."

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry! I thought he believed me…"

"So did I." Lev moves closer, and I see blood dripping from his knuckles, a gash on his forearm. "But apparently Patrick knows you better than I thought. Knows you are incapable of being truthful.”

The words are a knife.

"Maybe he heard it in your voice when you called me a monster. Maybe he knows you well enough to recognize a lie. Or maybe—" His eyes bore into mine. "—he's just smarter than both of us gave him credit for."

"W-What do we do?" My voice is barely above a whisper.

"We?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "There is no 'we,' Valerie. There's me cleaning up the mess you created. You're just—"

He stops. Jaw working like he's grinding teeth to powder.

Mikhail clears his throat. "Boss, what are your orders?"

Lev stares at me for a long moment. I see the calculations happening behind his eyes. The rage warring with something else I can't name.

"Triple security on the estate. No one in or out without my direct approval. Move Mila to the safe room until we neutralize the threat." He turns to Mikhail. "And get everyone out. I need the room."

Mikhail hesitates. "Boss—"

"Out."

The room clears. Men filing out quickly, efficiently, until it's just Lev and me in the blood-stained foyer.

The silence is suffocating.

"Patrick will retaliate." Lev's voice is controlled. Too controlled. "He'll come after me harder than before. Will probably target Mila to hurt me. Will burn my entire organization to the ground if he can."

"I'm sorry—"

"And it's your fault." The words are brutal. Clinical. "Your lies. Your betrayal. All these would have been avoided if only you had told me the truth from the start."

Tears stream down my face. "I…I’m… I'm so sorry—"

"Sorry doesn't fix this." He moves closer, and I see violence in every line of his body. "Sorry doesn't bring back the three men I lost tonight. Doesn't change the fact that Patrick is still out there. Doesn't undo the damage you've caused."

"Then kill me." The words tear out. "If that's what you want, if that's what you need, just do it. I'm tired of being everyone’s pawn. Tired of paying for sins I did not commit, and the ones I couldn’t help but commit."

His hand shoots out, wraps around my throat. Not squeezing, just holding. Just reminding me how easy it would be.

"Don't tempt me."

We stand there, his hand on my throat, both of us breathing hard.

Then something shifts in his expression. Something dark and hungry and completely unhinged.

"You want to know what I'm going to do?" His voice drops low. Dangerous. "I'm going to keep you. Because Patrick expects you to run, expects me to kill you or throw you out. But you're staying. We're finishing this together."

"What?"

"But make no mistake." His grip tightens slightly. "This isn't forgiveness. This isn't redemption. This is punishment. You created this mess, you're going to help me clean it up. And when it's over, when Patrick is dead and my organization is secure, then you leave."

"Lev—"

He pulls me against him roughly, crashes his mouth to mine.

The kiss is brutal. Claiming. Nothing gentle or forgiving about it. Just raw need and fury and the twisted chemistry that's always existed between us.

I kiss him back despite everything. Despite the pain and fear and guilt. Because this might be the last time. Because I need it like oxygen. Because I'm just as fucked up as he is.

When he breaks away, we're both gasping.

"Upstairs." His voice is rough. "My room. Now."

I go. Because I want this desperately, even though I know I shouldn't. Because some sick part of me needs him to hurt me, use me, punish me for everything I've done.

His bedroom door opens, and we stumble inside.

"Strip." He groans.

My hands shake as I pull off my clothes. The basement chill has left me with goosebumps, but Lev's eyes on me make heat flood through my body anyway.

When I'm naked and trembling, he just stares. Taking in every detail like he's memorizing it. Or saying goodbye.

"On your knees."

I drop, and he circles me slowly. Predator assessing prey. I feel his gaze tracking over me—the bruises from being dragged to the basement, the marks on my throat from his hands, the tremors I can't control.

"You're terrified." Not a question.

"Y-Yes."

"Perfect." He stops in front of me. Starts unbuckling his belt. "You should be. Because I'm going to fuck you like I hate you."

The words should make me want to run.

They make me wetter.

He sees it. Sees how my thighs press together, how my breath catches. A dark smile crosses his face.

"Of course you're turned on. Because you're just as fucked up as I am." He frees his cock, already hard. "Open."

I do. Let him slide into my mouth without preamble. No gentleness. Just immediate depth that makes me gag.

He doesn't stop. Just holds my head in place and starts fucking my mouth with brutal strokes.

"That's it. Choke on it." His voice is rough. "Cry those pretty tears while I use your throat."

I'm gagging, eyes watering, struggling to breathe. But I don't pull away. Just take it. Take everything he's giving me because I deserve this pain.

Because this isn’t pain at all and I crave it.

He pulls out suddenly. Saliva connects my lips to his cock in obscene strings.

"Bed. On your hands and knees."

I scramble up. Position myself exactly how he wants. Ass in the air, face pressed to expensive sheets, trembling with hunger, anticipation, and need.

His hand comes down on my ass. Hard. The crack echoes through the room.

I cry out.

"That's one." Another hit. Harder. "For every lie you told me."

Again. And again. And again. Each strike harder than the last. My ass is on fire, I'm sobbing into the sheets, and I'm so wet I can feel it dripping down my thighs.

"Please—"

"Please what?" Another strike. "Please stop? Please fuck you? Please forgive you?"

"I don't know—" It comes out broken.

"Then suffer." He spreads my legs wider. Slides two fingers into me without warning. "Fuck, you're soaking. Getting off on being punished, aren't you?"

"Yes!" The admission tears out.

He removes his fingers, and I feel his cock line up. "This is going to hurt."

He slams into me in one brutal thrust.

I scream. It's too much, too fast, burning and stretching and overwhelming.

"Take it." He doesn't give me time to adjust. Just starts fucking me with punishing strokes that make the bed shake. "This is what you wanted, isn't it? Wanted me to use you. Hurt you. Make you pay."

"Yes—Oh, yes!"

His hand tangles in my hair. Pulls my head back at a painful angle. "Look at me."

I do. See his face in the mirror across the room. See the rage and pain and something darker underneath.

"Watch yourself get fucked by the man you betrayed." He increases the pace. "Watch yourself love every second of it."

I can't look away. Can see my face—tear-streaked, desperate, completely wrecked. Can see him behind me, muscles straining, jaw clenched, taking out every ounce of fury on my body.

"Lev! I'm going to—"

"No, you're not." He stops completely. Pulls out. Leaves me empty and aching. "You don't get to come until I say so."

A sob tears from my throat. "Please!"

"Beg better than that." He flips me onto my back. Grabs my thighs. Spreads them wide. "Beg me like you mean it."

"Please, Lev. Please let me come. I need it. Need you. I'll do anything—"

"Anything?" His eyes glitter dangerously. "Would you leave Mila without saying goodbye? Would you disappear tonight if I asked?"

The question is a test. A trap.

"No." The truth. "I can't do that to her. Can't leave without explaining."

"Wrong answer." He slams back into me. Sets a brutal pace that makes me see stars. "Try again. Tell me the truth, why can’t you leave?"

"I—I don't know what you want me to say!"

"The truth." He leans down and pins my wrists above my head. "Tell me the fucking truth for once in your life."

"I love you!" It explodes out of me. "That is my truth. I love you and I'm terrified and I don't want to leave and I know I don't deserve to stay but I'm begging you—please don't make me go—"

He goes completely still. Buried deep inside me. Eyes locked on mine.

The silence stretches.

Then he moves. Slow, deep strokes that hit different now. Not punishment. Something else.

"Say it again." His voice is rough.

"I love you." Tears streaming down my face. "I love you, Lev. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for everything—"

His mouth crashes to mine. Swallows the apologies. Kisses me like he's drowning and I'm air.

When he breaks away, his forehead rests against mine. "I should kill you for this. For making me feel this. For making me want you despite everything."

"I know."

"But I can't." The confession sounds like it's being torn from him. "Can't kill you. Can't let you go. Can't do anything except keep you here and hate myself for it."

He starts moving again. Faster now. Chasing release.

"Come." The command is rough. "Come for me, Valerie. Show me who you belong to."

I shatter. The orgasm rips through me so hard I scream his name. Clench around him. Feel him follow immediately after, buried deep, coming with a Russian curse, fingers digging into my hips hard enough to bruise.

We collapse together. Both gasping. Both trembling. Both completely wrecked.

He stays inside me. Wraps his arms around me like he can't let go.

"This changes nothing." His voice is muffled against my neck. "Patrick is still out there. The threat is still real. You still betrayed me."

"I know."

"But you're staying. We finish this together. And when it's over—" He pulls back enough to look at me. "When it's over, we figure out what the fuck this is."

Hope flickers in my chest for the first time in days. "What do you want it to be?"

"I don't know." Honest answer. "Part of me wants to lock you in this room and never let you leave. Part of me wants to send you away so I never have to feel this vulnerable again. And part of me—" His jaw clenches. "Part of me wants to forgive you. And that might be the most terrifying option of all."

I reach up. Cup his face. "I'll earn it. However long it takes. I'll earn your trust again."

"Maybe." He doesn't sound convinced. "Or maybe we just destroy each other completely. Won't know until we try."

He pulls out carefully. Collapses beside me on the bed. Pulls me against his chest like he used to.

And we lie there in the dark, covered in sweat and blood and the wreckage of everything we've done to each other.

"Patrick comes for us soon," Lev says finally. "When he does, I need to know you'll fight beside me. Not run. Not betray me. Fight."

"I will." No hesitation. "Whatever it takes. I'm with you."

"Good." His arms tighten around me. "Because this war just got personal. And we're going to end it together."

I believe him.

Believe that somehow, impossibly, we might survive this.

That maybe there's a version of this story where I get to keep him. Keep Mila. Keep this broken, fucked-up family I've built.

But first, we have to survive Patrick's revenge.

And that might be the hardest battle yet.

Chapter twenty

Lev

Rico Alvarez died screaming.

I made sure of it.

Captured him in the firefight at Patrick's compound, dragged him to the basement of the burning building, and spent seventeen minutes extracting every piece of information his terror-soaked brain could produce before I put a bullet through his skull.

He told me everything. Patrick's safe houses. His supply routes. The names of men still loyal to him. Where he keeps his money.

But not where Patrick himself was hiding.

"He didn't tell me that shit," Rico had gasped through broken teeth and blood. "Too paranoid. Too careful. He just calls when he needs something, and I move."

"When did he last call?"

"This morning. Said to gather everyone at the compound. Said tonight we finish the Volkov problem." A wet laugh that turned into choking. "Guess he knew it was a trap. Guess he sent me to die while he disappeared."

I put him out of his misery, and I felt nothing.

But Patrick escaped. Which means he knows we're onto him. Knows Valerie turned. Knows I'm coming for him with everything I have.

And that makes him exponentially more dangerous because the element of surprise is gone.

A cornered animal fights hardest. A wounded predator becomes reckless and ruthless in equal measure.

Patrick O'Rourke is both now.

My blood runs cold every time I think about what's coming. Not for myself—I've survived assassination attempts before, will survive them again.

But for Mila.

For Valerie.

For everyone I've let close enough to matter.

The aftermath in my head is chaos.

I love Valerie. I hate her. I want her gone. I want her closer. Want to lock her in my room forever. Want to send her away where she'll be safe from the war I'm fighting.

She betrayed me—gathered intel, lied for months, worked for the man who murdered my family.

But she also saved me. Confessed before I could walk into Patrick's real trap. Gave me the information I needed to extract her family and destroy Rico's operation.

The contradiction is maddening.

Mikhail corners me three days after the ambush. "Boss, we need to talk about the girl."

I'm reviewing security protocols, adding layers, positioning men. "What about her?"

"She's a liability. Patrick knows she turned. He'll use that. Come after her to hurt you." He leans against my desk. "Safest play is relocating her. Somewhere Patrick can't reach."

"No."

"Lev—"

"I said no." I don't look up from the reports. "She stays here."

"That's insane. You're putting her in the line of fire."

"She put herself there when she walked into my house, working for Patrick." My jaw clenches. "She wants to make this right? She can do it by staying. By fighting. By proving she's actually on my side instead of running the second it gets dangerous."

"And if Patrick kills her?"

The thought makes something twist in my chest.

That will never fucking happen.

"He won’t get the chance."

Mikhail studies me. "You love her."

"I hate her."

"You can do both." He crosses his arms. "Question is whether you're keeping her here because you think it's strategic or because you can't let her go."

I finally look up. "Does it matter?"

"To your judgment? Yes. To the operation? Probably not. To her?" He shrugs. "That's between you two."

He leaves before I can respond.

And I sit there staring at security feeds showing Valerie in Mila's room, reading a story, completely oblivious to the conversation happening about her.

I can't let her go.

Not because it's strategic. Not because I need her for the fight against Patrick.

Because despite everything, despite the betrayal, the lies, the months of deception, I still want her.

Still need her in ways that make no rational sense.

It's pathological. Dangerous. The kind of weakness that gets men killed.

But I can't stop it.

I find myself craving her every night.

I fuck her with anger and desperation and the need to exorcise these feelings that won't die, no matter how much I want them to.

Some nights I'm rough, hands in her hair, forcing her head back, making her look at me as I brand her. Other nights I'm desperate, pulling her close, burying myself inside her, holding on like she might disappear if I let go. Those nights are worse because they feel too much like a need instead of punishment.

And I hate that it helps. Hate that having her there makes the rage settle into something manageable.

Tonight I wake from a nightmare, Patrick's men breaking through, Mila screaming, Valerie's body on the floor, and lunge for my gun on instinct.

Valerie's hand on my arm stops me. "It's okay. You're safe. It was just a dream."

My heart hammers. Sweat soaks the sheets. The nightmare lingers with visceral clarity.

"Lev." She pulls me back down. "Breathe. Just breathe."

I do. Let her hold me while the adrenaline fades. Let myself take comfort I don't deserve from the woman who caused half this mess.

"Patrick's coming," I say into the darkness. "Soon. I can feel it."

"I know."

"When he does, it'll be bad. Worse than the park. Worse than anything."

"I know." Her hand strokes through my hair. "But you’ll be ready."

"Will I?" I pull back enough to see her face in the dim light. "Or am I deluding myself that we can survive what's coming?"

"You'll survive." She says it with certainty I don't feel. "Because you're Lev Volkov. And you don't lose."

"Everyone loses eventually."

"Not you.”

The next day, I watch Mila talking nonstop to Valerie. She had been overjoyed when Valerie returned to regular duties. Oblivious to what had transpired between us.

I watch from the doorway as my daughter launches herself at Valerie, wrapping small arms around her waist, chattering about everything that happened while she was "sick"—the lie Elena told to explain the absence.

"I missed you so much! Elena doesn't do my hair the same way. And she reads too fast. And she doesn't know the voices for all the characters like you do."

"I missed you too, Cielo." Valerie kneels to Mila's level. "So much."

"Are you better now? You're not sick anymore?"

"All better. I promise."

"Good." Mila squeezes tighter. "Don't get sick again, okay? It's scary when you're not here."

The innocence is painful to witness.

Mila doesn't know about the basement. Doesn't know Valerie was locked up for betraying us. Doesn't know we're at war with the man who orchestrated her mother and brother’s murder.

She just knows the woman she loves disappeared and came back.

And that's enough to make her world right again.

Later that night, after Mila's asleep, I find Valerie in the library. She's curled in the chair by the window, staring at nothing.

"She doesn't know," Valerie says quietly when she notices me. "Doesn't know anything was wrong."

"She doesn't need to." I pour vodka at the bar cart. "Let her keep her innocence while she still has it."

"How long can we do that? How long before she realizes something's happening?"

"As long as possible." I drain the glass. Pour another. "She's seven. She's already lost too much. Let her have this."

Valerie nods. Then: "Do you still want me to leave?"

The question catches me off guard. "What?"

"After this is over. After Patrick's dealt with. Do you still want me to take my family and disappear?"

I should say yes. Should maintain the boundary. Should protect myself from further damage.

"No." The word comes out before I can stop it.

Her eyes widen. "No?"

"No, I don't want you to leave." I move closer. "I should. I should want you as far from here as possible. But I don't."

"Why?"

Good question.

"Because I'm an idiot. Because I apparently enjoy pain. Because despite everything you've done, I still—" I can't finish that sentence.

"Still what?"

"Want you here." Safer than the truth. "Need you here. For Mila."

She stands. Moves toward me slowly. "Will you ever forgive me?"

"No." Honest answer. "What you did, that’s not something I can just move past. You shattered my trust. Made me vulnerable. Put everything at risk. Imagine how easy it would have been to end this whole mess if you had told me the truth earlier."

Pain flashes across her face, but she doesn't look away. "Will you ever trust me again?"

I study her. See the genuine remorse in her eyes. The way she's stayed despite having every reason to run. How she takes my anger and punishment without complaint.

How she loves Mila like her own.

How she looks at me like I'm still worth loving despite being a monster.

"I don't know." The truth. "Ask me again when Patrick's dead and we're still breathing."

"And until then?"

"Until then, you stay. You protect Mila with your life."

“Okay…” she whispers.

"Come upstairs." I take her hand. "I need you."

She follows without question.

In my room, I undress her slowly. Map every bruise I've left, every mark that proves she's mine despite the betrayal.

Then I take her to bed. Slower than the past few nights. Still claiming, still possessive, but with something underneath that might be tenderness if I was willing to name it.

Afterward, we lie tangled together. Her head on my chest. My arms around her like I can keep her safe through proximity alone.

She presses closer. "I love you. I know you don't want to hear it. I know it doesn't change anything. But I need you to know."

"I'm trying to forgive you. Trying to trust you. It's just—"

"Hard. I know." She kisses my chest. "But I’ll win your trust back, or die trying."

We fall asleep like that. Together against whatever's coming.

And for the first time since her confession, I let myself hope that maybe we can survive this.

That maybe the betrayal doesn't have to be the end.

That maybe two broken people can build something from the wreckage.

Just maybe.

Chapter twenty-one

Valerie

The nightmare hits Mila three days later.

I hear her screaming from down the hall—not the usual whimpers, but full-blown terror. I'm out of bed and running before conscious thought catches up.

She's thrashing in bed, covers tangled around her legs, sobbing for her mama.

"Mila, sweetheart, wake up." I kneel beside her, careful not to grab her suddenly. "You're safe. You're home. Wake up, baby."

Her eyes fly open. Unfocused. Still trapped in the nightmare.

"Mama's bleeding, they won't stop, she won't wake up…"

"Shh, I know. But it's not real. It's just a dream. Your mama's at peace now. She's not hurting." I stroke her hair. "And you're safe. I'm here. Papa's here. You're safe."

Lev appears in the doorway. Shirtless, gun in hand, instantly alert.

I shake my head slightly. Just a nightmare. Stand down.

He holsters the weapon but doesn't leave. Just watches as I calm his daughter.

"Can you sing the song?" Mila's voice is small. Broken.

"Of course." I pull her into my lap and start the lullaby. Russian words I learned from my father, probably the same ones Katya sang to this child before she died.

Mila's breathing evens out. The tears slow. She burrows against me like she can crawl inside my ribcage and hide there.

Lev sits on the edge of the bed. One hand on Mila's back. The other covering mine where it rests on her hair.

A family moment. Broken and rebuilt wrong, but still a family.

We stay like that until Mila falls back asleep. Then I carefully lay her down, tuck the covers around her small body, kiss her forehead.

Lev lingers at the door. "You're good with her."

First compliment in three weeks. The words settle in my chest like treasure.

"I love her." Simple truth.

"I know." He pulls me into the hallway, away from Mila's door. "That's why you're still here. Because she loves you and you'd die protecting her."

"I would. Without hesitation."

He pulls me toward his room. Not for sex this time. Just to hold me.

We lie in his bed in the dark, tangled together, and he strokes my hair with gentle fingers.

"I don't know how to forgive you," he admits. Voice rough. Vulnerable. "Every time I think I'm past it, something reminds me, and the anger comes back. The hurt. The betrayal."

"I know." My hand finds his in the dark. "I don't expect forgiveness. Just... a chance to prove I'm on your side now. That I'll bleed for you and Mila. That I'm worth keeping despite everything."

"You are worth keeping. That's the problem." His arms tighten around me. "I should let you go. Send you somewhere safe. Protect you from the war that's coming. But I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because I need you." The confession sounds torn from him. "Need you here. Need to see you with Mila. Need to feel you beside me at night. Need to know you're safe where I can protect you instead of wondering if Patrick found you somewhere I'm not."

"Then I stay."

"Even though I can't promise forgiveness? Can't promise I'll ever trust you completely again?"

"Even then." I press closer. "Because I love you. Because Mila needs me. Because this broken thing between us is still worth fighting for."

He kisses my forehead. My cheeks. My mouth. Gentle kisses that taste like maybe, eventually, we'll heal.

"Promise me something," he whispers.

"Anything."

"Don't leave. No matter how hard this gets. Or how impossible it feels. Stay."

"I promise." No hesitation. "I'm not going anywhere, Lev. You're stuck with me."

"Good." He pulls me impossibly closer. "Because I can't lose you. Can't survive losing someone else I—" He stops.

I wait for him to finish.

He doesn't.

But the almost-confession is enough. Proof that underneath the anger and hurt, something still exists. Something worth protecting.

We fall asleep like that. Holding each other against whatever comes next.

And for the first time since my confession in that basement, I let myself believe we might actually survive this.

That maybe love is enough to rebuild what betrayal destroyed.

That maybe two broken people can heal each other.

Chapter twenty-two

Lev

The Antonov family thinks I'm weak.

That's the only explanation for why they'd be stupid enough to move product through my docks without permission. Why they'd recruit from my territory. Why they'd test boundaries like I'm too distracted hunting Patrick to notice.

They're wrong.

I notice everything.

Which is why I'm standing in their warehouse at 2 AM with fifteen of my best men, watching Dmitri Antonov realize exactly how badly he's miscalculated.

"Lev—wait—we can discuss this—" He's on his knees, hands zip-tied behind his back, face already swelling from where Yaroslav hit him.

"There's nothing to discuss." I crouch to his level. "You moved product through my docks. Recruited my men. Operated in my territory without permission or tribute. Those are capital offenses, Dmitri. You know that."

"We thought—with Patrick hunting you—you wouldn't notice—"

"You thought wrong." I stand. Gesture to Mikhail. "Make an example. I want every family from here to Chicago to understand what happens when they test me."

What follows is methodical. Brutal. Designed to send a message that echoes.

Dmitri's men die fast—bullets to the head, efficient and clean. But Dmitri himself? Dmitri gets the kind of death that becomes legend.

I don't participate directly. Just watch as Mikhail and Yaroslav work, ensuring the message is clear: Lev Volkov is not distracted. Not weak. Not vulnerable.

Still very much in control.

By the time we're done, the warehouse looks like a slaughterhouse. Blood paints the concrete in patterns I've seen too many times to count. Bodies stacked like cordwood. Dmitri's screams finally silent.

I walk out covered in blood spatter and the kind of satisfaction that comes from solving problems with violence.

The drive home is quiet. Mikhail doesn't comment on the state of my clothes, the blood on my hands, the way my knuckles are split from hitting Dmitri's face at one point when he begged too much.

Just gets me home safely.

It's 4 AM when I enter through the side entrance, planning to shower in the guest wing before anyone sees me like this.

But Valerie is waiting in the hallway.

She's in one of my shirts, bare legs, hair loose around her shoulders. She must have been sleeping in my bed—our bed now, I suppose—and woke when I wasn't there.

Her eyes track over me. The blood. The split knuckles. The exhaustion.

"You're hurt." Not a question.

"I'm fine."

"Shower?" She moves toward me, completely unbothered by the gore. "You need to clean up."

I follow her upstairs to my bathroom. She starts the water while I strip, and I see her looking at every bruise, every mark, every sign of violence on my body.

When the water's hot, she steps in with me still wearing my shirt.

"You'll ruin it," I say.

"Don't care." She pulls the shirt over her head, drops it outside the shower, and reaches for the soap. "Let me help."

I let her.

Let her wash the blood from my skin with careful hands. Let her shampoo my hair while I stand under the spray. Let her tend to me like I'm something precious instead of a monster who just orchestrated the torture-murder of six men.

Something about the care cracks something inside me.

"Turn around," I tell her.

She does.

I pull her back against my chest, one hand sliding down her stomach, between her legs. Find her already wet.

"Always ready for me." The words come out rough.

"Always." She leans back into me.

I slide two fingers inside her. Work her slowly while hot water cascades over us both. My other hand comes up to her breast, rolling her nipple between thumb and forefinger.

"Lev—" She gasps. "Please—"

"What do you need?"

"You. Inside me. Now."

I turn her around, lift her, and she wraps her legs around my waist automatically. Press her against the tile wall and slide into her in one smooth motion.

The sound she makes goes straight to my brain.

I fuck her slowly. Deeply. Watching her face as pleasure builds. Water streams over us, washing away the last traces of violence, leaving just this—her and me and the twisted need between us.

"I love you." She says it against my mouth. "I know you don't want to hear it. I know it doesn't change anything. But I need you to know."

"I know." I increase the pace. "I know, Milaya."

She comes with my name on her lips, clenching around me, and I follow immediately, burying myself deep and letting the orgasm take me.

After the tremors cease, I clean us both properly. Then carry her to bed wrapped in towels.

She tends to my knuckles—antiseptic, bandages, careful fingers that linger longer than necessary.

"Who was it tonight?" she asks quietly.

"Rival family. Testing boundaries while I'm hunting Patrick." I watch her work. "Had to remind them I'm still dangerous. Still in control."

"You are." She finishes wrapping my hand. "The most dangerous man I've ever known."

"Does that scare you?"

"Terrifies me." She meets my eyes. "And turns me on. And makes me feel safer than I've ever felt. All at the same time."

I pull her down beside me. She curls against my chest, and I realize I'm about to do something I haven't done in five years.

Actually talk.

"When Katya died—" The words stick in my throat. "When I found them—I couldn't process it. The guilt. The rage. The absolute certainty that I'd failed in the most fundamental way possible."

Valerie stays quiet. Just listens.

"I was supposed to protect them. That's what I do. What I've always done. Protect what's mine." My hand strokes through her hair. "But I wasn't there. I was handling business across town. And while I was gone, Patrick and his men helped my then rival break in and executed my family."

"That wasn't your fault—"

"It was." The words come out flat. "I knew Patrick was moving against me. Knew he was dangerous. Should have increased security, moved them somewhere safe, done something. But I was arrogant. Thought my reputation was enough to protect them."

"You can't blame yourself for Patrick's choices."

"Can't I?" I tilt her face up. "I made enemies. I did not build this empire by being nice. I brought that danger into their lives. And they paid the price for my ambitions."

She's quiet for a moment. Then: "Mila is still alive. You saved her. Gave her five years of protection, safety, and love, even when you didn't know how. That counts."

"Does it? Or am I just delaying the inevitable? Patrick's still out there. Still coming. What happens when he tries again and I'm not fast enough, not prepared enough—"

"Then I'll be there." She says it with absolute certainty. "Between him and Mila. Whatever it takes."

I want to believe her. My heart is desperate to believe her, but my mistrust is itching with the fact that Patrick is still out there and that Valerie may yet sell me out.

"If you lie to me again—" I start.

"I won't."

"—I'll kill you." I finish anyway. "I need you to understand that. One more betrayal, one more secret, and I won't be able to stop myself. Trust can only be rebuilt once."

"I know." No hesitation. "No more secrets. No more lies. I'm all in, Lev. With you. With Mila. With this life. Whatever it takes."

I kiss her then. Not with anger or desperation. Just... searching. Looking for the truth underneath the words.

She kisses back with the same intensity. Hands cupping my face, holding me like I'm precious.

When I pull back, something has shifted between us.

Not forgiveness. Not yet. But the beginning of possibility.

"We're going to try," I say. "Really try. You and me. This thing between us."

"Yes." She presses closer.

"But you have to earn it." I stroke her hair. "Every day. Through actions, not words. Through proving you're on my side when it matters."

"I will." She promises. "However long it takes. I'll earn it back."

I pull her on top of me. Need to be inside her again. Need to feel this connection while it's still fragile and new.

She sinks down onto me slowly. Both of us gasping at the sensation.

This time there's no anger. No punishment. Just intimacy I haven't let myself feel in five years.

I do not just fuck her, I make love to her. Slow, deep, maintaining eye contact the entire time. Watching her face as pleasure builds. Memorizing every expression.

"Ty moya," I murmur. You're mine.

"Ya tvoya," she whispers back.

When we come, it's together. Her clenching around me, my name on her lips, and I bury myself deep with a groan that sounds like surrender.

After, we lie tangled together. Both catching our breath.

"We're going to survive this," she says quietly. "Patrick. The threats. All of it. We're going to survive and build something real."

I look at her and can tell this is what she truly desires.

"Maybe," I allow. "If we're very lucky and very careful."

"We will be." She kisses my chest. "Because I'm not losing you. Not losing Mila. Not losing this family I've found."

Family. The word settles over me strangely.

We lie there in the pre-dawn quiet, and I let myself imagine it. A future where Patrick is dead, where Valerie has earned back trust, where Mila has two parents who love her.

It seems impossible.

But so did surviving Katya's death. So did Mila learning to smile again. So did falling for a woman who was sent to destroy me.

Maybe impossible is just another word for difficult.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Mikhail.

I reach for it reluctantly, read the message, and feel ice settle in my stomach.

There is intelligence that Patrick is regrouping and gathering forces, but his hiding remains unknown.

Valerie feels me tense. "What is it?"

"Patrick." I show her the message. "He's not hiding anymore. He's preparing."

"To attack?"

"Not just to attack. He is preparing for war." I set the phone aside. "The Antonov hit tonight was a distraction. A test to see if I'm vulnerable. Patrick's the real threat. And he's coming soon."

Fear flashes across her face, but she doesn't pull away. "Then we prepare. Get ready. Make sure Mila is safe."

"We?" I raise an eyebrow.

"We." She says it firmly. "I'm in this with you, Lev. All the way. Whatever comes next, we face it together."

I pull her closer. "Together."

The word tastes like hope.

And terror.

Because Patrick O'Rourke doesn't lose gracefully. When he strikes, it'll be brutal and calculated and designed to destroy everything I've built.

But this time, I'm prepared. I've stopped hunting and am lying in wait instead. Waiting for him to make the first move.

Chapter twenty-three

Valerie

I'm bent over the toilet for the third morning in a row when I realize something is very wrong.

This isn't stress. Isn't anxiety about Patrick lurking somewhere in the city planning revenge. Isn't the constant low-grade terror of living in a fortress under lock.

This is something else.

I flush, rinse my mouth, and stare at my reflection in the mirror. Pale. Dark circles under my eyes despite sleeping in Lev's arms every night. A persistent exhaustion that no amount of rest seems to fix.

And the nausea. God, the nausea.

I've been telling myself it's the pressure. The weight of earning back Lev's trust while knowing Patrick could strike at any moment. The emotional toll of loving a man who's still working through my betrayal.

But deep down, I know.

I've known for days and been too terrified to admit it.

My period is late. Three weeks late.

No. Please, no.

Tash visits that afternoon and notices something’s wrong. Thankfully, Lev had agreed to her visit, saying I needed a semblance of normalcy.

We're having tea in the sitting room—a weekly ritual we've maintained despite everything—and she's chattering about some drama with her father's organization when she stops mid-sentence.

"Val. Are you okay? You look awful."

"Thanks." I try to smile. "Just tired."

"No, seriously. You're pale. And you barely touched your tea." Her eyes narrow. "When's the last time you ate properly?"

"This morning." A lie. I couldn't keep down breakfast.

She studies me for a long moment. Then her expression changes. "Val. When was your last period?"

My stomach drops. "What?"

"Your period. When was it?"

"I—I don't remember. Things have been chaotic—"

“Valerie Novak?"

I can't meet her eyes. "Two weeks ago. Maybe three."

"Maybe three." She repeats it slowly. "And you're nauseous. Exhausted. Emotional. Val, I think you are—"

"Don't." I cut her off. "Don't say it."

"You need to take a test."

"I can't—"

"You have to." Her voice softens. "You need to know. You can’t ignore it."

Tears burn my eyes. "Tash, if I am—if this is real—it'll destroy everything. Lev barely trusts me. We're just starting to rebuild. And now I'm supposed to tell him I'm pregnant?”

"Or maybe it's exactly what you both need."

"How?" The word comes out broken. "How is this anything except another disaster? He'll think I did it on purpose. Trapped him. Used a baby to secure my place here."

"Did you?"

"No! God, no. I didn't—we've been careful—he got me birth control—"

"Which fails sometimes." She reaches for my hand. "Val, you need to know. And then you need to tell him. Before he finds out another way."

"I can't. Not yet. Not with Patrick still out there. Not with everything so fragile between us."

"The longer you wait, the worse it gets."

I know she's right. Know that hiding this will only make it worse when it inevitably comes out.

But I'm terrified.

Terrified of Lev's reaction. Of seeing anything but excitement in his eyes.

"I'll take a test," I say finally. "But I need time before I tell him. Just... a few days.”

Tash doesn't look convinced but nods. "A few days. But Val? Don't wait too long. Secrets have a way of coming out at the worst possible moments."

It’s been a week, and Tash is back for our usual visit, bringing along three pregnancy test strips.

I promise her I’d use them, and after she leaves, I keep to my word. Lock myself in my old bathroom, and pee on all three.

Then I wait.

Two minutes that feel like two hours.

When I finally look, my hands are shaking so badly I can barely read the results.

Positive.

All three.

I sink to the floor, tests clutched in my hands, and try to process this new reality.

I'm pregnant with Lev Volkov's baby.

The man who murdered people before breakfast. Who rules an empire built on violence. Who barely trusts me despite loving me.

Who lost his infant son to the same man now hunting us.

A sob tears from my throat before I can stop it.

This should be happy news. Joyful. A baby is supposed to be a blessing, something to celebrate.

But all I feel is terror.

Terror that Lev will reject us both. That this will be too much for him to handle. That I'll watch him shut down, pull away, retreat behind walls I'll never penetrate again.

Terror that Patrick will find out. Use this against us. Target me specifically because I'm carrying Lev's child.

Terror that I'll lose this baby the same way Lev lost Dmitri. That history will repeat and destroy us both.

I hide the tests in my purse. Clean my face. Try to compose myself before heading back upstairs.

But the nausea hits again, and I'm bent over the toilet for the fourth time today.

Lev notices something's wrong that night.

I'm picking at dinner—can't stomach the smell of the chicken Elena prepared—when he sets down his fork and studies me.

"You're not eating."

"Not very hungry." I push food around my plate.

"You haven't been hungry for three days." His eyes narrow. "Are you sick?"

"Just a stomach bug. It'll pass."

"You're sure?"

"Yes." The lie tastes like ash. "I'm sure."

He doesn't believe me. I can see it in the way he watches me for the rest of the meal. The way his eyes track my movements when I excuse myself early, claiming exhaustion.

In bed that night, he pulls me close. "Talk to me."

"About what?"

"Whatever you're hiding." His hand strokes through my hair. "You're distant. Distracted. Something's wrong."

"I'm just tired—"

"Valerie." He tilts my face up. "No more secrets. Remember? We agreed."

Guilt crashes over me. "I know. I just—I need a few more days. To figure out how to say it. It's not—I'm not betraying you. I promise. I just need time."

His jaw clenches. "Time for what?"

"To find the right words." I press closer. "Please, Lev. Trust me. Just a few more days and I'll tell you everything. I just need to figure out how."

He's silent for a long moment. I can feel the war happening inside him—the instinct to demand answers warring with the tentative trust we've been rebuilding.

"Three days." His voice is hard. "You have three days to tell me whatever this is. After that, no more patience. Understand?"

"Yes." Relief floods through me. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me." He pulls me tighter. "Just don't make me regret giving you time. Because if this turns out to be another betrayal, another lie—"

"It's not. I swear it's not."

He doesn't respond. Just holds me in the dark while I try not to think about the life growing inside me.

The baby that could either heal us or destroy us completely.

The next morning, I'm in Mila's room braiding her hair when the nausea hits again.

I barely make it to her bathroom before I'm vomiting. Again.

"Valerie?" Mila's small voice from the doorway. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, sweetheart." I flush, rinse my mouth. "Just a little sick."

"You've been sick a lot lately." She tilts her head. "Maybe you need a doctor."

"Maybe." I pull her into a hug. "Don't worry about me. I'm okay."

But she looks worried anyway. Too perceptive for a seven-year-old.

God, please make Lev accept this pregnancy with joy, because the alternative would break me.

Chapter twenty-four

Lev

Valerie is hiding something again.

Every instinct I've honed over fifteen years in this life is screaming at me that she's keeping secrets. The way she deflects questions. The guilty look in her eyes when I catch her off guard. The whispered phone calls with Tash that end abruptly when I enter the room.

History repeating itself.

I find Mikhail in the security office reviewing camera feeds. "I need you to run a check on Valerie."

He doesn't look surprised. "What kind of check?"

"Everything. Phone records, movements, contacts. Make sure there's no connection to Patrick's network. No communication with anyone suspicious."

"Boss, we've been monitoring her constantly since the confession. There's been nothing—"

"Then check again." My voice hardens. "She's hiding something. I need to know what."

He nods. "I'll have a full report by morning."

But morning comes and the report shows nothing. No suspicious calls. No unexplained absences. No contact with anyone connected to Patrick or his organization.

Clean.

Too clean, my paranoia whispers. Or maybe she's just actually innocent this time.

I watch her throughout the day.

She barely eats breakfast. Pushes food around her plate, claims she's not hungry.

Refuses wine at dinner. Says she's not in the mood, wants water instead.

Excuses herself early, claiming exhaustion despite sleeping ten hours the night before.

And she won't let me touch her stomach. Every time my hand drifts there during sex, or while we're lying together, she redirects it. Subtle. Probably thinks I don't notice.

I notice everything.

That night I find her in the bathroom at 2 AM. The door is cracked open, and I hear her retching, the sound of someone violently sick.

I push the door wider.

She's on her knees in front of the toilet, face pale, hair pulled back. When she sees me, she jumps. Actually flinches like I've caught her doing something wrong.

"How long have you been sick?" I ask.

"Just tonight. Must be something I ate—"

"Don't." I move closer. "Don't lie to me. I've heard you throwing up for four mornings in a row. This isn't food poisoning."

She wipes her mouth with shaking hands. "It's just a stomach bug—"

"Is it?" I crouch beside her. Study her face. "Or is it something else? Something you're too terrified to tell me?"

Tears well in her eyes. "Lev, please. I just need—"

"Two more days. I know." I stand, frustration burning through me. "But every secret you keep feels like another betrayal. Every time you hide something, every time you deflect or lie, it reminds me that I can't trust you. That maybe I never should have tried."

"It's not like that—"

"Then what is it like?" My voice hardens. "Because from where I'm standing, you're exhibiting the exact same behaviors you did when you were spying for Patrick. Secret calls. Guilty expressions. Avoiding my questions. How am I supposed to differentiate between genuine and deception when they look identical?"

She's crying now. Full tears streaming down her face. "Because I'm begging you to trust me. Just two more days. Please."

I want to demand answers. Want to shake the truth out of her. Want to stop feeling like I'm standing on unstable ground.

But I gave my word.

"Two days." I head for the door. "Then I want the truth. All of it. No more delays. No more excuses. Understand?"

"Yes." It comes out broken.

I leave her there on the bathroom floor.

And as I walk down the hallway, pieces start clicking together in my mind. Pieces I've been deliberately ignoring because the possibility is too terrifying to examine.

Sickness. Every morning for a week.

Exhaustion despite adequate sleep.

Emotional outbursts. Crying at things that normally wouldn't affect her.

Refusing alcohol. Not just tonight but for over a week.

Won't let me touch her stomach.

Secret conversations with Tash about something she can't tell me.

My brain supplies an answer I'm not ready to face.

Pregnant.

No. It can't be.

We've been careful. She's on birth control. We took precautions after the first few times.

But nothing is foolproof. Nothing is guaranteed.

And if she is—if Valerie is carrying my child—

I can't finish the thought. Can't let myself hope or fear or feel anything about it until I know for certain.

But my feet carry me to Mila's room anyway.

The door is cracked open. She sleeps with it that way now—doesn't like complete darkness, doesn't like feeling trapped.

I push it wider and step inside.

She's curled on her side, clutching the stuffed bear I bought her. Face peaceful in sleep. No nightmares tonight. Just a little girl dreaming whatever little girls dream about.

I move closer. Sit on the edge of her bed carefully so I don't wake her.

Look at her small face. Her dark hair spread across the pillow. The way her chest rises and falls with steady breaths.

She looks like Katya. Has her mother's features, her delicate bone structure, her long lashes.

But she has my eyes. Gray like storm clouds. Like her brother's were.

Dmitri.

The thought of him hits like it always does—sharp and sudden and devastating.

I press my hand over my face. Try to breathe through the pain that never quite fades.

Katya pregnant with him. The way her hand would rest on her swollen belly. How she'd laugh when he kicked during dinner, interrupting conversations with his movements.

The anticipation. The fear. The overwhelming love for someone I hadn't even met yet.

Then two years of watching him grow. First steps. First words. That smile that lit up rooms.

Gone.

All of it gone because I wasn't there to protect them.

And now—if Valerie is pregnant—I'll have another chance.

Another child to love. Another fragile life depending on me not to fail.

The thought terrifies me.

But underneath the terror, something else stirs. Something that feels like want.

I'd like a baby with Valerie.

The realization settles over me with surprising clarity.

I'd like to see her pregnant. Watch her belly grow with our child. Put my hand there and feel movement. Experience all the moments I took for granted with Katya.

I'd like to hold an infant again. Change diapers, lose sleep, and deal with all the chaos new babies bring.

I'd like Mila to have a sibling. Someone to grow up with. Someone to help carry the weight of this life we're building.

I'd like to believe we can do this. Survive Patrick. Build a real family. Prove that love doesn't always end in devastation.

But the fear is stronger than the want.

Because Patrick is still out there. Still planning revenge. Still waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

And if Valerie is pregnant, she becomes a target. The baby becomes leverage. Everything becomes infinitely more dangerous.

How do I protect them both? How do I keep Valerie safe when she's vulnerable and carrying our child? How do I ensure I don't fail again?

I don't have answers.

Just terror and hope tangled together until I can't tell which is which.

Mila shifts in her sleep. Makes a small sound. Her hand reaches out, finds my arm, and holds on.

Even unconscious, she seeks safety. Seeks the protection I failed to give her mother and brother.

"I won't fail you again," I whisper to her. "I promise, cielo. Whatever it takes. I'll keep you safe."

And if there's another baby—our baby, mine and Valerie's—I'll keep them safe too.

Or die trying.

I sit with Mila until her grip on my arm loosens. Until her breathing evens out completely.

Then I head to my study. Pour vodka. Pull out the photos I keep in the locked drawer.

Katya. Pregnant with Dmitri. Glowing and beautiful and alive.

Dmitri. Two years old. Smiling at the camera with innocent joy.

I trace their faces with one finger. Let myself remember. Let myself feel the loss that never quite heals.

Then I close the album and lock it away.

Because dwelling in the past won't protect the future.

And if Valerie is carrying my child, I need to be present. Strong. Ready for whatever comes.

Even if the possibility terrifies me more than anything Patrick could do.

Two more days.

Then the truth comes out.

And I'll have to face whatever comes next.

The hope. The fear. The overwhelming responsibility of another life depending on me not to fail.

I drink until the sun comes up.

Thinking about babies and betrayal and whether I'm strong enough to survive loving someone that vulnerable again.

Thinking about Valerie with my child growing inside her.

Thinking about Mila as a big sister.

Thinking about all the ways this could go wrong.

And the one way it could go right.

If I'm very lucky.

If I'm very careful.

If Patrick dies before he can take this from me too.

Two more days.

Then everything changes.

Again.

Chapter twenty-five

Valerie

Iwait until Mila is asleep.

Until the house is quiet except for the distant murmur of guards changing shifts and the soft hum of security systems.

Until I've rehearsed the words so many times they sound foreign in my own head.

Then I go to find Lev.

He's in his study like I knew he'd be. Sitting behind his desk with reports spread in front of him, a glass of vodka at his elbow. He looks up when I knock, and something in my expression makes him set down his pen.

"What's wrong?"

I close the door behind me. Lock it. Turn to face him with my heart hammering so hard I taste copper.

"I need to tell you something."

He goes still. That predator stillness he gets when calculating threat levels. "Alright."

I move closer. Stop on the other side of his desk because I need the barrier, need something between us when I say this.

"I'm pregnant."

The words fall into silence so complete I hear my own pulse thundering in my ears.

Lev doesn't move. Doesn't blink. Just stares at me with an expression that gives away nothing.

"Say something," I whisper when the silence becomes unbearable.

"How long have you known?" His voice is flat. Empty.

"Two weeks. Maybe a little more."

"Two weeks." He repeats it slowly. "You've known for two weeks and you're just telling me now."

"I was scared." The words tumble out. "Terrified, actually. Of your reaction. Of what it would do to you after everything you've lost. Of you thinking I did this on purpose to trap you or secure my place here or any of the hundred things you might think except the truth."

"Which is?"

"That I didn't plan this. That we were careful and it happened anyway. That I love you and I'm having your baby and I'm absolutely paralyzed by fear of how you'll respond."

He stands. Moves to the window with his back to me, hands clasped behind him so tightly his knuckles are white.

I wait. Watch his shoulders rise and fall with controlled breaths. See the tremor running through him that he's trying to hide.

"Lev, please say something. Anything. Even if it's that you hate me for this, just say it so I know where we stand."

"I need a moment."

The words hit like a physical blow. "What?"

"I need to think." His voice is still flat. Still empty. "I need time alone to process this. So, please leave. Now."

"But we should talk about this together—"

"No!" It explodes from him with a violence that makes me flinch. He spins to face me, and the expression on his face is devastating. Rage and pain and terror all mixed together.

Tears stream down my face as I walk out the door, down the hallway, into our bedroom, where I lock myself in and collapse against the wall, sobbing.

He's going to leave me. Going to reject us both. Going to decide this is too much, too dangerous, too reminiscent of everything he lost.

And I don't blame him.

I slide down to the floor and let myself fall apart completely. Cry until my throat is raw and my eyes are swollen, and there's nothing left but hollow aching emptiness.

Hours pass. No word from Lev. No knock on the door. Nothing.

Just me alone with my fear and the life growing inside me that might cost me everything.

My phone buzzes. Tash.

I answer on the third ring, voice wrecked from crying. "Hey."

"Val? What happened? You sound awful."

"I told him." The words come out broken. "About the baby. He told me to get out. Shouted at me to leave. And now it's been hours, and he hasn't come to find me, and I think I just destroyed everything."

"Oh, babe." Her voice is gentle. "Give him time. This is massive, especially with Patrick still out there hunting him and all that he loves. He's probably in shock."

"Or he's deciding how to tell me he can't do this. Can't risk loving another child he might lose. Can't handle the responsibility of protecting us when he already feels like he failed before."

"Maybe. Or maybe he's just terrified and needs space to work through it."

"How much time?"

"I don't know. As much as he needs." She pauses. "But I don't think he'll reject you. Not after everything you've been through together. Not when he's been working so hard to rebuild trust."

"You didn't see his face, Tash. The absolute devastation when I said the word pregnant. Like I'd stabbed him."

"Because you triggered his trauma. His son died, Val. His infant son was murdered, and he has a traumatized child on his hands. Now you're telling him there's another baby to potentially lose. That's not your fault, but it's reality. He needs time to reconcile what he wants with what he's terrified of."

I press my hand to my stomach. To the tiny life growing there that might cost me the man I love.

"What do I do?"

"You wait. You give him the space he asked for. And you trust that the man who's been fighting to forgive you, who's let you into his life despite the betrayal, who makes love to you like you're precious even when he's still angry, that man won't abandon you now."

"And if you're wrong?"

"Then we'll figure it out. You and me. We'll make a plan. But I don't think I'm wrong, Val. I think he's just scared. And scared men need time to find their courage."

We talk for another twenty minutes. Her voice steady and reassuring while mine shakes with uncertainty.

When we hang up, I'm still on the floor. Still waiting for a knock that doesn't come.

I crawl into bed eventually. Still wearing clothes. Still crying sporadically. Still listening for footsteps that never arrive.

He doesn't come to bed that night.

Doesn't come to check on me.

Doesn't come at all.

And I lie there in the dark wondering if this is how it ends. Not with Patrick's bullet or a final betrayal, but with news of new life driving us apart because the fear of loss is stronger than the possibility of love.

I fall asleep alone with my hand on my stomach and terror in my heart.

Tomorrow I'll face whatever decision Lev has made.

Tomorrow I'll find out if we survive this or if the baby breaks us completely.

Tomorrow the future becomes clear.

But tonight, I'm just alone in the dark with my fear and my hope tangled so tightly I can't tell them apart anymore.

And the life growing inside me that might be a blessing or a curse depending on whether Lev can find the courage to choose us.

Please choose us, I think into the darkness. Please don't let fear win.

But I have no way of knowing if my silent plea will be answered.

All I can do is wait.

And hope.

Chapter twenty-six

Lev

Ican't breathe.

The study is suffocating despite the open window. Air circulates, but doesn't reach my lungs. I pour vodka with hands that shake, drain the glass, pour again.

It’s confirmed: Valerie is pregnant. She is carrying my child.

I should be happy. Overjoyed. This is everything I lost coming back. A second chance. New life. Family. Hope.

Instead, I'm drowning in this crippling fear because of my past failure.

I failed to protect my first family, and I doubt I deserve a second. Failed to see Patrick's move coming a second time.

The motherfucker seems to always be two steps ahead.

I have failed in the most fundamental way a man can fail.

What if I fail again?

The thought is paralyzing. Valerie's pregnancy means vulnerability. Means nine months of her body changing, becoming slower, more fragile. Means a newborn after that, completely helpless, dependent on me not to fuck up.

And Patrick is still out there.

Wounded now. Vengeful. Rebuilding his forces. Waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

If he finds out Valerie is pregnant, she becomes the primary target. The baby becomes leverage. Everything becomes exponentially more dangerous.

How do I protect them? How do I ensure I don't fail like I did before?

I don't have answers. Just terror and the crushing weight of responsibility I'm not sure I should be carrying.

I keep drinking until the bottle is empty. Then, I pull out another one and continue drinking.

God, I want this second chance so badly that the desire is physically painful.

Want to see Valerie pregnant with my child. Want to feel the baby move under my hand. Want all the moments I took for granted with Katya.

Want to hold an infant again. Change diapers and lose sleep. Deal with midnight feedings and first smiles.

Want Mila to have a sibling.

Want to believe we can survive this. That love doesn't always end in blood and screaming.

But the fear is stronger.

Because wanting something means it can be taken away. Loving someone means they can die. Hope is just another word for potential devastation.

I learned that lesson brutally five years ago.

And now I'm supposed to forget it? Supposed to embrace vulnerability? Supposed to risk everything again?

I can't.

Except I already have. The baby exists whether I'm ready or not. Valerie is pregnant. The choice has been made.

Now I just have to figure out how not to fail them.

Dawn breaks. Light streams through the window, harsh and unforgiving.

I'm still at my desk. Still drinking. Still drowning in memories and fear.

The door opens without knocking. Mikhail. He takes one look at me and his expression shifts from professional to concerned.

"How long have you been here?"

"All night." My voice is rough. Raw. "Valerie told me she's pregnant."

He goes completely still. "Pregnant."

"Yes."

A pause. Then carefully: "Congratulations, Boss."

"Is it? Congratulations?" I gesture at the empty bottles. "Or is it a death sentence? Another vulnerability for Patrick to exploit? Another chance for me to fail spectacularly?"

"It's a baby." He moves closer. Sits in the chair across from me. "Your baby. With a woman you love. That should be good news."

"Should be. Isn't." I drain the current glass. "All I can think about is Dmitri. How small he was in that crib. How the bullets looked too big for his tiny body. How I failed to protect him."

"That wasn't your fault."

"Wasn't it? I made enemies. I brought danger into their lives. I wasn't there when they needed me most." The words taste like ash. "And now I'm supposed to do it all again? Risk another child? Pretend I'm capable of protecting them when I've already proven I'm not?"

Mikhail is quiet for a moment. Then: "We need to eliminate Patrick before the baby comes. Can't have this threat hanging over a newborn."

The practical observation cuts through the spiral. "No. We can't."

"So we accelerate the timeline. Hunt him down. End this before Valerie starts showing."

"He's been careful. Strategic. We've been searching for weeks with nothing concrete."

"Then we make him come to us." Mikhail leans forward. "Use what he wants against him. Draw him out. Finish this so your child is born into safety instead of war."

It makes sense. Cold, brutal sense.

But the thought of using Valerie as bait while she's pregnant makes my stomach turn.

"I'll think about it." I stand on legs that aren't quite steady. "Right now I need to see her. Need to stop being a coward hiding in my study while she's probably terrified I'm going to reject her."

"Are you? Going to reject her?"

The question stops me at the door. "No. I'm terrified. Paralyzed, actually. But no. She's carrying my child. That makes her untouchable. Sacred. Mine to protect no matter what it costs."

"Good answer."

I leave him there and head upstairs.

Our bedroom door is still closed. I open it quietly, half-expecting her to be gone. Run away rather than face rejection.

But she's there. Curled on the bed in yesterday's clothes, face swollen from crying, eyes red and raw.

She looks up when I enter. Fear flashes across her features before she can hide it.

"Lev—"

I cross to the bed. Sit beside her. Don't speak for a long moment, just look at her. This woman who betrayed me. Who saved me. Who's become everything despite every reason she shouldn't be.

"I'm scared," I say finally. "Absolutely terrified."

Her breath catches. "Me too."

"I failed them. Katya and Dmitri. I wasn't there when they needed me. And the thought of failing again, of losing you or this baby because I'm not fast enough or smart enough or prepared enough..." I have to stop. Breathe. "It's paralyzing."

"I know." She reaches for my hand. "I know, Lev. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry the timing is terrible. I'm sorry this triggers your trauma. I'm sorry for all of it."

"Don't apologize for being pregnant with my child." The words come out rougher than intended. "This isn't your fault. It's just... complicated. With Patrick still out there. With everything so fragile between us. With my track record of catastrophic failure when it comes to protecting the people I love."

"You didn't fail." She says it fiercely. "Patrick killed them. Not you. Patrick pulled those triggers. Patrick made those choices. You were handling business that needed handling. You couldn't have known."

"I should have."

"You're not psychic. You're just a man doing his best in an impossible situation." She shifts closer. "And you've kept Mila safe for five years. You've protected her. Loved her. Given her everything she needed despite your own pain. That's not failure, Lev. That's success."

I want to believe her. Want to accept that maybe I'm not doomed to repeat history.

But the fear won't let go.

"If anything happens to you—" I can't finish the sentence. "If Patrick gets to you or the baby, I won't survive it. Can't. Won't. It'll destroy me completely."

"Then we make sure he doesn't get to us." She takes my hand and places it on her stomach. Flat still. No sign of the life growing there. "We're here. We're real. We need you to be strong enough to protect us."

I feel nothing under my palm. Too early for movement. Too early for evidence beyond test results and morning sickness.

But it's there. Our child. Growing. Becoming.

"I don't know if I can do this," I admit. Brutal honesty. "Don't know if I'm strong enough. Brave enough. Good enough."

"You are." She covers my hand with hers. "You're Lev Volkov. You survive impossible things. You build empires from blood. You protect what's yours with everything you have. And we're yours now. Me and Mila and this baby. Your family. Your responsibility. Your reason to win."

The words settle over me like a vow.

My family. My responsibility. My reason.

I look at her. Really look. See the fear in her eyes that matches my own. See the hope underneath. See the woman who chose me over her own safety, who protected my daughter with her life, who's carrying our child despite knowing how dangerous this world is.

"Okay." The word comes out quiet but firm. "We'll do this. Together."

Relief crashes across her face. "Really?"

"Really." I pull her closer. "But first, we end Patrick. Permanently. I will not bring a child into this world while that man breathes. Will not risk you or the baby while he's out there planning revenge."

"How?"

"I don't know yet. But Mikhail's right. We accelerate the timeline. Hunt him down. Make him come to us if we have to. Whatever it takes." I tilt her face up and kiss her.

She kisses me back. Desperate and relieved, and still terrified, but hopeful, too.

I kiss her back with the same intensity. Pouring everything I can't say into the contact. The fear, hope, and love tangled together.

When we break apart, I rest my forehead against hers. "I'm still scared. Probably will be scared every day until you're holding a healthy baby and Patrick is dead and buried."

"I'm scared too. But we'll figure it out together."

"Together." I stroke her hair. "You and me and Mila and this baby. Our family. Broken and rebuilt wrong, but still ours."

"Still ours." She echoes.

We lie down together. Fully clothed. Just holding each other while dawn light fills the room.

I think about the future. About Valerie pregnant. About a baby in my arms. About Mila as a big sister. About building something good from all the wreckage.

And for the first time since she told me, I let myself feel something other than terror.

Hope. Happiness.

Fragile. Tentative. Easily destroyed.

But there.

"We're going to survive this," Valerie whispers.

"Yes." I pull her closer. "We are. Because failure isn't an option anymore. Not with you. Not with the baby. Not with everything I have to lose."

She falls asleep against my chest. Exhausted from crying and fear and relief.

I stay awake. Planning. Calculating. Preparing for the war that's coming.

Because Patrick O'Rourke made one critical mistake.

He helped the bastard who murdered my family all those years ago, left me alive, and then made the mistake of sending a spy into my home now.

A spy who is now in my bed, with my baby in her belly.

I'll hunt him to the ends of the earth. Burn his entire organization to ash. Make him suffer in ways that become legend.

And when he's finally dead, when his blood has paid for Katya and Dmitri and every sleepless night Mila has endured, then I'll be free.

Free to be a father again. Free to love without paralyzing fear. Free to build the family Patrick stole.

But first, he dies.

And I'm going to enjoy every second of it.

Chapter twenty-seven

Valerie

Three months.

Three months of relative peace that feels more like suspended animation than safety.

Three months since I told Lev about the baby, since we decided to face this together, since Patrick went silent after Rico's death.

And I'm starting to show.

Not obviously. Not to strangers. But in the mirror each morning, I see the subtle curve of my lower abdomen. The way my clothes fit differently. The physical evidence of life growing inside me.

Lev sees it too. His hand finds my stomach constantly now, unconscious gesture that makes my chest tight. Like he needs to confirm the baby is still there, still safe, still real.

The protective instinct has become overwhelming.

He upgraded security to the point where I've counted seventeen guards on the property at any given time. Cameras in every room except bedrooms and bathrooms. Motion sensors. Reinforced doors. Panic rooms stocked with supplies.

The estate is a fortress.

And I'm not allowed to leave it.

"It's not safe," Lev says every time I ask. "Patrick knows you're here. Knows you're important to me. Probably knows you're pregnant by now. You're the perfect target."

"I'm going stir-crazy," I argue one afternoon. "I need fresh air that isn't the back garden. Need to see something besides these walls."

"No." His voice is flat. Final. "Not negotiable. Not while Patrick is out there."

"It's been three months! Three months of nothing. Maybe he gave up. Maybe he moved on."

"Men like Patrick don't give up." Lev moves closer, cups my face. "They plan. They wait. They strike when you least expect it. And I will not risk you or our baby because you're bored."

I want to argue. Want to push back against the cage he's built around me.

But I understand.

Pregnant women are targets. Especially when they're carrying the child of a Bratva boss whose enemy wants revenge.

Patrick knows I'm the key to destroying Lev emotionally. Knows that hurting me, hurting the baby, would devastate him in ways no business loss ever could.

So I stay. Trapped in luxury. Safe and suffocating in equal measure.

It happens during breakfast.

I'm reaching for the orange juice when my shirt rides up slightly. Just an inch. Enough to show the curve of my stomach that's become impossible to hide in anything fitted.

Mila goes completely still across the table. Fork suspended midair. Eyes locked on my exposed skin.

Then she drops the fork. It clatters against her plate.

"Valerie." Her voice is small. Shaking. "Why is your tummy big?"

My hand flies to my shirt, tugging it down. Lev freezes with his coffee cup halfway to his mouth.

"Sweetheart—" I start.

"Are you sick?" She stands abruptly, chair scraping. "Is it cancer? Is that why you've been throwing up every morning, and Papa won't let you leave, and everyone's being weird?"

"No, baby, I'm not sick—"

Lev and I have delayed telling her because her nightmares have worsened over the past few months, and we've been waiting for them to quiet down so that the news of another sibling doesn't trigger her even more.

"Then why?" She's crying now. Full tears streaming down her face. "Why does your stomach look like that? What's wrong with you?"

Lev sets down his cup. "Mila, Cielo, come here."

"No!" She backs away from the table. "Tell me what's wrong! Tell me why Valerie's sick! I heard Mikhail talking about protecting her and the—" She stops. Eyes going wide. "The baby."

The word hangs in the air.

"You're going to have a baby?" Her voice cracks. "Like Mama did? Before the bad men came?"

Oh God. She thinks this ends the same way. Thinks history is repeating.

I'm around the table before I can think. Kneeling in front of her despite the protest from my lower back. "Mila, look at me. I'm having a baby, yes. But nothing bad is going to happen. Your papa won't let it."

"He didn't stop it before." The words are quiet. Devastating. "The bad men came anyway. And Mama and Dmitri—"

"That's not going to happen again." Lev is beside us now, voice firm but gentle. "I promise you, Mila. What happened to your mama won't happen to Valerie."

"How do you know?" She's sobbing. "How can you promise that?"

"Because I'm not that man anymore." He pulls her into his arms. "The man who lost your mama wasn't prepared. Wasn't paranoid enough. Wasn't ruthless enough. But I am now. And I will burn the entire world down before I let anyone hurt Valerie or the baby."

She cries against his chest. I stay kneeling beside them, hand on her back, letting her process.

After several minutes, the sobs slow. She pulls back enough to look at me. "You're really having a baby? Papa's baby?"

"Yes."

"How did it get in there?"

Lev's eyes go wide. "Mila—"

"Did you swallow a seed? Is that how babies work?" She tilts her head. "Because Elena said babies grow from seeds, but I don't understand how you eat a seed, and it becomes a person. That doesn't make sense."

Despite everything, I almost laugh. "It's not exactly a seed—"

"Then what is it? How did the baby get inside you?" She's genuinely curious now, fear temporarily forgotten in favor of seven-year-old logic. "Did Papa put it there? Can he make babies appear?"

"This is not a conversation for breakfast." Lev looks mildly panicked. "We'll explain when you're older—"

"I'm seven! That's practically grown up!" She crosses her arms. "And if there's going to be a baby, I should know how it works so I can help."

I bite my lip to keep from smiling. "Your papa and I will explain more when you're a bit older. But yes, we made the baby together."

"Like a project?"

"Something like that."

"And it's growing in your tummy right now?" She reaches out tentatively, hand hovering over my stomach. "Can I feel it?"

"Of course." I guide her hand to the small bump. "The baby is very tiny still. About the size of a lemon."

"A lemon?" Her eyes light up. "That's so small! How does a whole person fit in a lemon?"

"They grow. Over time. By the time the baby is born, they'll be much bigger."

"When will that be?"

"August. Late summer."

She does mental math on her fingers. "That's five more months! That's forever!"

"It'll go faster than you think."

She's quiet for a moment, hand still on my stomach, processing. Then, quietly: "Am I going to be a big sister?"

"Yes, Cielo." Lev strokes her hair. "You're going to be a big sister. Is that okay?"

"Will the baby love me?" The question is small. Vulnerable. "Even though I'm not their real sister?"

My heart cracks. "You are their real sister. You’ll have the same blood flowing through both of you, Mila. And you're going to be the best big sister in the world."

"I am?" She looks up with watery eyes.

"You are." I pull her into a hug. "You're going to teach them everything. How to be brave. How to make your papa laugh. How to sneak extra cookies when Elena isn't looking."

That gets a small giggle. "Papa says I'm not supposed to do that."

"Papa does it too when he thinks no one's watching." Lev shoots me a look but doesn't deny it. "So you're going to be an excellent teacher."

She's quiet again, then: "Will you leave? After the baby comes? Will you go away like Mama did?"

The question breaks me. "No, baby. I'm not going anywhere. I'm staying right here with you and your papa and the baby. We're a family."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

She hugs me tighter. Then pulls back and looks at my stomach with new wonder. "Hi baby. I'm Mila. I'm going to be your big sister. And I'm going to teach you everything important."

Lev watches us with an expression I can't quite name. Soft. Tender. Terrified and hopeful in equal measure.

"Can I tell the baby stories?" Mila asks. "So they know my voice when they come out?"

"Absolutely. The baby can hear you already, actually. Not clearly yet, but they can hear sounds."

"Really?" She leans closer to my stomach. "Hi baby! Can you hear me? I love you already! I can't wait to meet you!"

The sweetness of it makes my eyes burn.

This is what we're fighting for. This moment. This family. This chance at something good.

Mila chatters to my stomach for several more minutes before Lev gently redirects her to finish breakfast.

Later, when she's playing in her room, he finds me in the library.

"That went better than expected," I say.

"She thought you were sick and dying." His voice is rough.

"But now she knows the truth, and she’s so excited."

“All thanks to you?”

“No, not to me. But thanks to us. We did this together.”

That evening is the ultrasound.

Dr. Hale arrives at eight PM with portable equipment. An older woman, gray hair pulled back, kind eyes that have seen everything. She's worked with Bratva families for decades. Knows discretion is part of the job.

"Too risky for hospitals," Lev had explained when booking her to come in."

She sets up in our bedroom, everything looking professional and efficient.

Mila holds my hand because she insisted on being present. Wants to see her sibling on the screen. Lev sits beside me, trying to look calm and failing spectacularly.

I lie on the bed, shirt pulled up, while Dr. Hale squirts cold gel on my small bump.

"This will feel strange," she says. "But it doesn't hurt."

The wand presses against my skin. The monitor flickers to life.

And there it is.

Our baby.

Tiny. Barely recognizable as human yet. But moving. Growing. Alive.

The heartbeat fills the room. Fast. Strong. Steady.

Mila gasps. "That's the baby?"

"That's your little brother or sister," Dr. Hale confirms with a smile.

"It’s so small!" Mila moves closer to the screen. "But I can see them moving! Look, Papa! The baby is waving at us!"

Lev is frozen. Staring at the monitor. I see his throat work as he swallows hard.

Then tears start streaming down his face.

"That's the heartbeat," Dr. Hale says gently. "Very strong. Very healthy."

"It's so fast," I whisper, my own tears falling.

"Normal for this stage. Around 160 beats per minute." She moves the wand slightly. "And here, see this? That's the head. These are little arms beginning to form. Legs here."

"They have arms already?" Mila is riveted. "Can they wave at me?"

"Not yet. But soon they'll be able to move more. In a few months, Valerie will be able to feel the baby kicking."

"That's so cool!"

Lev moves to my side. Takes my hand. His grip is almost painful, but I don't care.

He's crying openly. Lev Volkov. The Pakhan. The man who terrifies grown men without effort.

Crying while watching an ultrasound of our baby.

"Everything looks perfect," Dr. Hale continues. "Development is right on track. The due date still looks like late August. Do you want to know the sex?"

I look at Lev. He's staring at the monitor, devastation and wonder mingling.

"Not yet," he says finally. Voice rough. "Not yet.”

Dr. Hale nods in understanding. Takes measurements, and prints images.

Mila gets her own copy of the ultrasound photo. Clutches it like treasure. "I'm going to show the baby when they're born. I'm going to say 'look, that’s you in mommy’s tummy!'

When Dr. Hale leaves, it's just the three of us.

Mila hugs me carefully, mindful of my stomach. "Thank you for giving me a baby brother or sister."

"You're welcome, sweetheart."

She kisses my bump. "See you in a few months, baby!"

After Lev tucks her into bed, he returns to our room. Sits on the edge of the bed holding the ultrasound photos with shaking hands.

"That's our baby," I whisper.

"Yes." He sets down the photos carefully. "That's our baby. Real. Growing. Alive."

More tears. I've never seen him cry like this.

"I love you." It bursts from him like a confession. "I've loved you for a while now, but I was too scared to say it. Too scared to be that vulnerable again. But watching that heartbeat, seeing that tiny person we made together, I can't keep pretending I don't."

My breath catches. "Lev—"

"I love you, Valerie. Love you despite the betrayal. Despite the lies. Despite every reason I shouldn't. You're it for me. You and Mila and this baby. My family. My reason for everything."

I'm sobbing now. "I love you too. So much. Even when I was lying, even when I was supposed to be your enemy, I was falling for you."

He kisses me. Gentle. Reverent.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine. "We're going to survive this. Patrick. The threat. All of it. Because I will not let anything happen to you or our baby."

"I know."

We hold each other. Both crying. Both terrified and hopeful.

This is real. We're building something real from ashes and betrayal.

If we can just survive Patrick.

The door slams open.

Mikhail. Face grim. Urgent.

"We found him." He's breathing hard. "We've located Patrick. And boss, you need to hear this. Now."

Lev is on his feet immediately. "Talk."

"He's planning to hit the estate. Within forty-eight hours. This isn't speculation. This is confirmed intelligence from three separate sources."

The room goes cold.

"How confirmed?" Lev's voice is deadly calm.

"Intercepted communications. Surveillance footage. A source inside his organization." Mikhail pulls out his phone. "This is happening, Lev. The final confrontation. Patrick is making his move."

Lev studies the screen. His expression hardens. "Forty-eight hours."

"Maybe less."

"Then we prepare." Lev turns to me. "Valerie, you and Mila go to the safe room. Now."

"Lev—"

"NOW." He's already in combat mode. "Mikhail, full lockdown. Every man we have. I want this place turned into a kill box."

Chaos erupts. Men moving. Weapons being distributed.

Lev pulls me close. Kisses me hard. "Stay in the safe room. Protect Mila and our baby. No matter what you hear, you stay there until I come get you."

"Yes." I'm shaking. "Please be careful—"

"I love you." He says it fiercely. "Remember that."

Then he's gone.

Elena escorts me and Mila to the safe room. Mila is confused. Scared. I hold her while Elena secures us inside.

"Is Papa going to be okay?" She asks in a small voice.

"Yes." I stroke her hair. "Your papa is the strongest man I know."

Outside, preparations continue.

Patrick is coming.

And in forty-eight hours or less, this ends.

I press my hand to my stomach. To the baby who deserves to be born into peace.

"We're going to be okay," I whisper.

Mila curls against me. Elena stands guard.

And we wait for the storm to break.

CHAPTER 28- LEV POV

Chapter twenty-eight

Lev

War comes with a plan.

I've spent the last twenty-four hours transforming the estate into a fortress designed for one purpose: kill everyone who enters with hostile intent.

I call in every favour that I am owed, and additional men arrive throughout the day. Thirty-seven total now, all veterans, all loyal, all understanding this is the fight that determines everything. I position them strategically across the grounds. Snipers on the roof. Heavy weapons teams covering approach angles. Entry points reinforced with steel plating and explosive charges.

If Patrick wants to reach Valerie and Mila, he'll have to go through hell first.

Mikhail coordinates the armory distribution. Rifles, shotguns, pistols. Grenades. Body armor. Enough firepower to hold off a small army.

Which is exactly what's coming.

Yaroslav appears with the final perimeter report. "All positions secure. Motion sensors active. Cameras feeding to central command. If a mouse crosses the property line, we'll know."

"Good." I study the tactical map spread across my desk. Red dots marking our defensive positions. Blue lines showing likely attack vectors. "Patrick will come from multiple angles. He's not stupid. He knows we're expecting him."

"So, what's his play?" Mikhail leans over the map. "Overwhelming force? Stealth insertion? Something else?"

"Both." I trace possible routes with one finger. "Coordinated assault to draw our attention, smaller team slipping through to reach the house. He’d want Valerie alive."

"We have men covering every entrance—"

That's what he'll expect, so he'll create new ones—explosives, vehicles ramming gates, whatever it takes. I look up and meet their eyes. "Patrick O'Rourke is coming here to either die or destroy me. There's no middle ground. So, we prepare for maximum violence."

I head to check on Valerie and the kids. I need to see them. Need one more moment before the violence starts.

I find her in our bedroom, packing supplies. She's four months pregnant now, the curve of her stomach visible under the loose shirt. Moving with that careful precision, pregnant women develop.

When she sees me, her face crumples. "Is it time?"

"Soon." I cross to her, pull her into my arms. "You'll be safe in the panic room. Steel walls, independent systems, enough supplies for days. Patrick can't reach you there."

"What about you?" Her hands grip my shirt. "I’ve seen that man kill my father gleefully. What if he kills you too? What if you don't come back?"

"I'll come back." I tilt her face up, look into those eyes that have seen me at my worst and loved me anyway. "I promise, milaya. I will come back to you."

"You can't promise that—"

"I can, and I am." I kiss her desperately. Pour everything into it. Love and fear and determination. "Because I'm not losing you. Not losing this baby. Not losing Mila. I've lost enough. I won't lose more."

She's crying, holding me as if she lets go, I'll disappear.

I pull back enough to kneel. Press my face against her stomach. Against the life growing inside.

"Wait for me," I whisper to our baby. "Your papa is going to end this tonight. Going to make sure you're born into safety."

Valerie's hand strokes through my hair. "We will. We'll be waiting."

I stand, kiss her once more, then force myself to leave before I can't.

Mila is in her room with Elena, clutching her stuffed bear. When she sees me, she runs into my arms.

"Papa, I'm scared."

"I know, cielo." I hold her tight. "But you're going to be safe. You and Valerie. The panic room is the strongest place in the house. Nothing can hurt you there."

"What about you? You're going to fight the bad men?"

"Yes."

"What if they hurt you like they hurt Mama?"

The question destroys me. "They won't. I'm stronger now. Smarter. And I'm fighting for you. For Valerie. For the baby. That makes me harder to kill."

She pulls back, looks at me with those serious gray eyes. "Promise you'll come back?"

I should tell her I can't promise. But I have made up my mind that I must come back to this second chance which the universe has handed to me.

"I promise," I say. "I'm not leaving you, Mila. Not tonight. Not ever."

She hugs me again, fierce and desperate. "I love you, Papa."

"I love you too. More than anything."

Elena escorts them to the panic room. I watch until they disappear down the hallway, then force myself to move.

Night falls like a curtain.

I'm positioned in the main house, central command with full tactical overview. Screens showing camera feeds. Radio connecting me to all positions. Weapons at hand.

Mikhail is beside me. Yaroslav coordinates roof positions. Viktor handles the south perimeter.

We wait.

10 PM. Nothing.

11 PM. Still quiet.

Midnight approaches and tension coils tighter.

Then at 12:17 AM, motion sensors trip at the north gate.

"Contact," Yaroslav's voice through comms. "Multiple vehicles. Looks like six. No seven. Approaching fast."

"All positions, weapons hot." I watch the feeds. "Wait for my command."

The vehicles don't slow. Ram through the gate in coordinated impact. Steel screeching. Alarms blaring.

Men pour out. Twenty. Thirty. Forty.

More vehicles at the east wall. The south entrance. Coordinated assault from three directions simultaneously.

"ENGAGE!" I shout into the radio.

Gunfire erupts. The night explodes into chaos.

Our snipers pick off men advancing across the lawn. Heavy weapons teams lay down suppressing fire. Bodies drop but more keep coming.

Patrick brought an army. Of course he did, after all, I levelled his house, office and operation and killed his second in command.

I move to the window, assess the situation. His forces are professional, coordinated. Using vehicles for cover, advancing in tactical formations. Not random thugs. Trained soldiers.

"Boss, south wall is taking heavy fire!" Viktor's voice crackles. "They've got RPGs!"

An explosion rocks the house. The south wall camera feed cuts to static.

"Viktor, status!"

"Holding but barely! They're pushing hard!"

Another explosion. This one closer. The east wing.

They're trying to breach. Overwhelm our defenses through sheer firepower.

"Mikhail, reinforce the south wall. Yaroslav, I want snipers targeting their heavy weapons. Take out anyone carrying explosives."

Orders flow. Men move. The battle intensifies.

I see him on the north camera feed. Patrick O'Rourke. Leading a breach team toward the main entrance. Body armor. Assault rifle. Moving with military precision.

This is it.

He's coming for me.

"All units, Patrick is moving on the main entrance. I'm engaging directly. Maintain defensive positions."

"Boss, that's a trap—" Mikhail starts.

"I know." I grab weapons. Pistol, rifle, knife. "But he wants me. And I want him. So let's finish this."

I move through the house to the main entrance. The sounds of battle filter through walls. Gunfire. Explosions. Screaming.

My men are dying out there. For me. For my family.

I won't let it be for nothing.

The front door explodes inward. Breaching charge. Smoke billows.

Patrick's team enters. Five men in full tactical gear.

I open fire from the staircase. Drop two immediately. The others scatter, return fire.

Bullets rip through the foyer. I move, using my knowledge of the territory, and take them out one by one.

Four down. Five.

Then Patrick himself steps through the smoke.

We lock eyes across the destroyed foyer.

"Lev." His voice is calm. Cold. "It's been a long time."

"Not long enough." I advance down the stairs. "You should have stayed hidden, Patrick. Should have run while you had the chance."

"Run from you?" He laughs. "You took everything from me. My operation. My men. My legacy. Did you think I'd just accept that?"

"You started this five years ago when you murdered my family."

"Necessary business. Your wife was collateral damage. Your son..." He shrugs. "Wrong place, wrong time."

Rage floods through me. Pure, crystalline rage that makes vision narrow.

I charge.

Patrick meets me halfway. We collide with brutal force.

He's skilled. Trained. Lands a devastating punch to my ribs that cracks bone.

I counter with an elbow to his face. Blood sprays. His nose breaks.

We grapple. Trade blows. Crash through furniture. Both fighting with the desperation of men who know this ends one way.

Patrick gets me in a chokehold. I drive my head back into his face. Again. Again. Until his grip loosens.

Spin. Knife from my belt. Slash.

The blade catches his ribs. Opens a deep cut. He roars, stumbles back.

I press the advantage. Close the distance. Drive my fist into the wound.

He screams. Swings wild. Catches my shoulder.

Pain explodes but I don't stop. Can't stop. This ends tonight.

I tackle him. We go down hard. I get on top. Rain down blows.

Face. Throat. Ribs. Anywhere vulnerable.

Blood sprays. His face is a ruined mess. Nose shattered. Eye swelling shut. Teeth broken.

He bucks beneath me. Throws me off with desperate strength.

We both scramble to our feet. Circling. Both bleeding. Both exhausted.

Patrick pulls a knife. "You should have killed me five years ago."

"I'm correcting that mistake now."

He lunges. I sidestep. Grab his wrist. Twist hard.

Bones crack. The knife clatters away.

I drive my own blade into his side. Between ribs. Deep.

He gasps. Blood bubbles at his lips.

I twist the knife. "This is for Katya. For Dmitri."

Pull it out. Drive it in again. Higher. Puncturing lung.

"For Mila's nightmares."

Again. Lower. Kidney.

"For threatening Valerie and my unborn child."

Patrick collapses to his knees. Choking on blood. Eyes going glassy.

I stand over him. Watch him die.

Then gunfire. Close. Too close.

Patrick's backup team bursting through the side entrance.

Three men. Weapons raised. Trained on me.

I dive for cover. Bullets tear through the space I just occupied.

Patrick is crawling away. Desperate. Leaving a blood trail but still moving.

I return fire. Drop one. Two.

The third gets behind a pillar. Suppressing fire keeping me pinned.

Patrick reaches the doorway. Escapes into the smoke and chaos outside.

I curse. Move to pursue.

The third gunman steps out. Assault rifle pointed at my chest.

Time slows.

I see his finger tighten on the trigger.

See the muzzle flash.

Feel the impact as the bullet catches my shoulder. Spinning me around.

Second shot. This one to my ribs. Cracks bone. Punctures something vital.

I go down hard. Gun clattering away.

The gunman advances. Stands over me. Raises his weapon for the kill shot.

Through the smoke, I see Patrick in the doorway. Watching. Smiling through blood.

This is how it ends.

I failed them. Valerie. Mila. Our baby.

Failed again.

The gunman's finger tightens on the trigger.

Chapter twenty-nine

Valerie

The panic room is supposed to be soundproof, but I hear everything through the radio that Mikhail left with us for communication.

Mila is curled against me, hands over her ears, crying silently. She's been crying for twenty minutes straight. Since the first breach. Since the world outside became hell.

"It's okay, baby." I stroke her hair with shaking hands. "Your papa has this under control. We're safe here."

A lie. We might be safe, but Lev isn't. I can hear the battle raging. Can hear it getting closer to the house.

The radio in the corner crackles. Mikhail's voice cuts through the static as he addresses all units.

"Boss is engaged with Patrick! Main foyer! He needs backup!"

My blood runs cold.

More voices. Overlapping. Urgent.

"South perimeter is collapsing!"

"Three men down on the east wall!"

"Boss is down! I repeat, boss is DOWN!"

No.

No, no, no.

"Patrick's got a gun on him! Someone get to the foyer NOW!"

I'm moving before conscious thought catches up. Grabbing the emergency gun from the weapons locker. Checking the magazine with hands that won't stop shaking.

"Valerie?" Mila's voice is small. Terrified. "What are you doing?"

"Your papa needs help." I kneel beside her. Cup her face. "I need you to stay here. Lock the door behind me. Don't open it for anyone except me, your papa, or Mikhail. Understand?"

"Don't leave!" She grabs my shirt. "Please don't leave me!"

"I have to." I kiss her forehead. "I have to save your papa. But I promise, I'll come back. I promise, baby."

"You promised you wouldn't leave like Mama did!"

The words break me. "I'm not leaving. I'm fighting. Now lock this door. Don't open it for anyone."

I pry her hands away. Stand and move to the door.

"Valerie!" She's sobbing. "VALERIE!"

I step through. The heavy steel door closes behind me with a final-sounding clang.

I hear the locks engage. Mila's cry follows me, ringing in my ears as I run.

The basement corridor is empty. Eerily quiet compared to the chaos I heard over the radio. I take the stairs two at a time, gun raised, heart hammering.

The main floor is a warzone.

Smoke so thick I can barely see. The acrid smell of gunpowder and blood. Bodies on the floor—some in Lev's colors, some in tactical black.

Glass crunches under my feet. Furniture overturned. Walls pockmarked with bullet holes.

I move toward the foyer. Following the sound of voices. Of struggle.

Through the smoke, I see them.

Lev is on the ground. Blood pooling beneath him. His face is pale, and his breathing is labored.

Patrick standing over him. Gun pointed at Lev's head. Smiling.

"Five years I've waited for this." Patrick's voice carries through the smoke. "Five years of planning. Of rebuilding. Of imagining this exact moment."

"Fuck you." Lev coughs. Blood on his lips. "You came after my family. You deserve worse than death."

"Your family?" Patrick laughs. "The ones long dead or the ones that I’ll be killing tonight?"

Lev tries to move. Can't. Too weak from blood loss.

Patrick cocks the gun. "Any last words?"

I step out of the smoke. Raise my weapon. "Get away from him."

Patrick spins. Eyes widening when he sees me. "Well. This is unexpected."

"I said, get away from him." My voice doesn't shake. The gun doesn't waver. "Now."

"Or what? You'll shoot me?" He laughs. "You don't have the spine, girl. You're a spy who couldn't even commit to betrayal. You think you can pull that trigger?"

"Try me."

His eyes flick to Lev. Back to me. Calculating.

Then he moves. Gun swinging toward me.

I fire.

The shot catches him in the upper right shoulder. He stumbles forward with a cry.

But doesn't go down.

Turns on me with fury blazing in his eyes. "You bitch!"

His gaze drops to my stomach. To the small curve visible under my shirt.

Understanding dawns. Then something worse. Vicious satisfaction.

"You're pregnant." He smiles through blood. "Oh, this is perfect. This is better than I imagined."

He raises his gun. Points it at my stomach. "I'm going to kill you and your bastard with a single bullet. And Lev gets to die knowing he failed a second time."

Time slows.

I see his finger tighten on the trigger.

See Lev's eyes go wide with horror.

See him move despite his wounds. Launching himself from the ground with strength that shouldn't exist.

He tackles Patrick. Both men crash to the floor.

The gun goes off. Bullet tears through the space where I was standing.

They grapple. Two dying men using their last reserves. Brutal. Desperate.

Lev gets on top. Hands around Patrick's throat. Squeezing.

Patrick bucks. Throws him off. Both scramble for the dropped gun.

I try to help. Move forward with my own weapon raised.

But figures emerge from the smoke. Patrick's men. Three of them. Converging.

Hands grab me from behind. The gun is ripped from my grip.

"NO!" I fight. Kick. Scream. "LET ME GO!"

They drag me backward. One arm around my throat. The other pinning my arms.

I watch helplessly as Patrick breaks free from Lev. Grabs the gun. Stands over Lev with blood streaming from multiple wounds.

"This ends now." Patrick raises the weapon. Points it at me instead of Lev. "Watch her die, Volkov. Watch your unborn child die."

Lev's eyes meet mine across the destroyed foyer.

I see devastation. Rage. Love.

Then he moves.

Despite the gunshot wounds. Despite the blood loss. Despite being too weak to stand.

He throws himself between me and Patrick's gun.

The shot rings out.

Lev jerks. Blood sprays. He goes down hard.

"NO!" The scream tears from my throat. "LEV!"

I fight harder. Bite the arm around my throat. Taste blood. The grip loosens.

I break free. Stumble toward Lev.

He's on the ground. New wound in his chest. High. Near his heart. Blood pumping with each beat.

"Lev, no, please no—"

Gunfire erupts. Close. Deafening.

Patrick's men holding me drop. Dead before they hit the ground.

Mikhail bursts through the smoke. Yaroslav is right behind with several of their men. Their weapons are raised, and they begin to fire.

Patrick's remaining men scatter. Some return fire. Some try to run.

But they all die.

Mikhail, Yaroslav, and the reinforcement cut through them with ruthless precision.

Patrick tries to escape. Stumbling toward the door. Leaving a blood trail.

Mikhail pivots and fires.

The bullet catches Patrick in the spine. He goes down screaming.

"That's for the boss." Mikhail stands over him. Fires again. Headshot. "And that's for trying to hurt his family again."

Patrick O'Rourke dies choking on blood and broken promises.

But I don't care about Patrick.

I'm kneeling beside Lev. Hands pressed to his chest wound. Blood pumping between my fingers.

"Stay with me." My voice breaks. "Don't you dare leave me. Don't you dare."

His eyes flutter open. Unfocused. Glassy. "Valerie..."

"I'm here. I'm right here." Tears streaming down my face. "Help is coming. Just hold on. Please hold on."

"The baby..." He coughs. More blood. "Keep the baby safe."

"The baby needs their father! You're going to be fine. You're going to hold them. You promised!"

Mikhail is on the radio. Shouting for medical. For the doctor. For anyone who can help.

Yaroslav kneels beside me. Presses additional pressure on the wounds. "Boss, stay with us. Paramedics are three minutes out."

Three minutes. An eternity when someone is bleeding out in your arms.

Lev's breathing is shallow. Rapid. His skin going gray.

"Don't close your eyes." I cup his face. "Look at me. Stay with me."

"Love you." It's barely a whisper. "Love you so much."

"I love you too. Which is why you have to fight. Have to stay. Mila needs you. I need you. Our baby needs you."

His eyes are drifting closed.

"LEV!" I'm screaming now. "Don't you leave me! Don't you fucking leave me!"

Mikhail appears with a medical kit. Field dressings. Pressure bandages.

We work together. Pack the wounds. Try to slow the bleeding.

But there's so much blood. Pooling beneath him. Soaking into destroyed carpet.

Too much blood.

The paramedics burst through. Professional. Efficient. They push me aside gently.

I watch them work. Assess. Radio ahead to the private Bratva hospital.

"Multiple GSWs. Severe blood loss. BP dropping. We need O-neg standing by and a surgical team ready."

They load him onto a stretcher. Start IVs. Oxygen mask.

I try to follow. Mikhail stops me.

"You're covered in blood. And pregnant. Let me drive you."

"I'm not leaving him!"

"You won't. I'll get you there faster than the ambulance anyway." He steers me toward the door. "Come on. Let's go."

The ride is a blur. Mikhail is driving like a demon. Me in the passenger seat staring at blood on my hands. Lev's blood.

At the hospital, they rush him straight to surgery. I'm stopped at the doors.

"Family only beyond this point."

"I'm his fiancée! I'm carrying his child!"

The nurse looks at my pregnant belly. At the blood covering me. Her expression softens. "I'll update you as soon as I can. But right now, you need to let the doctors work."

They disappear through doors marked SURGERY. Taking Lev with them.

Taking my entire world.

Mikhail guides me to the waiting area. Gets me water. A blanket. Tries to clean some of the blood off my hands.

"He's going to make it," he says. "Lev Volkov is too stubborn to die."

I want to believe him.

But I saw those wounds. Saw the blood loss. Saw Lev's eyes going glassy.

Hours pass. No word.

Yaroslav arrives with Mila. She runs into my arms, crying.

"Is Papa okay? Is he alive?"

"He's in surgery." I hold her tight. "The doctors are helping him."

"You said you'd come back! You left me alone!"

"I know, baby. I'm sorry. But I had to save your papa."

"Did you?"

The question breaks me. "I don't know yet."

We wait. The three of us huddled together in uncomfortable plastic chairs. Covered in blood and ash. Waiting for news that could destroy us.

More hours.

A doctor finally emerges. Scrubs stained. Face exhausted.

"Ma’am?"

I stand on shaking legs. "How is he?"

"He's alive." The doctor's expression is carefully neutral. "But it was very close. Three gunshot wounds. Significant internal damage. He lost over half his blood volume. We had to remove his spleen and repair a punctured lung. The bullet near his heart missed the major vessels by millimeters."

"But he's alive?" I need to hear it again.

"He's alive. In critical condition. The next forty-eight hours will be crucial in his recovery. Hopefully, infections do not set in, and his body can begin to heal and recover from the trauma." The doctor looks at each of us. "He's not out of the woods yet. But he's a fighter. That much is clear."

"Can I see him?"

"ICU. One visitor at a time. Five minutes only."

Mila looks up at me with desperate eyes. "I want to see Papa."

"You will, Cielo. Let me go first. Make sure he's okay. Then you can see him."

The ICU is sterile, with beeping machines, harsh lights, and Lev at the center of it all.

Tubes everywhere. Machines breathing for him. Monitors tracking every vital sign.

But alive.

I take his hand carefully. It's cold. Pale.

"I'm here." Tears streaming down my face. "I'm right here, my love. And you're going to be okay. You have to be okay."

His fingers twitch slightly in mine. Maybe intentional. Maybe reflex.

"Mila's here. She wants to see you. And the baby is fine. We're both fine because you saved us. You threw yourself in front of that bullet and saved us both."

A nurse appears. "Time's up. He needs rest."

I lean down. Kiss his forehead. "I love you. Come back to us. Please come back."

Outside, I let Mila see him for her five minutes. Watch her small hand hold his large one. Watch her whisper things I can't hear.

When she emerges, she's crying. "Papa looks broken."

"He is broken. But he'll heal." I pull her close. "Your papa is the strongest man I know. He'll come back to us."

We camp in the waiting room. Refusing to leave. Refusing to go home to the destroyed estate.

Mikhail brings food we don't eat. Coffee that goes cold. Updates from the cleanup.

Patrick is dead. Confirmed. His entire operation dismantled. The threat is over.

But Lev is still fighting for his life.

And all I can do is wait.

Wait and pray and hope that love is strong enough to bring him back from the edge.

That our family survives this final test.

That the man who saved me, who loved me despite my betrayal, who threw himself in front of a bullet to protect our baby survives to meet that baby.

The machines beep steadily in the ICU.

Forty-eight hours to know if he lives or dies.

Forty-eight hours of hell.

And all I can do is wait.

Chapter thirty

Lev

Pain wakes me.

Sharp, burning pain radiating from my chest, my shoulder, my ribs. Every breath feels like broken glass grinding against raw nerves.

I try to move. Can't. Something is restraining me.

No. Not restraints. Tubes. Wires. Medical equipment.

Hospital.

Memory crashes back. Patrick. The fight. Gunshot wounds. Valerie's face as I threw myself in front of her.

Valerie.

My eyes fly open. Bright lights. Sterile ceiling. The steady beep of monitors.

And there, slumped in an uncomfortable chair beside my bed, is Valerie.

Four months pregnant. Unharmed. Asleep with her head resting on the edge of my mattress, one hand clutching mine.

Relief so intense it's physically painful crashes over me.

She's alive. The baby is alive. I didn't fail them.

I try to speak. My throat is raw, scratchy. Nothing comes out except a rough sound.

But it's enough.

Valerie's eyes snap open. She sees me awake, and her face crumples.

"Lev." She's crying immediately. Full sobs. "Oh God, you're awake. You're actually awake."

"Water." It comes out as a croak.

She fumbles for the cup on the side table. Helps me sip through a straw. Cool liquid soothes my burning throat.

"How long?" I manage.

"Four days." She sets down the cup with shaking hands. "You've been unconscious for four days. The surgery lasted nine hours. They had to remove your spleen, repair your lung, and stop internal bleeding. You died on the table, but they brought you back."

Four days. Nine hours of surgery. Died and brought back to life.

"The baby?" I reach for her stomach with the hand that isn't attached to an IV.

"Fine. Healthy. Perfect." She guides my hand to the small curve. "The doctor checked. No damage. No complications. The baby is okay."

Thank God.

"Mila?"

"Safe. She stayed in the panic room like you told her. Yaroslav got her out after Patrick was dead. She's been here every day. They only let her visit for a few minutes at a time because of ICU rules, but she's here."

"Patrick?" I already know the answer but need to hear it.

"Dead." Her voice hardens. "Mikhail shot him. Made sure of it. His entire operation is dismantled. The threat is over, Lev. It's finally over."

Over.

Patrick O'Rourke is dead. Gone.

I can barely process it. The relief is too big. Too overwhelming.

"You almost died." Valerie is crying harder now. "The doctors said another few minutes and you would have bled out. Said it was a miracle you survived at all. I thought I'd lost you. Thought I'd have to raise this baby alone and tell them their father died saving us."

"But I didn't." I pull her closer, careful of the tubes and wires. "I'm here. We're all here. We survived."

I hold her with one arm. Feel the curve of her pregnant belly against my hip. Feel her tears soaking through fabric.

And realize I'm crying too.

Relief. Gratitude. Overwhelming emotion I can't name.

We survived. Against all odds, we actually survived.

A nurse comes to check on me, sees Valerie sobbing in my arms, and begins to protest.

"She stays." My voice is rough but firm. "I don't care about rules. She stays."

The nurse looks at my vitals on the monitors. At the tears streaming down both our faces. Her expression softens.

"I'll give you a few minutes. Then the doctor needs to examine you."

When she leaves, I turn to Valerie. "I love you. In case I didn't say it enough before."

"You said it." She touches my face gently. "Right before you threw yourself in front of that bullet. You said it, and then you almost died proving it."

"Had to protect you. Protect the baby. Couldn't let Patrick win."

"He didn't. We won. We're all here. All alive." She kisses me carefully. "And you're going to heal. Going to hold our baby. Going to be the father you were meant to be."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

Recovery is brutal.

Two weeks in the ICU before they move me to a regular room. Another three weeks there before discharge. Then months of physical therapy to regain strength, mobility, and function.

The scarring is extensive. Shoulder. Ribs. Chest. Reminders of how close I came to dying.

But I'm alive.

By the time Valerie is six months pregnant, I'm mobile again. Walking without assistance. Handling light business from home while Mikhail manages day-to-day operations.

The estate has been repaired. Carpets changed. Blood cleaned. Bullet holes patched. It looks normal again, except for the increased security, the new panic-room protocols, and the armed guards who will never fully relax.

One evening, Valerie finds me in my study. She's showing now, belly round and obvious under loose dresses. Moving with that careful waddle pregnant women develop.

"I want to get married." She says it without preamble. "Before the baby comes. I want us to be married."

"Okay." The answer is immediate. "When?"

"Next week. Something small. Just family."

We plan it quickly. Simple ceremony at the estate. Mikhail officiating. Tash as Valerie's witness, and Yaroslav as mine. Mila, Valerie's family, and Elena attending.

No guests beyond that. No elaborate display of wealth or power. Just us making promises we intend to keep.

The day arrives sunny and warm. We gather in the library where I first started falling for her without realizing it.

Valerie wears a simple white dress that accommodates her pregnant belly. Flowers in her hair that Mila helped arrange. She's beautiful. Glowing.

I wear a suit as I often do, but today I feel grateful that the three-piece hides most of the scarring. I stand beside her and exchange vows we wrote ourselves.

Mikhail pronounces us married. I kiss my wife carefully, mindful of the baby between us.

Mila cheers. Tash cries. Even stoic Mikhail looks emotional.

We're a family. Official. Legal. Real.

At nine months, labor begins at 3 AM.

I'm ready this time. Calm. Present. Unafraid.

Dr. Hale arrives within twenty minutes and sets up in the bedroom we've prepared. No hospital because Valerie chose a home birth.

She labors for fourteen hours. I stay beside her the entire time. Hold her hand. Let her squeeze until bones grind. Breathe with her through contractions.

"I can't do this." She's exhausted, crying, and overwhelmed. "It's too much."

"You can." I brush sweat-soaked hair from her face. "You're the woman who faced down Patrick O'Rourke. You can do anything."

"That was easier than this!"

Despite everything, I laugh. "Almost there, Milaya. Almost done."

Dr. Hale confirms. "I can see the head. Next contraction, push."

Valerie bears down. Screams. Pushes with everything she has.

And then crying. Not Valerie's. A baby's.

Loud. Healthy. Furious at being born.

"It's a boy." Dr. Hale holds up our son. Red-faced, squalling, perfect. "Congratulations."

She places him on Valerie's chest. Our son. Our boy.

He has dark hair. My nose. Valerie's mouth. Tiny fingers that grip everything within reach.

I'm crying. Can't help it. Can't stop.

This is what I lost five years ago. What Patrick stole. But the universe has sent another to me.

"Alexander." Valerie looks up at me. "We said Alexander if it was a boy. Xander for short."

"Alexander." I touch his tiny hand. He grips my finger with surprising strength. "Welcome to the world, Xander."

Dr. Hale finishes the delivery. Cleans Valerie up. Checks the baby thoroughly.

"Ten fingers, ten toes, perfect health. He's a strong one."

Like his mother.

I hold Xander while Valerie rests. His weight in my arms is surreal. Precious. Terrifying.

But my hands are steady. No trembling. No fear.

Just overwhelming love for this tiny person who has no idea what he was born into.

Mila meets her brother an hour later. Climbs carefully onto the bed beside Valerie, stares at Xander with wide eyes.

"He's so small."

"You were this small once." Valerie adjusts her hold so Mila can see better. "Want to hold him?"

"Can I?"

I help position her. Place Xander in her arms carefully.

Mila stares at her brother with absolute wonder. "Hi Xander. I'm your big sister. I'm going to teach you everything."

The image of them together cracks something open in my chest.

My family. All of them. Safe. Healthy. Alive.

"I love you, Mrs. Volkov."

"I love you too."

Xander stirs. Makes small sounds. Settles back into sleep.

I look at this perfect picture again, and realize something profound.

In the darkness, we found light.

In betrayal, we found trust.

In war, we found peace.

In loss, we found family.

And it's ours.

All of it.

Forever.

Epilogue

Valerie

"PAPA! XANDER PUT SYRUP IN MY BACKPACK!"

"DID NOT!"

"DID TOO! There's syrup all over my math homework!"

I'm at the stove flipping pancakes when World War Three erupts at the breakfast table. Xander, five years old and already a master of chaos, has his arms crossed in defiant innocence. Mila, twelve and entirely too dramatic, holds up a sticky notebook as evidence.

Lev doesn't even look up from his coffee and the tablet showing overnight business reports. "Xander. Did you put syrup in your sister's backpack?"

"It was an accident."

"How do you accidentally—" Mila starts.

"An accident that happens to involve opening a sealed backpack, locating the homework folder, and pouring syrup inside?" Lev's voice is dry. "That's a very specific accident."

I hide my smile behind the spatula. This is our life now. Syrup scandals and homework disasters and children bickering over breakfast.

Five years ago, this house was a fortress. Cold. Sterile. Designed for security, not living.

Now Xander's drawings cover the refrigerator. Mila's school photos line the hallway. Toys are scattered across Lev's study floor—and he steps over them without complaint, sometimes even sits on the floor to play.

The panic room was converted into a playroom last year. We don't need it anymore. Patrick is dead. The threats are gone. We're safe.

Actually, genuinely safe.

"Valerie, tell Papa I need a new backpack!" Mila appeals to me. "This one is ruined!"

"The backpack is fine. We'll clean it." I put the pancakes on a plate, and set them on the table. "Xander, apologize to your sister."

"But it was an accident—"

"Alexander." Lev uses his full name. Xander deflates immediately.

"Sorry, Mila." He doesn't sound sorry.

"And you're helping clean her backpack before school."

"Okay, Papa."

Crisis averted. For now.

Lev's phone buzzes. He glances at it, then at me. "Mikhail. Wants to know if I'm coming in today or working from home."

"What did you tell him?"

"That I'd decide after breakfast." He sets down the phone. Studies our children. Mila eating pancakes while texting someone under the table. Xander building a fortress from his food. "I'm working from home."

"Really?" I raise an eyebrow. "You have that meeting with the Italians."

"They can come here. Or we'll reschedule." He reaches for my hand across the table. Presses a kiss to my knuckles. "I'd rather be here. With all of you."

A few months ago, Lev would never have said that. Would never have chosen family over business. Would never have let children interrupt his carefully controlled world.

But that man died the night Patrick attacked. The one who came back is different. Softer in some ways. Harder in others. But present. Actually present for his family.

"Mama, can I have more pancakes?" Xander holds up his plate, fortress demolished and consumed.

"Say please."

"Please may I have more pancakes, Mama?"

I ruffle his dark hair—exactly like his father's—and take his plate. "One more. Then you need to help your sister before school."

After breakfast, Lev handles getting Mila to school while I supervise Xander cleaning the backpack disaster. Which involves more syrup somehow ending up on him than gets cleaned off the bag.

By the time Lev returns, I've bathed Xander, and he's playing in his room.

I find Lev in his study. He's on the phone with Mikhail, discussing shipment schedules and territory agreements. The Bratva doesn't run itself, even if he's shifted to more legitimate operations over the years.

He sees me in the doorway. Holds up one finger. "Mikhail, I'll call you back."

"You don't have to—"

"I do." He sets down the phone. Crosses to me. Pulls me into his arms. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. But we need to talk."

His body tenses slightly. Old instincts. Even now, "we need to talk" triggers his threat response.

"It's good news," I assure him. "At least, I think it's good news. You might think it's insane."

"Tell me."

Instead of telling him, I pull the pregnancy test from my pocket. Place it in his hand.

He stares at it. At the two clear lines. At the evidence of what we've created.

"You're pregnant."

"About six weeks. Due in late spring." I watch his face carefully. "Surprise?"

His hands start trembling. Actually trembling. The test shakes in his grip.

"Lev? Are you okay?"

"I'm—" His voice cracks. He sets down the test carefully. Pulls me against him hard. "I'm terrified and thrilled and completely overwhelmed."

"That's fair." I wrap my arms around him.

"Three kids is a lot." He laughs. Actually laughs. Then pulls back to look at me. "Are you happy? Scared? Having regrets about marrying me?"

"Happy. A little scared. Zero regrets." I touch his face. "We're good at this now. Good at the family thing. At raising kids who are loved and safe."

"We are." He places his hand on my stomach. Still flat. No sign of the life growing there yet.

He kisses me gently. "Thank you. For this. For all of it. For giving me a family I didn't think I deserved."

"You deserve happiness, Lev. You've fought for it. Bled for it. You've earned this."

We stand there in his study, holding each other, processing the news that our family is growing again.

Then Xander appears in the doorway. "Papa, can you play cars with me?"

Lev looks at the tablet showing business reports. The phone with messages waiting. The empire that demands his attention.

Then at our son. Five years old and asking for his father.

"Yes." He releases me. "Let's play cars."

Xander's face lights up. He grabs Lev's hand, drags him toward the playroom.

I watch them go. Lev settling on the floor without complaint. Xander chattering about racetracks and crashes. Two Volkovs playing together like the world isn't full of darkness.

This is who we are now. Who we've become.

The next day, we pay our usual visit to the cemetery. It is quiet on Tuesday mornings. That's why Lev chooses Tuesdays for his monthly visits. Fewer people. More privacy. Space to grieve without an audience.

We usually come alone, but today, he brought the kids along.

We pull through the gates just after 10 AM. Lev parks near the section where they're buried. Sits for a moment with his hands on the steering wheel.

"You okay?" I ask quietly.

"Yeah." He looks back at the kids. Mila silent and understanding. Xander confused but patient.

We walk through rows of headstones. Past elaborate monuments and simple markers. To a quiet corner where two graves rest side by side.

EKATERINA VOLKOVA 'Beloved Wife and Mother'

DMITRI VOLKOV 'Our Sweet Boy'

Lev stands before them. Silent. I can see him gathering words.

Mila moves closer. Slips her hand into his. She remembers them. Not clearly—she was too young. But she remembers enough.

"Hi Mama," she whispers. "Hi Dmitri. We came to visit you."

Lev's grip on her hand tightens.

Xander tugs my sleeve. "Who are they?"

"Your papa's first family," I explain gently. "Before you and Mila and me. They died a long time ago."

"That's sad."

"It is. But we're here to remember them. To make sure they know we haven't forgotten."

He nods solemnly. Approaches the graves with the seriousness only children can manage. "Hi. I'm Xander. I'm five. Papa says I ask too many questions but I think that's how you learn things."

Despite the weight of the moment, I see Lev's shoulders shake with something that might be laughter.

"Katya. Dmitri." He speaks clearly now. "I brought the whole family to meet you. Thought it was time."

Mila steps forward. Places flowers on both graves—roses for Katya, toy cars for Dmitri. "I miss you, Mama. I wish I remembered you better. But Papa tells me stories. About how you sang to me. How you loved us."

I'm crying. Can't help it.

"This is Xander," Lev continues. "He's five. Loud. Stubborn. Gets into everything. And he has my eyes."

Xander waves solemnly. "Hi."

"And this is Valerie." Lev pulls me forward. "My wife. The woman who saved me when I thought I was beyond saving."

I kneel beside the graves. Touch the cold marble. " You were extraordinary. Kind. Strong. Everything he needed."

"She was," Lev agrees. Voice rough. "She was everything. And losing her and Dmitri destroyed me for a long time."

"But I found happiness again." He looks at us. "Found love. Found purpose. Built a family that honors your memory instead of being consumed by grief. And I think—I hope—you'd want that for me."

Mila leans against him. "Mama would want you to be happy, Papa. She loved you."

"She did." He wraps an arm around her. "And I loved her. Always will."

"But you love Valerie too," Mila says. "And that's okay. You're allowed to love again."

"Mom, can we put more flowers here?" Mila asks, reaching for the bouquet.

The word stops me cold.

Mom.

She's called me Valerie for almost six years. Sometimes Val. Never Mom.

I look at Lev. He's staring at Mila with an expression I can't quite read.

"Of course, sweetheart," I manage. Voice shaking. "Put as many as you want."

She arranges flowers carefully. Talking to her mother and brother like they can hear her. Telling them about school, about Xander, about our family.

And she keeps calling me Mom. Naturally. Like she's been doing it forever.

When she finishes, she returns to Lev's side. "Is it okay that I call her Mom? I don't want to forget you, Mama. But Valerie... she takes care of me. Loves me. And I love her."

"It's okay," Lev says thickly. "Your mama would understand. She'd want you to have someone who loves you like Valerie does."

We stand there together. A family built from tragedy and survival. Paying respects to those we lost while honoring what we've found.

We walk back to the car in silence. Each processing in our own way.

Xander breaks it. "Papa, why were you crying?"

"Because I miss them. But also because I'm grateful. For them, for what we had. And for what I have now."

"That's a lot of feelings."

"It is." Lev ruffles his hair. "But that's okay. Feelings are important."

At home, there's a car in the driveway I recognize immediately.

Tash.

She's standing on the front steps, designer handbag, and perfectly styled hair.

"There's my favorite family!" She stands as we approach. "Hope you don't mind. I texted Valerie earlier but she never responded."

"Because we were at the cemetery," I explain, pulling her into a hug. "Sorry."

"No worries." She hugs back fiercely. Then pulls back to study me. "You look good. Glowing, actually. Are you—"

"Inside first." I cut her off before she can finish that sentence in front of the kids. "Then we'll talk."

Mila takes Xander inside to play. Lev heads to his office, giving Tash and me space.

In the sitting room, she wastes no time. "You're pregnant again, aren't you?"

"Yes."

She stares. Then bursts into laughter. "Oh my God. Three kids. Valerie, you're insane."

"I'm actually hoping for four."

"I count Mila." She's grinning. "Wow. Little spy who could barely keep her hands steady is now a Bratva wife with four kids. Talk about character development."

"Says the Bratva princess who helped me through all of this."

"True." She pulls me into another hug. "I'm so happy for you, Val. You did it. You actually survived him. Survived this life. And you're thriving."

"We're thriving," I correct. "Lev and I together."

"Together." She echoes. "That's how it should be."

Lev appears with coffee. Sees us hugging and smiling. "Should I be concerned?"

"Only if you're not ready for another baby," Tash says sweetly. "Congratulations, by the way. Valerie told me."

He groans. "Is everyone going to know before we make an official announcement?"

"Probably." I accept the mild tea he offers. "But we're happy. That's what matters."

Tash stays for lunch. Watching our chaos with amusement. Mila and Xander arguing over something trivial. Lev mediating with patience I never thought he possessed.

"You're good at this," she observes quietly. "The family thing. The wife thing. The mom thing."

"I'm learning from experience." I gesture to the chaos. "Though some days I'm just winging it."

"Aren't we all?"

After she leaves, the afternoon unfolds normally. Homework with Mila. Playing with Xander. Dinner preparation. The rhythm of family life that's become second nature.

That night, after the kids are asleep, I find Lev in the nursery.

It's been Xander's room for five years. But standing here, I can see him imagining it differently. Preparing for another baby.

"Planning already?" I ask.

"Maybe." He pulls me close. "We'll need to move Xander to a bigger room. Set this one up for the new baby. Paint. New furniture. All of it."

"We have time."

"I know." He rests his chin on my head. "But I like planning. Like preparing. Makes it feel real."

"It's real." I guide his hand to my stomach. "Very real."

We stand there in the quiet nursery. Preparing for what comes next. Another child. Another chance. Another piece of our future.

Later, in our bedroom, he undresses me slowly.

Not with the desperate need that defined our early relationship. Not with the anger and punishment that came after betrayal.

With love.

Hands reverent on skin he knows better than his own. Kisses that taste like promises. Touch that says I'm cherished.

"You're beautiful," he murmurs. Kneeling before me. Kissing my stomach where our third child grows. "Every single time. You're always beautiful."

"Flattery will get you everywhere."

"Good." He stands. Lifts me. Carries me to bed with care. "Because I plan to get very far tonight."

We make love slowly. Deeply. Connection that goes beyond physical.

He moves inside me with steady rhythm. Watching my face. One hand tangled with mine. The other cradling my head.

"I love you." He says it against my lips. "You gave me back everything, Valerie. Everything that matters."

"I love you too." My free hand slides up his back. Feeling scars from that night. From Patrick's bullets. Badges of survival, not shame. "Always."

The pleasure builds slowly. Intensely. When I come, it's with his name on my lips and silent tears rolling down my face.

He follows immediately. Buries himself deep. Comes with a groan that sounds like relief and gratitude tangled together.

Afterward, we lie tangled in sheets. Both catching our breath. Both smiling in the dark.

"Happy?" I ask for the second time today.

"More than I ever thought possible." He pulls me closer. Tucks me against his chest. "Six years ago, I was drowning. Barely surviving. Going through motions without purpose."

"And now?"

"Now I have everything." His hand finds my stomach. Rests there. Protective. Possessive. Loving. "You. Mila. Xander. This baby. Is a life worth living instead of just enduring."

"No regrets?"

"Not one." He means it. "Every scar was worth it. Every bullet. Every moment of fear. Because we survived. Built something real from the ashes."

I press against him. Safe. Loved. Home.

"We're going to be okay," I whisper. "All of us. We're going to keep building this. Keep growing. Keep loving."

"We are." He kisses my hair. "Because that's what we do. We survive. We fight. We choose each other. Always."

Outside, the world continues. Dangerous. Dark. Full of threats we've learned to navigate.

But inside these walls, we're safe.

Inside this bed, we're whole.

Inside this family, we're everything.

I fall asleep in his arms. Carrying another of his child. Surrounded by love. Protected by the most dangerous man I know.

And I realize something profound.

Six years ago, I walked into Lev Volkov's bathroom with a mop and a mission to destroy him.

Instead, he destroyed me.

Destroyed the scared girl I was. The spy. The victim.

And from those ashes, built the woman I am now.

Strong. Fierce. Free.

A Bratva wife. A mother. A survivor.

We didn't just survive the darkness.

We conquered it.

Made it our own.

Built a family in the heart of it.

Found light where none should exist.

Our children will grow up knowing they're protected. Knowing they're loved fiercely. Knowing that even in the darkest world, light exists.

Because their parents found it.

And refused to let it go.

This is our legacy. Our truth. Our victory.

Not the empire built on blood.

But the family built on love.

The darkness couldn't keep us.

The violence couldn't break us.

The past couldn't hold us.

We survived.

We thrived.

We won.

And our story—this beautiful, broken, impossible story—will continue.

In morning chaos and bedtime stories.

In syrup disasters and scraped knees.

In laughter and tears and all the messy beauty of life.

And we will get through it all together.

Always together.

The End.

Thank you for stepping into Valerie and Lev’s world in Toxic Attraction.

If you found yourself drawn to dangerous men who don’t let go, then turn the page for a sneak peek into Baptized in Blood.

It’s the story of a brilliant doctor who makes one fatal mistake, and the ruthless mafia prince who decides she belongs to him.

He was never supposed to touch her.
Now he refuses to let her go.

Click on the link to start reading: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0GJ5SN9P7

Or flip the page for a sneak peek…

Matvey

The warehouse smells wrong.

Gun oil. Rust. Something metallic I can’t place. I’ve been running deals since I was thirteen years old, hauling crates for my father’s men while my half-brother Kliment learned to tie his fucking shoes. I know when something’s off.

“Matvey.” Lyosha’s voice cuts through the darkness. My second-in-command, my only real friend. “You feel that?”

“Yeah.” I shift my weight, hand drifting to the Glock at my hip. “I feel it.”

The Chechens are late. Twenty minutes late. In our world, that’s a lifetime. That’s enough time to set up an ambush, position snipers, and dig your own grave.

“We should go,” Lyosha mutters.

I’m about to agree when the warehouse doors explode open.

Gunfire erupts from three sides at once. Muzzle flashes light up the darkness like fucking fireworks. I drop low, return fire, and put two rounds center mass in the closest shooter. He goes down hard.

Lyosha moves like water, all brutal efficiency. He was Spetsnaz before the Bratva. Special forces. The man knows how to kill.

So do I.

I learned in the servant quarters of my father’s mansion, where bastard sons get beaten into submission or forged into weapons. I chose the latter. Spent fifteen years on the front lines while Kliment played prince in his ivory tower.

A bullet whines past my ear. Too close. I pivot, squeeze the trigger three times. Headshot. The shooter drops.

“Behind you!” Lyosha’s warning comes half a second too late.

I spin, but the blade’s already coming. The attacker lunges with a combat knife, aiming for my throat. I’m going to be too slow.

Then Lyosha’s there, throwing himself between us. The knife punches into his gut with a wet, terrible sound.

Something breaks inside my chest.

I grab the attacker’s head with both hands and twist. His neck snaps like kindling. He’s dead before he hits the ground.

“Lyosha.” I catch my friend as he staggers. Blood pours between his fingers where he’s clutching his stomach. Too much blood. “You stupid fucking idiot.”

“Couldn’t let... him kill you.” His face is gray. Shock setting in fast.

The gunfire’s dying down. My men are handling the rest. I count seven bodies scattered across the warehouse floor. Not ours. Theirs.

This was a setup. Someone wanted me dead.

I’ll find out who later. Right now, Lyosha’s bleeding out in my arms.

“Stay with me.” I haul him up, slinging his arm over my shoulders. He’s six-two and solid muscle. Deadweight. “Don’t you fucking die on me.”

He doesn’t answer. His head lolls forward.

I half-drag, half-carry him to the SUV. My hands are slick with his blood. It’s everywhere. On my clothes, on my face, pooling on the leather seats as I lay him down.

I drive like a demon through the streets of New York. Run three red lights. Don’t give a fuck about the speed limit. Lyosha’s breathing is shallow, rattling. Every second counts.

The clinic is in Brighton Beach, tucked between a pawn shop and a bakery. Bratva-owned, Bratva-run. No questions asked, no police involved.

I screech to a stop outside, throw open the back door, and grab Lyosha. He’s almost unconscious now. Not good. His skin’s cold and clammy.

I kick open the clinic door hard enough to crack the frame. “I need a doctor! Now!”

The waiting room’s empty except for one of our usual nurses, who takes one look at Lyosha and runs for the back.

Then she appears.

Young. Maybe mid-twenties. Dark blonde hair pulled into a ponytail, green eyes wide behind wire-rimmed glasses. She’s wearing scrubs and holding a fucking clipboard like this is a normal hospital, and Lyosha’s a normal patient.

“Sir, you need to fill out intake forms.” Her voice shakes, but she stands her ground. “And if this is a stabbing, I’m legally required to report it to the police.”

I stare at her. Actually stare. Because I’m covered in blood, holding my dying friend, and this woman wants paperwork.

“Get out of my way.”

“I can’t let you through without proper documentation.” She clutches the clipboard tighter. Her hands are shaking. “And I need to call the authorities about this injury.”

Something in my brain just... snaps.

I pull my Glock, thumb back the hammer, and press the barrel to her temple.

She goes absolutely still. I can see her pulse hammering in her throat. Smell the fear on her skin. But she doesn’t cry. Doesn’t scream. Those green eyes stay locked on mine.

“You have sixty seconds to save my friend’s life.” My voice is dead calm. The voice I use before I kill people. “Or I redecorate this clinic with your brains. Your choice, doctor.”

Her jaw clenches. For one insane second, I think she’s going to refuse. Going to stand there with my gun to her head and lecture me about hospital protocol.

Then she drops the clipboard.

“Exam room three. Now.” She moves past me, all brisk efficiency. “You, get him on the table. Someone prep the OR and call anesthesia.”

I follow her, Lyosha still in my arms. She’s already scrubbing her hands at the sink, barking orders at the nurses scrambling to help.

“Vitals?” she demands.

“BP’s dropping. Pulse thready at 120. Respiration shallow.”

She moves to Lyosha’s side, cuts away his blood-soaked shirt with surgical scissors. Her hands are steady now. All business. “Penetrating abdominal trauma. Likely nicked the hepatic artery based on blood loss. We need to move fast.”

I don’t holster my gun. I stand there in the doorway, Glock still in hand, watching her work.

She looks up at me. Those green eyes are sharp, focused. Completely unafraid now that she’s in her element.

“You can shoot me after I save him,” she says. “But right now, get the hell out of my operating room.”

The nurse looks at her, surprised, then at me with concern. I stay silent.

“I’m watching.” I move to the observation window, keeping my gun visible. A reminder. A promise.

She holds my gaze for a long moment. Then nods once and turns back to Lyosha.

“Let’s go. I want him intubated and prepped for emergency laparotomy. We’ve got maybe thirty minutes before he bleeds out completely.”

They wheel him toward the operating room. I follow, take up position in the observation gallery. The window gives me a perfect view. I press one hand against the glass, leaving a bloody handprint.

Below, the doctor’s already gowned and gloved. She positions herself at the table, scalpel in hand.

I watch her make the first incision.

My finger stays on the trigger.

If Lyosha dies, so does she.

Three hours.

Three fucking hours I stand here, watching this woman I’ve never seen before work to save my best friend’s life.

She’s good. Scary good. Her hands move with precision, no wasted motion. She calls out instructions in medical jargon I don’t understand, but I can see the results. The bleeding slows. Lyosha’s vitals stabilize on the monitors.

She’s fighting death itself, and she’s winning.

Around hour two, she glances up at the observation window. Finds me still there, still watching. Our eyes lock through the glass.

She doesn’t flinch. Just goes back to work.

I like that about her. The steel under all that fear.

Finally, she’s stitching him closed. The monitors show steady vitals. Color’s coming back to Lyosha’s face.

He’s going to live.

The tension drains from my shoulders. I didn’t realize how tightly I was wound until this moment. My best friend, my only friend, nearly died protecting me.

I’ll find out who set up that ambush. And I’ll make them suffer in ways that’ll become legend.

The doctor strips off her gloves, says something to the nurses, and disappears through a side door.

I holster my Glock and head downstairs.

She’s in the hallway, leaning against the wall, still in her surgical gown. There’s blood spattered on her sleeve. Lyosha’s blood. Her face is pale, exhausted.

When she sees me, she straightens. Tries to look brave.

I cross the space between us in three strides. Grab her by the throat. Slam her against the wall hard enough to knock the breath from her lungs.

She gasps, hands coming up to claw at my wrist. But I’m not choking her. Just holding her there, making her look at me.

“Who the fuck are you?” I demand. “Who hired you?”

“I... I don’t...” She can barely get the words out. “I applied... after Dr. Orlov died...”

“Orlov’s been dead three months.”

“I know. I applied for... for the position. Got hired two weeks ago.” Her voice is shaking now. “Please, I can’t breathe.”

I ease up slightly. Let her suck in air. But I don’t let go.

“Show me your paperwork. Now.”

She squeaks for a nurse to fetch it from the desk drawer in her office. I grab the paper as soon as the nurse returns with it and quickly scan it.

Employment offer. Signed by Kliment Zlobin.

My brother.

The incompetent, pampered piece of shit who’s never done a single useful thing in his entire worthless life.

I start laughing. The sound’s harsh, bitter, completely devoid of humor.

“Wrong fucking Daria,” I mutter.

“What?” Her eyes are huge, confused.

I pull out my phone, dial my father’s private line. He answers on the second ring.

“It’s done?” Arseni’s voice is cold, expectant.

“Lyosha’s alive. No thanks to your intelligence.” I switch to Russian, watching the doctor’s face as I speak. She doesn’t understand a word. “But we have a problem. Kliment hired the wrong doctor.”

Silence. Then: “Explain.”

“He hired Dr. Daria Tsaryov. Trauma surgeon, twenty-six, civilian.” I eye the woman in front of me. She’s still pinned to the wall, barely breathing. “Not Darla Tsaryov. The one who grew up in the organization.”

More silence. Colder this time. “Bring her to the house. We’ll handle it.”

He hangs up.

I look at the doctor. Really look at her. Dark blonde hair falling out of its ponytail. Green eyes full of terror and confusion. Delicate features, soft skin.

She saved Lyosha’s life.

She stood up to me with a gun to her head.

Something dark and possessive unfurls in my chest.

“You’re coming with me,” I tell her.

“I... what? No. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“That wasn’t a request.”

I release her throat, grab her arm instead. Start dragging her toward the exit.

“Wait! Stop!” She tries to dig her heels in. “You can’t just kidnap me! I’ll scream! I’ll call the police!”

“Go ahead. Scream.” I keep walking, pulling her along like she weighs nothing. “See who comes to help you.”

She looks around wildly. The nurses, the security guards, everyone who works here, they all look away. They know better than to interfere with me.

She starts fighting then. Really fighting. Kicking, clawing, trying to bite me.

I spin her around, throw her over my shoulder in one smooth motion. She screams, beats her fists against my back. I ignore it.

“Put me down! You psychotic piece of shit! Put me down right now!”

I carry her out to the SUV, toss her into the back seat. She scrambles for the door handle but I’m already sliding in beside her, locking it with the child safety feature.

“Drive,” I tell my driver.

The engine starts. We pull away from the clinic.

The doctor stares at me, chest heaving, eyes bright with fury and fear.

“What are you going to do to me?”

I study her for a long moment. This woman who saved my friend. This woman my idiot brother hired by mistake. This woman I’m about to deliver to my father, who will absolutely order her death.

“I don’t know yet,” I say honestly.

And I realize with cold certainty that I’m not ready to let anyone else decide her fate.

Not even my father.

She’s mine now.

Matvey

“Let me go, you fucking lunatic!”

Daria’s elbow connects with my ribs. Hard. For a doctor, she fights dirty.

I tighten my grip on her arm as I drag her up the marble steps of my father’s mansion. She’s kicking, scratching, biting. A wildcat in scrubs. Security doesn’t even blink as I haul her past them.

“Keep struggling.” My voice is low, dangerous. “See where it gets you.”

She sinks her teeth into my forearm. I feel skin break.

The pain makes something dark and hungry coil in my chest. I grab a fistful of her hair, yank her head back. Her throat’s exposed. Pale. Delicate. I could snap her neck with one hand.

“Do that again,” I growl against her ear, “and I’ll show you what I do to people who bite me.”

“Fuck you.”

I laugh. Actually laugh. Because this woman has no idea where I’m taking her or what’s about to happen, and she’s still got that fire in her eyes.

She’s got balls.

I kick open the door to my father’s study.

Arseni Zlobin sits behind his massive oak desk like a king on a throne. Sixty-five years old, cold as Siberian winter, ruthless enough to build an empire on blood and fear. My father. The man who raised me in servant quarters, while my half-brother Kliment got a princely childhood.

Kliment’s here too. Sprawled in a leather chair, cognac in hand, looking bored. Twenty-eight years old, pampered, useless. The golden heir who’s never gotten his hands dirty.

I drop Daria on the Persian rug between them.

She hits the floor hard, gasps. But she’s already scrambling to her feet, backing away from me.

“Matvey.” Arseni’s voice could freeze vodka. “What is this?”

I pull the hiring paperwork from my pocket, throw it on his desk. “Ask your heir.”

Kliment sits up straighter. Something like worry flickers across his pretty-boy face.

Arseni picks up the paper, scans it. His expression doesn’t change but the temperature in the room drops ten degrees.

“Dr. Daria Tsaryov.” He looks at Daria. Then at Kliment. “You were supposed to hire Darla Tsaryova.”

“I did hire a Dr. Tsaryov.” Kliment’s already making excuses. “The application said D. Tsaryov, medical degree, excellent references.”

“Darla Tsaryova,” Arseni repeats slowly, “grew up in the organization. Her father was Orlov. She knows our world. She can be trusted.” He gestures to Daria with cold precision. “This is not Darla Tsaryova.”

“It’s an honest mistake. Similar names. I didn’t realize there were two Dr. Tsaryovs in New York.”

I lean against the wall, arms crossed, watching my brother squirm. This is better than I expected. Kliment fucked up. Again. And this time, it’s in front of our father.

Dark satisfaction settles in my chest.

“The cabinet members are arriving in an hour,” Arseni says quietly. Too quietly. “They were expecting to meet our new doctor. The one who grew up in our world. The one who understands loyalty and silence.” He looks at Daria. “Instead, they will see that my heir cannot complete a simple hiring task without catastrophic error.”

Kliment goes pale. “Father, I can fix this.”

“Can you?” Arseni stands. He’s not a large man, but he fills the room with menace. “Can you undo the fact that this woman has seen our clinic? Treated our men? Knows what we are, and seen faces that even the authorities do not know belong to our organization?”

Daria’s breathing fast. She’s backed herself into a corner, pressed against the bookshelf. Her eyes dart between all of us.

She’s smart enough to realize she’s in serious trouble.

“I won’t tell anyone anything,” she says. Her voice shakes, but she keeps talking. “I don’t even know what I saw. I’ll forget everything. I’ll disappear. You’ll never see me again.”

Arseni looks at her the way you’d look at an insect. “You’ve seen my world. You performed emergency surgery on my Bratva member. You’ve seen Matvey’s face. You’ve seen my face.” He turns to me. “Handle it.”

Two words.

Code for: kill her and dump the body.

I look at Daria. She’s terrified now. Really terrified. But there’s still that fire in her green eyes. Still, that defiance in the set of her jaw.

She saved Lyosha’s life.

She stood up to me with a gun to her head.

She bit me.

Something possessive and dark wraps around my spine.

“I’ll take care of it personally,” I hear myself say. “My way.”

Arseni’s eyes narrow. “Your way.”

“Yes.”

Silence stretches between us. My father’s studying me, reading me the way he’s been reading people for forty years. He knows I’m not agreeing to a simple execution.

“Fine.” He sits back down and dismisses me with a wave. “But make it clean. I don’t want complications.”

Kliment smirks. He thinks he knows what’s coming. Thinks I’m going to put a bullet in her brain and toss her in the river.

My brother’s an idiot.

I grab Daria’s arm again. She fights me, but I’m already hauling her toward the door.

“No! Wait!” She claws at my hand. “Please! I’m a doctor! I save lives! You can’t just kill me!”

“Watch me,” I say.

I drag her out of the study, down the hallway. She’s screaming now. Full-volume screaming. The house staff looks away. They know better than to interfere.

“Someone help me! Please! He’s going to kill me!”

No one moves.

Welcome to my world, doctor.

I get her outside, throw her in the SUV. She scrambles for the door but I’m faster. Climb in beside her, lock it.

“Drive,” I tell my driver.

The engine starts.

Daria stares at me. Her face is white. Hands shaking. But those eyes are still furious.

“Where are you taking me?”

“My place.”

“To kill me?”

“If I wanted you dead,” I say slowly, “you’d already be dead.”

“Then what do you want?”

Good question.

I want to know why Kliment’s incompetence keeps getting rewarded while my loyalty gets me nothing. I want to know who set up that ambush tonight. I want to know why this woman makes something dark and hungry wake up inside me.

But I don’t say any of that.

Instead, I lean back and spread my arms across the seat. Let my size fill the space. She’s trapped between me and the door. Nowhere to run.

“You’re in debt to me,” I tell her. “You saw things you shouldn’t have seen. You know things you shouldn’t know. That makes you a liability.”

“I told you, I won’t say anything.”

“Everyone says that. Right up until the FBI offers them witness protection.”

“I’m a doctor. I took an oath. Patient confidentiality means something to me.”

I laugh. Cold. Harsh. “Your oath means shit in my world.”

She flinches but doesn’t look away. “Then why didn’t you let your father kill me? Why bring me to your place instead?”

Because you’re mine now.

The thought comes unbidden. Possessive. Insane.

I’ve known this woman for four hours. Four hours of watching her save my best friend’s life with steady hands and fierce determination. Four hours of seeing her stand up to men with guns. Four hours of wanting to see what else she’s capable of.

“You’re useful,” I say instead. “Lyosha’s alive because of you. My men get hurt. A lot. We need a doctor who can keep her mouth shut and her hands steady.”

“You want me to work for you.”

“I want you to belong to me.”

The words hang in the air between us.

Her eyes go wide. “Belong to you? Like I’m some property?”

“In my world, everyone’s property. The only question is whose.” I lean forward, invade her space. She presses back against the door, but there’s nowhere to go. “You can belong to me, or you can belong to the morgue. Choose.”

“That’s not a choice.”

“It’s the only choice you’re getting.”

She’s breathing fast. I can see her pulse hammering in her throat. Smell the fear on her skin mixed with something else. Antiseptic. Blood. The surgery she performed.

“What if I refuse?” Her voice is barely a whisper.

“Then I take you back to my father and let him handle it his way.” I tilt my head. “How do you think that ends for you, Doc?”

Her jaw clenches. She knows exactly how it ends.

“So my options are work for you or die.”

“Yes.”

“And if I work for you, what does that mean? What do you expect?”

“You treat my men. No questions asked. You keep your mouth shut about everything you see and hear. You do exactly what I tell you, when I tell you.” I let my gaze drift down her body. The scrubs are wrinkled, blood-stained. But I can see the curves underneath. Delicate. Breakable. “And you stay where I can see you.”

“You’re talking about kidnapping me.”

“I’m talking about keeping you alive.”

“By making me a prisoner.”

“Call it what you want.”

She’s quiet for a long moment. I can see her brain working. Calculating. Looking for a way out.

There isn’t one.

“How long?” she finally asks.

“How long what?”

“How long would I have to work for you? A month? A year?”

I smile. No warmth in it. “As long as I want you.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only answer you’re getting.”

The SUV pulls up to my building. Forty-story high-rise in Manhattan. The top three floors are mine. Bulletproof windows, reinforced doors, enough security to make Fort Knox jealous.

“We’re here,” my driver announces.

Daria looks at the building, then back at me. I can see the moment she considers running. Weighs her chances.

“Don’t,” I warn.

“Don’t what?”

“Whatever you’re thinking about doing. Don’t.” I open my door, step out, and hold out my hand. “Come on, doctor. Let’s see your new home.”

She doesn’t take my hand. Instead, she climbs out on her own. Stubborn. Defiant.

I’m starting to like that about her.

We walk through the lobby. The doorman nods to me, doesn’t even glance at Daria. Trained not to see things. Not to ask questions.

The elevator ride is silent. She stands as far from me as possible in the enclosed space. Arms crossed. Chin up.

Trying to look brave.

When the doors open on my floor, I gesture for her to go first. She hesitates, then steps out into the penthouse.

It’s all dark wood, leather furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. My fortress. My kingdom.

She walks to the windows, looks out at the lights of New York spread below us.

“It’s beautiful,” she says quietly.

“I’m glad you like your new cage.”

She turns to look at me. “My cage?”

“Our cage.” I cross to the bar, pour two fingers of vodka. Down it in one swallow. Pour another. “You’re stuck with me, doctor. Better get used to it.”

“I don’t even know your name.”

“Matvey.”

“Matvey what?”

“Zlobin.”

Recognition flashes across her face. She heard the servant announce us to the senior Mr. Zlobin when we first arrived. “Zlobin. Like the man in the study.”

“My father.”

“So you’re...”

“Bratva royalty?” I laugh bitterly. “No. I’m the bastard son. The illegitimate mistake he kept around because I’m useful.” I gesture to the penthouse. “This is my reward for fifteen years of loyal service. A nice apartment and the scraps from my brother’s table.”

She’s quiet. Processing.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“You dragged me here, and you don’t even know my name?”

“I know it’s Daria Tsaryov. I want to hear you say it.”

She lifts her chin. “Dr. Daria Tsaryov.”

“Not anymore. Here, you’re Daria. My doctor. My responsibility.” I down the second vodka. “My problem.”

“Glad to know I’m such an inconvenience.”

“You have no idea.”

She turns back to the window. I can see her reflection in the glass. The exhaustion in her face. The fear she’s trying to hide.

“I thought I had landed my dream job,” she says softly. “I worked my whole life for that position.”

“Should’ve been more careful about which clinic you applied to.”

“Should’ve been more careful about a lot of things.” She touches the glass. “My father’s going to worry when I don’t come home.”

“Your father’s Dr. Boleslaw Tsaryov?”

Her head snaps around. “How do you know that?”

“I know everything about you, doctor. Where you grew up. Where you went to school. Where you live. Who you love.” I smile. Cruel. “I had you investigated the second we left my father.”

“You had me investigated in thirty minutes?”

“I have resources.”

She wraps her arms around herself. Defensive. Scared. “What else do you know?”

“I know you were a child genius, accelerated study, graduated as the youngest and top of your class. I know you have student loans that’ll take twenty years to pay off. I know you broke up with your boyfriend six months ago because he wanted you to quit medicine and have babies.” I move closer. She doesn’t back away this time. “I know you’re brilliant, stubborn, and brave enough to threaten a man holding a gun. I know you saved my best friend’s life when you could’ve let him die.”

“I took an oath.”

“You did more than that. You looked me in the eye and told me to get the hell out of your operating room.” I’m close enough now to smell her. Blood and fear and something sweet underneath. “No one talks to me that way and lives.”

“So why am I still alive?”

Because you’re magnificent, and I want to keep you.

But I don’t say that. Instead, I step back. Give her space.

“You’re alive because you’re useful. Stay useful, stay alive. It’s that simple.”

“Nothing about this is simple.”

“No,” I agree. “It’s not.”

She looks around the penthouse. Taking in the security cameras, the reinforced door, the windows that don’t open.

“Where do I sleep?”

“Guest room. Down the hall. Second door on the left.”

“And if I try to leave?”

“You won’t make it to the elevator.”

“What if I scream? Call for help?”

“These walls are soundproof. And everyone in this building knows better than to interfere with my business.” I meet her eyes. “You’re mine now, Daria. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be.”

“I’m not yours. I’m not anyone’s.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

She walks past me, heading for the guest room. Stops at the doorway. Turns back.

“I hate you,” she says.

“Good. Hate keeps you sharp.”

She disappears into the room. I hear the door close. The lock clicks.

I smile.

She thinks that lock will keep me out?

Adorable.

I pour another vodka, settle into my chair. Pull up the security feed on my phone. The guest room camera shows Daria pacing. She’s checking the windows, testing them. Smart girl.

They’re bulletproof and sealed shut.

After ten minutes, she sits on the bed. Drops her head in her hands.

She’s not crying. I’m watching for it. But her shoulders don’t shake. She sits there for a long moment, then looks up at the camera, and proceeds to flip me off.

I laugh out loud.

This woman’s going to be trouble.

I can’t fucking wait.

Daria

I cry for exactly ten minutes.

Ten minutes of breaking down completely. Sobbing into the pillow, shaking, letting the terror and shock crash over me like a wave.

Then I stop.

Because crying won’t save me.

I sit up, wipe my face, force myself to breathe. To think.

I’m a trauma surgeon. I’ve handled gunshot wounds, stabbings, horrific car accidents. I’ve made life-or-death decisions in seconds. I can handle this.

I need to survive, which means I must understand my captor. After all, I wasn’t a child prodigy by thinking like everyone else. By the age of ten, I was doing advanced math, but chemistry and biology fascinated me the most.

I didn't go through med school as the youngest student the department had seen in decades, only to end up as a captive.

I look around the guest room. It’s nicer than my entire apartment. King-sized bed, attached bathroom, expensive furniture. But the windows don’t open, and there’s a camera in the corner watching me.

I flipped it off earlier. Felt good.

Now I’m thinking strategically.

Matvey Zlobin. Bastard son. Bratva enforcer. The man who put a gun to my head and told me I had sixty seconds to save his friend.

The man who’s keeping me prisoner.

I need leverage. Information. Something I can use to negotiate my way out of this nightmare.

The lock on the door is simple. Old-fashioned. I checked it thoroughly after I locked myself in. It’ll keep him out if he doesn’t want to break down the door.

I wait until four in the morning. The penthouse has been silent for hours, meaning the beast is sleeping.

Time to move.

I open the door. The hallway’s dark when I slip out. Cold marble under my bare feet. I left my shoes in the room because it’s quieter this way.

My heart’s hammering so hard I’m sure he can hear it through the walls.

The penthouse is massive. Dark wood and leather furniture. Weapons mounted on the walls like twisted art. Everything screams money and violence.

I move slowly, carefully. Every shadow could be him.

I find his office at the end of the corridor. The door’s unlocked.

Arrogant bastard.

I slip inside, ease the door closed behind me, and wait for my eyes to adjust to the darkness.

The room is huge, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a view of the city skyline, and a massive desk that probably costs more than my medical school scholarship and debt combined. Filing cabinets line one wall.

This is it. This is where I’ll find my own leverage.

I cross to the desk and start rifling through papers as quietly as possible. Most of it’s in Russian. Cyrillic alphabet I never bothered to learn to read. But there are names. Numbers. Addresses.

I pull out my phone that he never bothered to take, as he knew I wouldn’t risk anyone’s life by calling them for help, and snap photos of anything that looks important. The camera makes a soft click with each shot. Too loud. Every sound feels deafening.

My hands are trembling, but I make myself keep them steady.

In the third drawer down, I find something in English. A ledger. Names, dates, amounts. Money laundering, probably. Or weapons deals.

Evidence.

This could be my ticket out. If I can get this to the police, the FBI, someone.

“Looking for something?”

I freeze.

Every muscle in my body locks up. Ice floods my veins.

The lights flick on, blinding after the darkness.

Matvey’s leaning against the doorframe. He’s shirtless, wearing only gray sweatpants that hang dangerously low on his hips. His body is a roadmap of violence. Scars everywhere. Bullet wounds, knife marks, burns. Tattoos covering his chest and arms. Prison tattoos. Stars on his shoulders, a cathedral on his ribs, skulls and Cyrillic script I can’t read.

He’s massive. Six-four, at least two-twenty of pure muscle and malice.

And he’s looking at me like a predator that just found prey in his den.

“I was...” My voice comes out wrong. Too high. Too scared.

“You were snooping.” He pushes off the doorframe, starts walking toward me. Slow. Deliberate. Each step is measured, controlled. “After I specifically told you to stay in your room.”

“You said I belonged to you. Figured I should know who owns me.”

He stops. Something flickers in those cold gray eyes. Amusement? Appreciation?

“Smart,” he says. “Stupid, but smart.”

I back up. My hip hits the desk.

Fuck, nowhere to go.

He keeps coming.

“You should really upgrade your security if you’re going to keep prisoners.”

“I don’t keep prisoners.” He’s close now. Too close. I can smell him. Leather and gunpowder and something darker underneath. “I keep possessions.”

“I’m not your possession.”

“Then what are you doing in my office at four in the morning, going through my files?”

“Research.”

“Research.” He’s right in front of me now. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to look at him. “What did you find?”

“Nothing I could read. Most of it’s in Russian.”

“But you took pictures.” He holds out his hand. “Phone.”

“No.”

His eyes go dark. Dangerous. “That wasn’t a request.”

“I don’t care.”

We stare at each other. The air between us crackles with tension. Violence. Something else I don’t want to name.

“You’ve got balls, Doc.” His voice drops lower. Rougher. “Breaking into my office. Stealing information. Refusing a direct order.” He leans in, braces one hand on the desk beside me. Caging me in. “Do you have a death wish?”

“Do you have a God complex?”

“Yes.”

The honesty startles me. I blink.

He smiles. No warmth in it. All predator. “I’ve killed men for less than what you’re doing right now. Tortured them for days. Made them beg.”

“Then why haven’t you killed me?”

“Because you’re more interesting alive.”

His other hand comes up, plucks my phone from my fingers before I can react. He’s fast. Too fast for someone his size.

I grab for it. “Give that back!”

He holds it up, out of my reach. Scrolls through the photos I took with his thumb. His expression doesn’t change but I see his jaw tighten.

“This is what you wanted? Evidence?” He looks down at me. “Planning to go to the police? The FBI? Be a hero?”

“Planning to survive.”

“This won’t help you survive. This will get you killed.” He pockets my phone. “By me, if I’m merciful. By my father’s men if I’m not.”

“So what do you suggest I do? Sit in that room and wait for you to decide my fate?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not who I am.”

“Then who are you, Daria?”

The question catches me off guard. The way he says my name. Low. Almost gentle.

“I’m a smart person who doesn’t give up,” I say. “I’m someone who fights. Someone who thinks of ways to solve problems. Especially complex problem.”

“I noticed.” He shifts closer. His body’s almost touching mine now. I’m pressed back against the desk, trapped between wood and muscle. “You fought me in the clinic. Fought me in the car. Bit me for no reason. Now you’re in my office, stealing my secrets.” His hand comes up, fingers gripping my chin. Forcing me to look at him. “You’re either very brave or very stupid.”

“Can’t I be both?”

That surprises a laugh out of him. Short. Sharp. “Yeah. You can be both.”

His thumb brushes across my lower lip. The touch sends electricity down my spine. I hate that I feel it. Hate that my body responds to him.

He’s a monster. A killer. The man who kidnapped me.

But he’s also beautiful in a brutal way. All hard edges and lethal grace. Those cold gray eyes that see everything. The scars that tell stories of survival.

I shouldn’t be attracted to him.

I definitely shouldn’t feel heat pooling low in my belly when he touches me.

“What are you going to do to me?” I whisper.

“That depends.” His other hand lands on my waist. Heavy. Possessive. “Are you going to keep pushing me?”

“Probably.”

“Then I’m going to have to push back.”

He moves fast. Spins me around, presses me face-first against the desk. His body covers mine completely. I’m pinned. Helpless.

I should be terrified.

Instead, I feel something else. Something hot and dangerous and wrong.

“Feel that?” His voice is rough against my ear. His hips press forward, and I feel him. Hard. Thick. Pressing against me through the thin fabric of my scrubs. “That’s what you do to me. Walking around my penthouse in those fucking scrubs. Looking at me with those defiant eyes. Biting me. Fighting me.”

I can’t breathe. Can’t think. His body is everywhere. Hot and solid and overwhelming.

“I’m not...” My voice shakes. “I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re doing everything.” His hand slides up my side, over my ribs, stopping just below my breast. “You’re making me want things I shouldn’t want. Making me think about keeping you for reasons that have nothing to do with usefulness.”

“Let me go.”

“No.”

“Matvey.”

“Say my name again.”

I don’t know why I do it. Don’t know what possesses me. But I turn my head, look at him over my shoulder. “Matvey.”

His pupils dilate. His grip tightens on my waist.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, doctor.”

“I’m not playing anything. You’re the one who dragged me here. Who’s keeping me prisoner. Who’s pressing his hard cock against me while threatening to kill me.”

His laugh is dark. Wicked. “You think this is a threat? This is a warning.” He grinds against me once. I bite back a sound. “I want you. I’ve wanted to fuck you since you told me to get the hell out of your operating room. Since you stood there covered in Lyosha’s blood and saved his life with a gun to your head.”

“That’s insane.”

“Welcome to my world.”

He pulls back suddenly. The loss of his body heat makes me shiver.

I turn around slowly. He’s standing there, chest heaving, fists clenched at his sides. Fighting for control.

“Go back to your room,” he says. Voice rough. Strained.

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll bend you over this desk and show you exactly what happens when you push me too far.”

The threat should terrify me. Instead, heat floods my body. My thighs clench together involuntarily.

His eyes track the movement. He sees it. Knows.

“Go,” he growls. “Now. Before I do something we’ll both regret.”

I move. Push past him. My legs are shaking.

I make it to the hallway before he speaks again.

“Daria.”

I stop. Don’t turn around.

“The next time I catch you doing something you shouldn’t,” his voice follows me through the darkness, “I won’t be so gentle.”

I practically run back to the guest room. Lock the door. Lean against it.

My hands are trembling. My whole body is trembling.

What the hell is wrong with me?

He’s a monster. A killer. He threatened to kill me multiple times tonight.

And I wanted him.

When he pressed against me, when I felt how hard he was, part of me wanted him to follow through on that threat. Wanted him to bend me over that desk and take what he wanted.

I slide down to the floor, wrap my arms around my knees.

I’m in serious trouble.

And not the kind I can think my way out of.

Because the most dangerous thing in this penthouse isn’t Matvey’s violence or his power or the Bratva watching from the shadows.

It’s the way my body responds to him.

The way part of me wants to see what happens if I push him again.

I close my eyes, try to slow my racing heart.

Sleep doesn’t come.

When dawn breaks through the windows, I’m still sitting on the floor. Still thinking about the feel of his body against mine.

Still wondering what would have happened if I hadn’t left that office.

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