Kira

Present Day

The crystal paperweight shatters against the mahogany paneling with a satisfying crack, exploding into a thousand glittering shards that rain down on my father’s expensive Persian rug. I’m already reaching for the next thing—a heavy marble bookend—before the last piece of glass settles.

“You had no right!” My voice comes out raw, shredded by the fury clawing up my throat. “No. Fucking. Right.”

My father doesn’t even flinch. He stands behind his desk like a monument to cowardice, his face pale but set in that infuriating mask of resigned determination I’ve come to hate over the past six years. The same expression he wore when he let me push him from power. When he watched me rebuild our family’s reputation from the ashes of his failures.

Now he has the nerve to stand there and look like he has power.

I hate the man. I have no respect for him. He’s a coward. The worst kind of man in my opinion.

“Kira, please—”

“Don’t.” I hurl the bookend. It flies past his head, thrown intentionally wide, though he doesn’t know that—and punches a hole in the wall behind him. “Don’t you dare tell me to calm down. Don’t you dare tell me this is for the best. You sold her! You sold Anya like she’s nothing more than—”

“I sold nothing.” His voice rises to match mine. For a moment I see a flash of the man he used to be. Before the gambling. Before the debts that nearly destroyed us. “I made a business arrangement. One that will secure both my daughters’ futures.”

“Your daughters.” My laugh is bitter enough to corrode steel. “Is that what we are? Because last I checked, I’ve been running this organization for six years while you sat in this office pretending you still matter. I built everything we have now. Me. Not you. I made it possible for you to have all these nice things. Your expensive suit. The rug. The—” I look around for something else to throw. “This vase!”

“Kira, stop.”

I stalk toward his desk, my Louboutins crunching over broken glass. The sound is vicious and satisfying. Everything in me wants to reach across that polished wood and wrap my hands around his throat. Watch his face turn purple. Make him understand exactly what he’s done.

But I don’t. Because I’m the Ice Queen. Because I’ve spent six years learning that rage is useless unless it’s cold and controlled and sharp enough to cut. I sacrificed everything to rebuild our lives. I gave up on everything I loved to pull our family name from the gutter where he so carelessly left it.

I plant my palms on his desk and lean forward, letting him see the full weight of my fury in my eyes. “Tell me you didn’t agree to this. Tell me Roman is lying.”

My father’s gaze slides away. That’s all the answer I need.

“Get out.” The words come out quiet. “Get the fuck out of my sight before I do something we’ll both regret.”

He hesitates, opens his mouth like he wants to argue, then apparently thinks better of it. Smart man. For once.

The door clicks shut behind him, and I’m alone with the wreckage of my control.

It’s his desk. His office.

But that’s all for show.

This is all mine.

Two hours later, I’m in my office on the top floor of the building I purchased three years ago—the one with views of the Moscow skyline that remind me every day how far I’ve climbed—and the rage has crystallized into something colder. Sharper.

My reflection stares back at me from the floor-to-ceiling windows. Kira Markov. Twenty-four years old. The Ice Queen of Moscow’s underworld, they call me. Beautiful, untouchable, absolutely deadly when crossed.

My enemies fear me. I’m ruthless. Some say I have a death wish.

They’re wrong. I don’t want to die. I want all of them to die.

Beyond the ice is the young woman I used to be.

I barely recognize her anymore.

The girl who used to laugh, who used to dream about lazy Sunday mornings with the man she loved and holding their children in her arms.

That girl died six years ago.

I shake off the thought before it can take root. Maksim is dead. Has been dead for six years. Mourning him won’t change what I have to do now.

My phone buzzes. A text from Roman’s number.

Princess. He knows I hate that. Knows it reminds me of what I was before—a pawn in my father’s failing empire. He thought he could control me. He thought he could move me around like a pawn on a chessboard.

Fool.

I pour myself three fingers of vodka—the good stuff, Ukrainian, imported at criminal expense—and move to stand at the windows. Moscow spreads out below me like a jeweled web. Danger lurks in every corner. Somewhere down there, my sister Anya is probably in her studio, painting something beautiful and useless while she dreams about the future.

A future that Roman Belsky wants to steal from her.

The vodka burns going down. I welcome it.

Roman’s ultimatum plays on repeat in my head. Marry me, or I take your sister instead.

Three months ago, when he first proposed, I laughed in his face. Roman Belsky—forty-two years old, three dead wives, and a reputation for cruelty that makes even hardened bratva soldiers nervous. He’s been circling me for the past year, making offers, applying pressure, systematically cutting off my options like a hunter backing prey into a corner.

I thought I could handle him. Thought I’d built enough power, forged enough alliances, created enough value that he wouldn’t dare try to force my hand.

I was wrong.

The truth sits in my stomach like lead. Roman orchestrated all of it. Every setback over the past six months, every ally who suddenly became unavailable and every deal that fell through at the last moment could all be traced back to him. He’s been playing a longer game than I realized, and now he’s made his final move.

Marry me, or I take Anya.

And my fucking father agreed to let him have Anya.

My father knows better. But he did it anyway. Someone dangles a shiny object in front of him and he’ll roll over like a dog.

My phone buzzes again. This time it’s a photo. Anya, leaving her art class, completely unaware of the two men following her at a distance. The message is clear. He can reach her anytime he wants.

The glass in my hand cracks. I look down to find I’ve been gripping it hard enough to fracture the crystal. Blood wells up from a small cut on my palm, bright red against my pale skin. I smear the blood down my palm and over the black ink on my wrist.

I should have seen this coming. Should have known Roman would find the one leverage point I couldn’t protect through strategy or violence. Because for all my reputation, all my carefully cultivated power, I have exactly one weakness.

Anya.

And he found it.
I would burn the world to ash before I let anyone hurt my baby sister. She is being targeted because I removed myself as an option. I refused to be a pawn on the chessboard I’m controlling.

No one has dared to make a move against me—until now.

The office door opens without a knock. Only three people would dare.

Alina. My best friend since childhood, one of the few people I trust completely. She’s carrying two cups of coffee and takes one look at me—bloody hand and the rage probably still radiating off me in waves—and stops dead in her tracks.

“What happened?” She sets the coffees down carefully on my desk and crosses to me, reaching for my hand. I pull it away.

“My father sold Anya to Roman Belsky.”

The color drains from Alina’s face. “He didn’t.”

“He did.” I move away from the windows. “Roman gave him an ultimatum. Me or Anya. The coward chose to sacrifice the daughter who can’t fight back.”

Alina sinks into one of my leather chairs like her legs won’t hold her anymore. “Kira, you can’t—”

“I have to.” The words taste like poison. “You know I have to.”

“That’s a death sentence.” Her voice is barely a whisper. “His last three wives all died under mysterious circumstances. Everyone knows he killed them. You’re signing your own death warrant.”

“Better me than Anya.” I grab one of the coffee cups, needing something to do with my hands that isn’t violent. The heat sears my palm, but I welcome it. “She’s innocent. She doesn’t deserve to be dragged into this world any deeper than she already is.”

“Neither do you.”

I laugh, sharp and bitter. “I stopped being innocent the day Maksim died. The day I had to become someone else just to survive. At least I know what I’m walking into. Anya doesn’t. She still believes in love and happy endings and—” My throat tightens. I force the words out anyway. “She still has hope. I won’t let Roman take that from her.”

Alina stands, moving to face me directly. Her hazel eyes are wet but fierce. “There has to be another way. We can run. Take Anya and disappear. I have contacts in—”

“He’ll find us.” I cut her off because I’ve already played out every scenario in my head during the drive from my father’s house. “You saw the photo. He has people watching her. The moment we try to move her, he’ll know. And then he’ll take her anyway, and I’ll have nothing left to bargain with.”

“So you’re just going to marry him? Let him—” She can’t finish the sentence.

“I’m going to marry him,” I say slowly, each word deliberate. “And then I’m going to kill him.”

Alina stares at me. “Kira—”

“There’s no choice here,” I say finally. “There never was. Roman knew exactly what button to push.”

“So you marry him.”

“So I marry him.” The words feel like signing my own death warrant. “I secure Anya’s safety, get her out of the country, and then…” I meet her eyes. “Then I kill my husband and take everything he’s built.”

She groans. “But you’ll be walking into a viper’s nest. Roman’s not stupid—he’ll be watching for betrayal.”

“Let him watch.” I take another sip of the coffee that scalds my tongue. “I’ve spent six years building a reputation. Roman thinks he’s won because he’s backed me into a corner. But he’s underestimating what I’m willing to do to protect what’s mine.”
What I don’t say is he’s underestimating how much I’ve already lost. What I’ve already sacrificed.

Because the truth is, the girl who would have been horrified by cold-blooded murder died the same night Maksim did. The woman who rose from those ashes understands that sometimes survival requires becoming the monster everyone already thinks you are.

And I take back everything he thinks he’s stolen.

The Ice Queen doesn’t break.

She doesn’t bend.

And she sure as hell doesn’t forgive.

Maksim

The border checkpoint fades behind me like a bad dream I’m finally waking from. Six years, two months, and seventeen days since I last stood on Russian soil. I’ve counted every single one of them.

My boots hit the frozen ground, and something in my chest—something I thought died in that Georgian hellhole—lurches back to life.

Home.

I’m actually home.

The word feels foreign. Dangerous. Like if I say it out loud, someone will rip it away again.

I pull the collar of my stolen coat higher against the wind and start walking. The safe house is three miles north, tucked away in a forgotten corner where questions aren’t asked, and memories are short.

I’ve had weeks to plan this moment—weeks of careful intelligence gathering from across the border, bribing guards for newspapers, trading cigarettes for information about my old life, piecing together what Moscow has become in my absence.

What she has become.

Kira Markov. The Ice Queen. The woman who rose from my ashes and built an empire on my grave.

The woman I loved more than my own life.

The woman who had me killed.

My hands curl into fists inside my pockets. I feel the pull of scar tissue across my knuckles. The Georgians were creative with their torture—I’ll give them that. Every mark on my body tells a story of a different day, a different method and another lesson in exactly how much pain a human being can endure before breaking.

They never broke me.

But they came close.

I know these streets. Walked them a thousand times when I was the golden prince of the Barinov bratva. Back when my future was golden and certain. Back when I believed I was untouchable because of who my father was.

I believed them. Believed in destiny and love and all the pretty lies people tell themselves.

Never again.

Semyon’s building is exactly where I remember it. I don’t know if he’ll remember me. The crumbling apartment complex looks abandoned but isn’t. Third floor, corner unit. That was where we always said to meet if shit went sideways.

I take the stairs two at a time, my body protesting every movement. Six years of prison rations and torture haven’t been kind, but I’ve spent the past three months rebuilding my strength. Getting ready.Planning my revenge.

I knock. Three times, pause, twice more. The old signal.

Silence. Then footsteps, cautious and slow. The peephole darkens.

The door doesn’t open. I count the seconds. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty.

“Semyon.” My voice comes out rougher than I expect. I haven’t spoken much in the last few years. It was pointless. I refused to scream when they tortured me. I barely recognize my own voice. “It’s me.”

More silence. “You’re dead.”

“Clearly not.” I lean closer to the door. “Remember Prague? The job that went sideways, and you ended up in that bathtub with the Austrian diplomat’s wife?”

The locks click. All five of them.

The door opens, and Semyon stands there looking like he’s seen a ghost. Which, I suppose, he has.

He’s aged. There are new lines around his eyes. But it’s still him. My best friend. The man who was supposed to be my second-in-command when I took over the bratva.

“Maksim?” His voice cracks. “It’s really… fuck, I think I’m having a heart attack.”

He sways, and I catch him before he hits the floor. The contact—human touch that isn’t designed to cause pain—nearly undoes me. I hold him steady, and his hands come up to grip my arms like he needs to confirm I’m real.

“I knew it,” he whispers. “I knew you weren’t dead. Everyone said I was crazy, but I knew. I fucking knew.”

Then he pulls me into a hug that would crush a smaller man, and for the first time in six years, two months, and seventeen days, I let myself feel something other than rage. There’s no pain in his touch. Something else that will take me a long time to get used to.

It lasts approximately three seconds before the armor slams back into place.

“Inside,” I mutter, pushing past him into the apartment. “Before someone sees me.”

Semyon closes the door and just stares at me. I know what he’s seeing—a man who looks like Maksim Barinov but harder, colder, carved into something sharp enough to cut. The scars are visible even through my clothes. The ones on my face are impossible to hide.

“Jesus Christ.” He reaches out like he wants to touch me, then thinks better of it. “What did they do to you?”

“Nothing I won’t return tenfold.” I move deeper into the apartment, cataloging everything with the paranoia that’s kept me alive. One exit. Windows face north. Good sightlines. “You alone?”

“Yeah. Always.” He’s still watching me like I might disappear. “Maksim, where have you been? What happened? How the fuck are you here? We buried you. We mourned you. You have a fucking headstone!”

The memories try to surface—the warehouse, the ambush, the bag over my head, the first taste of what would become six years of systematic brutality. I shove them down. Later. First, I need to know what I’m walking into.

“Georgia,” I say flatly. “A private prison outside Tbilisi. Very exclusive clientele. Very creative interrogation methods.” I pull off my coat, and Semyon’s face goes white at the scars visible through my thin shirt. “But we can discuss my travel itinerary later. Right now, I need information.”

“Information.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You’ve been gone for six years, and you want—Christ, sit down. You look like you’re about to collapse.”

He’s not wrong. The adrenaline that got me across the border is fading, and exhaustion is crashing over me in waves. But I can’t afford weakness. Not yet.

“Food first,” I say. “Then we talk.”

Semyon moves to the kitchen without argument. Smart man. He’s always been smart—one of the few people in my father’s organization who understood that loyalty meant more than fear.

I sink into the chair at his kitchen table and watch him work. He pulls out bread, cheese, some kind of soup that smells like heaven after six years of prison gruel. My stomach growls so loudly he hears it from across the room.

“When did you last eat?” he asks.”Yesterday. Maybe the day before.” Time gets slippery when you’re running on pure hatred and determination.

He sets a bowl in front of me. I have to force myself not to fall on it like an animal. The first spoonful nearly makes me groan—real food, prepared with actual care, still warm. I eat slowly, methodically, while Semyon sits across from me and processes the fact that I’m alive.”They told us you were dead,” he says finally. “Your uncle Roman came back from identifying the body himself. Said it was bad. That whoever killed you wanted to make a point.”

Roman. The man who stepped into my father’s shoes when grief supposedly killed him six months after my disappearance.

That tidbit of information was a surprise. I only learned about his death six months ago. All that time, I kept waiting for him to find me. I believed he was searching for me.

When I found out he was dead, I knew I had to save myself.

And now Roman runs the Barinov bratva with an iron fist.

“There was no body,” I say. “Because I wasn’t dead. Someone sold me to the Georgians—sold information about my location, my security, everything they needed to grab me clean.” I look up from my soup. “Someone in my own organization betrayed me.”

Semyon’s jaw tightens. “Who?”

“That’s what I’m going to find out.” I push the empty bowl away. “But first, tell me about Moscow. Tell me what I’ve missed.”

For the next hour, Semyon talks, and I listen. He tells me about the power vacuum after my disappearance. My father’s death—heart attack, they said, brought on by grief. Roman’s ascension to power. The investigation into my ‘murder’ that led straight to the Markov family.

“Kira.”

He shakes his head. “Kira didn’t know. Or if she did, she’s the best liar I’ve ever seen. She was devastated, Maksim. For months, she was a ghost. Then something changed. She pushed her father out, took over their organization, and spent the next six years building it into something that actually matters.”

“The Ice Queen,” I say. The name tastes like poison.

“That’s what they call her now.” He meets my eyes. “She’s not the girl you knew.”

“Good.” I lean back in my chair. “Because I’m not the man she knew either.”

Semyon studies me. “What are you planning?”

“Revenge.” The word comes out simple. “Against everyone who betrayed me. Starting with the woman who sold me out.”

“Maksim—”

“She knew.” I cut him off, and my voice could freeze blood. “Her family was in debt. They needed money and power. Getting rid of me cleared the way for them to—”

“To what?” Semyon interrupts. “Think about this logically. What did she gain from your death? She was going to be your wife—the future queen of the Barinov bratva. Why would she throw that away?”

Only Semyon and a few other people knew about my relationship with Kira. Our families were at war, but we believed we could bring them together. I know now that was never going to be allowed.

“Because she wanted more.”

Semyon doesn’t look convinced.

“I need a shower,” I say finally. “Real clothes. And about twelve hours of sleep.”

“I’ll find you something to wear. We’re about the same size still, even if you’re…” He doesn’t finish.

Even if I’m twenty pounds lighter and carved into something harder than I used to be.

The shower is scalding hot despite the rundown appearance from the outside. That’s all by design. I know Semyon doesn’t live here full time. It’s his hideaway, but my friend enjoys the finer things in life—like hot showers, comfortable furniture and good food.

I stand under the spray until my skin turns red. Six years of cold water and occasional hose-downs in Georgian winter don’t prepare you for the luxury of temperature control. I watch the water circle the drain and try not to think about all the blood I’ve washed off in prison.

All the blood I’m going to spill now that I’m free.

When I emerge, Semyon has laid out clothes on the bed in the spare room. Real clothes—jeans, a sweater, and socks. My God—socks. I will never take such things for granted again. I dress slowly, my body protesting each movement. The scars pull tight across my back, my shoulders, and my chest. A roadmap of torture written in raised tissue.

I look at myself in the mirror and barely recognize the man staring back. Harder. Older. Eyes that have seen things no one should see.

Semyon is waiting in the kitchen with a bottle of vodka and two glasses. He pours without asking.

“To survival,” he says, raising his glass.

“To revenge,” I counter.

And then we drink.

Kira

The dining room feels like a cage the moment I walk into it.

My father sits at the head of the table—his table, in his house, even though I’m the one who paid off the mortgage and kept the lights on for the past six years. Anya is already seated, looking nervous in a way that makes my instincts scream.

She won’t meet my eyes.

“Kira.” My father gestures to the chair across from him. “Sit. We need to talk.”

“I’m not hungry.” I remain standing. “Whatever this is, just say it.”

“Sit. Down.” His voice carries the weight of paternal authority he hasn’t earned in over a decade.

I sit. Not because he told me to, but because Anya’s hands are shaking, and I need to understand what fresh hell is unfolding.

The food arrives—traditional Russian fare, prepared by the cook my father can’t actually afford but keeps anyway because appearances matter more than solvency. Borscht, pelmeni, black bread. My stomach turns at the sight of it.

Food is a necessity. I don’t enjoy it anymore. I’m an angry, bitter woman that survives solely on my pain. I’ve lost weight but I feel stronger than ever. Wrath is my driving force.

“This is nice,” my father says, like we’re a normal family having a normal dinner. “The three of us together. We should do this more often.”

“Cut the shit. What’s this really about?”

Anya flinches. My father’s jaw tightens, but he smooths his expression back into something resembling paternal concern. He’s always been good at masks—right up until his gambling debts ripped them all away.

“I’ve been in deeper discussions with Roman Belsky,” he says carefully.

I glare at him. As if I don’t already know what he’s been doing.

This is for Anya’s sake.

Ice floods my veins. “What kind of discussions?”

“The kind that secure our position. Restore our name.” He cuts his meat with precise, deliberate movements. “He’s made a very generous offer.”

“Generous,” I echo, my voice dripping with mockery.

My father doesn’t know anything. He doesn’t know I’ve already reached out to Roman. No one will make deals for me.

I smile at him. It’s a cold, calculating smile meant to remind of his place. “When I spoke to him this afternoon, he gave me until midnight to accept. That was the deal—I marry him, or he takes Anya.”

“Actually,” my father says with his own smug smile, “I’ve already agreed on Anya’s behalf. She’ll marry him instead. The contracts are signed.”The room spins. “You did what?”

“I made a business decision—”

“You sold her!” I’m on my feet, my chair clattering backward. “You sold your nineteen-year-old daughter to a man who kills his wives!”

“Kira—” Anya’s voice is small, terrified.

“He doesn’t kill them,” my father protests weakly. “They died of natural—”

“Three wives, all dead before thirty, all of mysterious causes.” I lean across the table, getting in his face. “He’s a fucking monster, and you handed Anya to him like she’s nothing more than a business transaction!”

“Watch your language at my table—”

“Your table?” The laugh that tears out of me is harsh enough to draw blood. “I paid for this table! I paid for this house, this food, your pathetic lifestyle! I rebuilt everything you destroyed, and this is how you repay me?”

Anya is crying now, silent tears streaming down her face. The sight of it breaks something in my chest that I’ve been holding together with rage. Even with all the power I’ve gained, I’m still a woman. A daughter. My father still has the final decision over Anya’s future.

“Kira, please—” My father reaches for me, and I jerk away like his touch burns.

“Don’t.” The word comes out deadly quiet. “Don’t you dare touch me.”

I turn to Anya, whose whole body is shaking. She looks so young in this moment—still the little girl who used to braid flowers into my hair and dream about painting in Paris. Still innocent despite growing up in this world.

“Anyechka.” I crouch beside her chair, taking her cold hands in mine. “Look at me, baby. Look at me.”

She does, her eyes huge and terrified.

“I won’t let this happen,” I promise her. “Do you understand? I will not let him touch you.”

“But Papa said—”

“Papa is a coward and a fool.” I don’t bother lowering my voice. Let him hear it. “He doesn’t get to make decisions about your life. Not anymore.”

“The contracts are legal,” my father insists. “Binding. I have every right—”

“You have no rights!” I round on him with such fury that he actually flinches back. “You lost your rights when you gambled away our future! When you drove us into debt so deep I had to claw my way out with blood and violence! You’re only still breathing because you share DNA with Anya, and I won’t break her heart by killing you!”

“Kira!” Anya gasps.

But it’s true, and we all know it. My father’s face goes white.

“If you refuse to honor the agreement—”

“Oh, I’ll honor it.” The words are harsh. “But not the way you think.”

I straighten, smoothing down my blouse, rebuilding my armor piece by piece. The Ice Queen doesn’t break at family dinners. She doesn’t show weakness. She calculates and strategizes and finds the path through the fire.

Even if it means walking through it herself.

“I need to speak with Anya,” I say coldly. “Alone.”

“Now wait just a—”

“Alone.” I let every ounce of the woman I’ve become bleed into my voice—the one who commands respect through rooms full of armed men. The broken, shattered young girl who had to grow up overnight. The one who built an empire from nothing. The woman who doesn’t take no for an answer.

My father’s mouth opens and closes like a fish. Then he stands, throws his napkin on the table, and storms out.

The moment the door closes, I sink into the chair beside Anya and pull her into my arms. She collapses against me, sobbing in a way that makes my heart crack.

“I’m so scared,” she whispers into my shoulder. “Kira, I can’t marry him. I can’t. He’s old and cruel and everyone says his wives—”

“Shh.” I stroke her hair like I used to when she had nightmares as a child. “I know, baby. I know.”

“But Papa signed the contracts. He said I have to. That it’s for the family.”

“Fuck the family.” The words make her hiccup a shocked laugh through her tears. “And fuck Papa’s contracts. You’re not marrying anyone.”

She pulls back to look at me, hope and disbelief warring in her eyes. “But how? If it’s legally binding—”

“Because I’m going to marry him instead.”

The words hang in the air between us like a death sentence.

“No.” Anya shakes her head violently. “No, Kira, you can’t. Roman hates you. Everyone knows he hates you. He’ll—”

“He doesn’t hate me.” I wipe the tears from her cheeks with my thumbs. “He wants to control me. There’s a difference.”

“That’s worse!” She grabs my hands, squeezing tight. “If you marry him, he’ll take everything. He’ll break you.”

“He can try.” I manage something that might pass for a smile. “But I’m not the girl I used to be, Anya. I’m not soft anymore. I’ve already broken once before. It will never happen again.”

“You’re not soft, but you’re not invincible either.” She’s crying again. “What about you? What about your future?”

My future. The concept is almost laughable. What future? The one where I watch my little sister get destroyed by a monster? The one where I lose the only person I still love?

“My future is making sure you have one,” I say simply. “That’s all that matters.”

“But—”

“Listen to me.” I take her face in my hands, making sure she sees the truth in my eyes. “I’m going to make a deal with Papa and Roman. I’ll agree to the marriage, but only if they send you to Paris. To that art school you’ve been dreaming about. L’École des Beaux-Arts.”Her eyes go wide. “But that’s—”

“Expensive. I know. And far away. Also, exactly the point.” I can see the plan crystallizing in my mind. “You’ll be safe there. Protected. Away from all of this.”

“And you’ll be stuck here, married to a man who—” She can’t finish the sentence.

“Who wants my organization and my connections more than he wants to hurt me.” It’s not entirely true, but it’s true enough. “Roman is a bastard, but he’s a practical bastard. As long as I’m useful to him, I have leverage.”

“Until you’re not useful anymore.” Anya’s no fool, despite her gentle nature. “Then what? You end up like his other wives?”

The question hangs heavy between us. I don’t have a good answer—or rather, I have an answer I can’t share with her. That I’m planning to kill Roman before he gets the chance to kill me. That this marriage is just the first move in a longer game.

“Then I’ll handle it,” I say instead. “Like I’ve handled everything else.”

Anya looks at me and I see her piecing it together—all the things I’m not saying. She’s smarter than people give her credit for. Gentler, yes, but not stupid.

“You’re planning something,” she says quietly. “Something dangerous.”

“I’m always planning something dangerous.” I stand, pulling her up with me. “But right now, I need you to trust me. Can you do that?”

She nods, even though I can see the fear still swimming in her eyes.

“Good.” I kiss her forehead. “Now go pack. Start thinking about Paris—the museums, the galleries, the life you’re going to build there. Let me handle the rest.”

“I don’t want to leave you alone,” she protests.

“You’re not leaving me alone. You’re giving me a reason to survive this.” I turn her toward the door.

“Go. I need to talk to Papa.”

She hesitates, looking back at me with an expression that’s far too old for nineteen. “I love you, Kira.”

“I love you too, Anyechka. More than anything.”

When she’s gone, I take a moment to rebuild my defenses. To lock away the softness and fear and replace it with the cold calculation that’s kept me alive for six years.

Then I go find my father.

He’s in his study, predictably, nursing a vodka and looking like a puppy that’s been kicked.

“We need to talk,” I say, closing the door behind me.

“Kira, you have to understand—””I understand perfectly. You sold Anya to save your own skin. Whatever debt or pressure Roman’s applying, you chose the easy way out.”

“It’s not that simple—”

“It’s exactly that simple.” I straighten. “But we’re past that now. Here’s what’s going to happen: I will agree to marry Roman. I will be the dutiful bride he wants. But Anya goes to Paris. To L’École des Beaux-Arts. Full tuition, living expenses, everything she needs.”

My father blinks. “That’s a very expensive school.”

“I’m aware.” I’ve looked into it before, dreamed of sending her. “It’ll be part of the marriage settlement.”

“He’s not going to agree to—”

“He will.” I allow myself a cold smile. “Because what he really wants is my organization. My connections. My reputation. He wants to absorb everything I’ve built. Sending Anya away is a small price to pay for that.”

My father takes a long drink, and I can see him calculating. “And if he refuses?”

“Then I refuse. And we’ll see who blinks first when his bride disappears and takes half of Moscow’s underworld connections with her.”

It’s a bluff. Mostly. But my father doesn’t need to know that.

“You’ve thought this through,” he observes.

“I’ve thought about nothing else since his ultimatum.”

“If I agree to this,” he says slowly, “if I help you negotiate these terms with Roman… what do I get?”

The audacity nearly makes me laugh. “You get to keep breathing. You get to watch your youngest daughter live a life free from this world. Isn’t that enough?”

“I meant financially. For the family.”

“The family.” I taste the word like poison. “You mean for you.”

“Someone has to maintain our position—”

“I’ve been maintaining our position!” The rage breaks through my control. “For six years, while you sat in this study and pretended you still mattered! I rebuilt our name from the ashes of your failures! I turned us from a joke into something people respect!”

“And now Roman wants to elevate us even further—”

“Roman wants to absorb us. Eliminate us as competition while looking magnanimous.” I cross back to his desk. “But fine. You want to know what you get? You get a stipend. Enough to maintain this house and your lifestyle. You get to keep your dignity. And you get to tell people your daughter married into the most powerful family in Moscow.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s more than you deserve.” I lean in close. “And if you ever—ever—try to use Anya as leverage again, I will end you. Father or not, blood or not, I will put a bullet in your head and sleep like a baby afterward. Are we clear?”

The color drains from his face.

“Crystal clear,” he whispers.

“Good.” I straighten. “Now call Roman. Tell him I’ve agreed to the marriage. But Anya goes to Paris, all expenses paid, and she leaves before the wedding. Those are my terms. Non-negotiable.”

“He’s not going to like demands—”

“He’ll like them better than the alternative.” I head for the door. “And Papa? When you talk to him, remember that I’m the one with actual power here. Not you. If you try to undercut me or change the terms, I’ll know. And we’ll have a very different conversation.”

I leave him there, small and pale and finally understanding that his eldest daughter isn’t someone he can control anymore.

If she ever was.

Maksim

The streets of Moscow feel like walking through a graveyard of my former life.

I keep to the shadows—not difficult when you’re a ghost. This is the part of the city that’s far away from the tourists and the politicians and the pretty facades. This is where the Bratva conducts its actual operations. I need to know exactly what I’m walking back into.

Semyon walks beside me, quieter than usual. Thinking. Worrying. Probably trying to figure out how to keep me alive when I’m determined to walk into a room full of people who believe I’m dead.

I’ve been unofficially alive for two weeks. I’ve eaten. Rested. And I am planning to make my move soon.

“Viktor’s warehouse is two blocks up,” he says, breaking the silence. “He’s been doing runs for Roman now. Might have useful information.”

Viktor is one of my father’s oldest associates. A man I trusted with my life a thousand times.

A man who didn’t even question my death.

We approach through the back alley. I can see the operation in full swing—men loading trucks, money changing hands, the efficient machinery of illegal enterprise. It looks the same as it did six years ago.

Like nothing changed.

“Let me do the talking,” Semyon suggests. “Viktor is loyal to whoever pays him. Right now, that’s Roman.”

“Noted.” I pull my hood lower. The scars on my face attract attention I don’t need yet.

We slip through the side entrance, past guards who recognize Semyon and wave him through without question. The warehouse smells like diesel fuel and cigarettes. Familiar. Home.

Except it’s not home anymore.

Viktor is in his office, a glass-walled box overlooking the warehouse floor. He’s aged badly—grayer, more weight, the look of a man who drinks his stress. When we walk in, he glances up from his paperwork with mild annoyance.

“Semyon. Didn’t know you were stopping by—” He freezes mid-sentence, his eyes landing on me.

Nobody moves.

“Maksim?” His voice comes out strangled. “That’s… you’re dead. You’re supposed to be dead.”

“Clearly not.” I close the door behind us. “Surprise.”

He lurches to his feet, and I see it—the flash of guilt before he masks it with shock. He knows something. My instincts, honed by six years of reading captors for signs of impending violence, scream warnings.

“Holy shit.” Viktor moves around the desk like he wants to embrace me, then thinks better of it when he sees my face. “What happened to you? Where have you been?”

“Georgia. In a very special prison that specializes in making people disappear.” I lean against the wall, casual, while every muscle in my body coils for violence. “Someone sold me out. Gave my location, my security details, everything needed for a clean grab.”

Viktor’s face goes pale. “That’s… that’s terrible. We all thought—Roman said there was a body. That the Markovs—”

“The Markovs.” I taste the name like poison. “Tell me about that. About how everyone decided Kira’s family was responsible.”

“Well, the evidence was pretty damning.” Viktor pours himself vodka with shaking hands. “Financial records showing her father was in debt. Communications between him and foreign interests.”

“And everyone just accepted this? No investigation? No questions?”

“There was an investigation.” Viktor downs his vodka. “Roman led it himself. Spent months tracking down leads. The evidence all pointed to the Markovs trying to eliminate you. Clear the way for them to grab power.”

Semyon shoots me a warning look, but I ignore it.

“And Kira?” I ask. “What did she say when accused of murdering me?”

“She didn’t say anything. Barely spoke for months after you disappeared.” Viktor refills his glass. “Then she pushed her father out and took over.”

“She took over after I disappeared,” I say slowly. “Convenient.”

“I don’t know that it was convenient,” Viktor says.

I ignore the comment. I don’t care if it was difficult. “What’s she like now?” I need to know. Need to understand the woman I’m about to destroy.

Viktor considers this. “She doesn’t play games—just makes strategic moves and waits for them to pay off. Everyone respects her, even the old guard who hate the idea of a woman running operations.”

“And Roman?”

I need to know what people on the street are saying.

“He’s… different from your father. More calculated. More willing to make hard choices.” Viktor pauses.

“He’s marrying Kira in three weeks. Uniting the families.”

The words hit like a physical blow. I knew it was coming—Semyon told me that was the plan—but hearing it confirmed makes the rage spike hot enough to burn.

“How convenient,” I say, my voice deadly quiet. “She eliminates me, builds her own power base, and then marries into the organization she destroyed. Gets everything she wanted.”

“Maksim—” Semyon starts.

“Thank you for the information, Viktor.” I push off the wall. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other soon.”

Viktor’s eyes widen. “You’re not going to—what are you planning?”“Taking back what’s mine.”

We’re two blocks away before Semyon grabs my arm and spins me around.

“You need to slow down,” he says. “Think this through.”

“I am thinking it through.” I jerk free. “Every detail confirms it. Kira had me killed so she could take power. Now she’s marrying Roman to consolidate everything.”

“You once told me you loved her,” he says. “And that she loved you. You told me you were going to marry her.”

“Kira’s family was in debt,” I argue. “Desperate. Getting rid of me cleared the way for them to—”

“To what?” Semyon stops again, facing me. “Maksim, think about this logically. What did she actually gain from your death? She was going to marry you and become your queen. She was going to have everything. Power, protection, status. Why would she throw that away?”

“Because she wanted more!” The words explode out of me. “She didn’t want to be someone’s wife, playing second to a man. She wanted power in her own right.”

“So she had you killed, knowing it would bring suspicion on her family? Knowing it would destroy her reputation and force her to rebuild from nothing?” Semyon’s voice drips skepticism. “That’s a hell of a gamble for someone who’s supposedly brilliant and strategic.”

“She made it work, didn’t she?” I resume walking, faster now. “Look at her now. The Ice Queen. Feared and respected.”

“Built an empire while grieving,” Semyon corrects. “Everyone who knew her then says she was devastated for months. Barely functional.”

“Or she’s a good actress.”

We walk in silence for a block. The rage is a living thing inside me, demanding satisfaction, demanding blood. My need to avenge my death is the only thing that kept me alive.

I can’t let go of it.

“You’re not going to listen to reason, are you?” Semyon asks finally.

“I spent six years in hell because of her.” I stop at an intersection, watching cars pass. “Six years of torture and planning revenge. I can’t—I won’t—accept that I was wrong about who betrayed me.”

“Even if the evidence points somewhere else?”

“What evidence?” I round on him. “Everything I’ve heard confirms it. Her family needed money. I disappeared. She took over and built power. The math isn’t complicated.”

“You loved her.”

“I did.” Past tense. Deliberate. “Which makes the betrayal worse. She taught me a valuable lesson. I will never allow a woman to make me weak again.”

He lets out a sigh. “I think you need to talk with her. Ask her. Why would she want you dead?”

“I told Kira everything,” I admit. “About wanting to change how we operated. Move away from the brutal tactics. She listened to all of it.”

“And what did she say?”

“She…” I pause, trying to remember. “She supported it. Said she was tired of the violence too. Wanted to build something better.”

“Sounds like she agreed with you.”

“Or she was pretending to agree while planning to eliminate me.”

I remember her face when I talked about the future. The hope in her eyes. All of our conversations about raising a family in a life less brutal than the one we’d inherited.

“You’re reaching,” Semyon says gently. “Creating motives that don’t exist because you need someone to blame.”

“I need the person responsible to pay.” I lean against a brick wall, suddenly exhausted.

“So you’d rather be wrong and get revenge than be right and lose your purpose?”

The question hangs between us like an accusation.

“Tell me honestly,” I say after trying to see it from his side. “Do you think she betrayed me?”

Semyon meets my eyes. “Honestly? No. I think she loved you. I think she was destroyed when you disappeared.”

“But you don’t know for sure.”

“No. I don’t know for sure.” He pauses. “But neither do you. And you’re planning to destroy her based on a theory that has more holes than evidence.”

The anger surges back, hot and familiar. “Bullshit. My captors told me it was her that sold me out!”

“That’s the mental torture,” he reasons. “She was eighteen when you disappeared. “You really think an eighteen-year-old girl orchestrated your kidnapping and wasn’t smart enough to eliminate the evidence?”

“She’s very intelligent. Capable of anything.”

“Or she’s a woman who lost the man she loved and found a way to survive.” Semyon shakes his head. “You’re so determined to see betrayal that you’re ignoring everything that doesn’t fit your narrative.”

“What about the engagement?” I push off the wall, resuming our walk. “She’s marrying Roman. The man who took my place.”

“You of all people should understand being trapped. Having no good options. Being forced into choices you’d never make otherwise.”

“I hear what you’re saying,” I say finally. “But I can’t let go of this until I know for sure. Until I look her in the eyes and see the truth.”

“Are you ready to be alive?” he asks.

I smile. “Oh yes. I will rise from the dead at the engagement party.”

He stops walking. “You can’t. That’s too much exposure.”

“But they’re my people, right? The woman that once loved me? The man that was like family to me. Surely, they can’t truly want me dead, right?”

It’s sarcasm and he knows it.

“You’re crazy.”

“You have no idea.”

The ghost returns to haunt the living. And this time, someone’s paying the price.

I just have to figure out who deserves it.

Kira

The ballroom looks like a beautiful lie.

Crystal chandeliers cast prismatic light across marble floors polished to a mirror shine. Everywhere I look, there are flowers—white roses and lilies, because Roman insisted on traditional. On virginal.

The irony would be funny if it wasn’t so fucking insulting.

“The centerpieces need to be higher,” Roman’s event coordinator says, gesturing frantically at the staff.

“Madame Belsky wants them to make a statement.”

Madame Belsky. Roman’s mother, who died fifteen years ago.

He’s talking about me.

My new title. My new identity. The cage I’m about to lock myself into.

I stand at the edge of the ballroom, watching the preparations unfold like a military operation. Because that’s what this is—not a celebration, but a conquest. Roman’s public declaration of victory over the Ice Queen who thought she could remain independent.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Roman appears at my elbow, his hand settling possessively on the small of my back. I resist the urge to flinch. “Tomorrow night, all of Moscow will see us together. United.”

“Unified,” I correct, keeping my voice neutral. “United implies choice.”

His fingers press harder against my spine. A warning. “Careful, printsessa. People are watching.”

I glance around the ballroom. He’s right—staff, security, various members of his organization. All of them cataloging my every reaction, looking for weakness.

I smile. It doesn’t reach my eyes, but it doesn’t have to.

“Everything looks perfect,” I say, loud enough to be heard. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

The praise is bullshit, but it serves its purpose. Roman’s grip loosens slightly, satisfied.

“Only the best for my bride.” He guides me toward the seating chart spread across a nearby table. “I’ve made some adjustments to the arrangements. Put you next to me, of course. Your sister across from us where we can keep an eye on her.”

Keep an eye on her. Like Anya is a threat instead of a nineteen-year-old girl who wants nothing to do with any of this.

“And my father?” I ask, scanning the chart.

“Here.” Roman points to a seat far from the head table. Practically in the back corner. “I thought it best to seat him with the secondary families. Given his… history.”

“He’s still the head of the Markov family,” I say carefully.

“Is he?” Roman’s smile sharpens. “I was under the impression you’ve been running things for the past six years. In fact, I’ve already made the announcement that you’re stepping down from operational duties. A wife shouldn’t have to burden herself with such matters.”

The words hit like ice water. “You did what?”

“Relax.” His hand moves to my shoulder, squeezing just hard enough to hurt. “I’m taking over your portfolio. Your people will report to me now. It’s cleaner this way. More efficient.”

My people. The organization I built from nothing. The network of loyalties I cultivated.

He’s taking it. All of it.

At least he thinks he is.

“We discussed this,” I say, my voice dropping to something dangerous. “The terms were clear. My organization remains separate—”

“The terms were that you marry me and Anya goes to Paris.” Roman cuts me off. “Which is exactly what’s happening. Everything else is negotiable. I cannot have my wife running competing interests.”

The rage that rises in me is volcanic, but I swallow it down. Force it into the frozen place where I keep all my weapons sharp and ready.

“Of course,” I say sweetly. “How silly of me to think I had a voice in this.”

“There’s my smart girl.” He kisses my temple, and I want to scrub my skin raw. “Now, let’s discuss security. I’ve tripled the guards for tomorrow night.”

The change in subject is jarring, but I follow it. “Expecting trouble?”

“Always.” He leads me toward the entrance where men in black suits are coordinating. “Business rivals. People who don’t like change. The usual threats.”

“I’m sure your security is more than adequate,” I say.”It is. But I want you to stay close tomorrow night. Don’t wander off alone.” His eyes meet mine, and I see the warning there. “For your own safety, of course.”

Of course. Because everything Roman does is for my own good.

I nod, playing the compliant fiancée. I only have to keep this up until Anya is safely tucked away in Paris. I’ve already made arrangements to have her disappear. She won’t be in Paris for long. Not as Anya. She’ll have a new name. New identity. I’ll get her away and no one will ever find her.

Two hours later, I arrive home once again.

I find my father in his study—where else—reviewing documents. Probably trying to figure out exactly how much money he can gamble away once I’m out of his way.”Kira.” He looks up, and I see the guilt flicker across his face. “How are the preparations?”

“Roman’s taken over my organization.” I close the door behind me. “Announced it without consultation. My people now report to him.”

My father has the audacity to look confused. “Well, yes. That was always the plan, wasn’t it? Unite the families under one leadership.”

“My leadership,” I snap. “I built that organization. Those are my people. My connections.”

“And now they’re Roman’s. You’re marrying into the Barinov bratva, Kira. This is how these things work.””Not anymore.”

“You were never going to be equals,” he says, almost gently. “Roman runs the most powerful organization in Moscow. We’re smaller. This marriage elevates us.”

We. As if he is anything.

“This marriage erases us.” I straighten. “And you helped him do it.”

“I helped secure our future—”

“You sold your daughters!” The rage breaks through. “And now you’re sitting here justifying it while everything I built crumbles.”

“It’s not crumbling. It’s being absorbed into something greater.” He stands, trying for paternal authority. “You’re too emotional to see it now, but this is for the best.”

“Get out of your chair.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your chair.” I gesture to the desk. “The one I’ve let you keep out of respect. Get out of it. You don’t deserve to sit there.”

His face flushes. “This is my house—””That I paid for. You lost your seat when your gambling nearly destroyed us. I’ve been letting you pretend out of kindness. I’m still here. I’m not married yet. That is my rightful place.”

“Kira, you’re upset—”

“I’m done.” I turn for the door.I leave him standing there, small and diminished, and head upstairs to find Anya.

My anger has consumed me. I hate everything and everyone. I feel nothing except hatred. It’s consuming me from the inside out. Maybe it would be easier to just give up. I’ve proven my point.

I could disappear. Me and Anya. We could move to America and be free.

But it feels like quitting.

I can’t quit. I can’t give up. That hatred burning low in my belly demands I keep pushing.

Later, I find Anya is in her room, surrounded by half-packed suitcases and art supplies. The walls are covered with her paintings—beautiful, dreamlike scenes that have nothing to do with the brutal world we live in.

“Kira. I thought you were handling the party planning.”

“It’s done. How’s the packing going?”

“It feels wrong. I’m escaping to Paris while you’re stuck here, marrying a monster.”

“You’re not escaping. You’re surviving.” I take her hand. “That’s all that matters.”

“But what about you?” She squeezes my fingers. “Kira, I’ve been thinking—maybe we could both run. Just disappear. Roman can’t find us if we’re careful—”

“He would find us.” I cut off that fantasy before it can take root. “And when he did, the punishment would be worse than anything he’s planning now.”

“So you’re just giving up?””I’m being strategic.” I meet her eyes. “There’s a difference between surrender and tactical retreat.”

“It’s dangerous.”

“Everything in my life is dangerous.”

“Can you tell me?” she asks. “Can I help you?”

“No.” Because I won’t make her complicit in what I’m planning. Won’t give her nightmares about her sister committing murder. “All you need to know is that I’m going to handle this. You’ll be safe. I promise.”

“I don’t want to be safe if it means leaving you in danger. You’ve protected me my whole life. Let me help protect you for once.”

I sigh and shake my head. “You want to help? Then go to Paris. Paint beautiful things. Live the life I’m fighting to give you. That’s how you protect me—by being everything this world didn’t destroy.”

Tears spill down her cheeks. “I hate this. I hate all of it.”

“I know.” I pull her into a hug. “But it’s temporary. I promise you, this situation with Roman is temporary.”

“When do I leave?” she asks.

“Next week. Before the wedding.” Before Roman can change his mind and decide to keep her here as additional leverage. “You’ll have everything you need—money, connections, a place to stay. And once you’re settled, you’ll send me pictures of every gallery and museum you visit.”

“And you’ll come visit,” she says. “Once this is over. Once you’re free.”

“Once I’m free,” I agree, though the concept of freedom feels impossibly distant.We spend the next hour going through her things, deciding what to pack and what to leave behind. It feels like preparing for a funeral—severing ties with this life, this world, everything she’s known.But it’s necessary. She has to get out before Roman’s poison spreads to her too.“What about Papa?” she asks. “What will happen to him?”

She loves him and I have to keep that in mind. “I don’t know. I won’t kill him.”

She laughs. “Well, I guess that is something.”

“It’s all I can promise,” I say. “I’m sorry, Anya. I know you love him.”

“And I know you’ve allowed me to love him because you’ve shielded me. You’ve protected me and lost everything.”

“Not everything. I have you.”

“Always.”

“Keep packing. I need to take care of some business.”

“Will I be at your party tomorrow?” she asks.

“No, Anya. I don’t want you anywhere near him or his people. Trust me, it isn’t a celebration. You will not be missing out on anything.”

Maksim

“This is insane.” Semyon checks his weapon for the third time in as many minutes. “You understand that, right? Walking into a room full of people who think you’re dead—who might have wanted you dead—is categorically insane.

“Noted.” I adjust my tie in the mirror of the safe house bathroom. The suit Semyon acquired fits perfectly—expensive, tailored, the kind of thing the old Maksim would have worn without thinking. Now it feels like a costume. “Your objection is registered.”

I didn’t want to wear the suit, but Semyon reminded me the goal was to blend in as much as possible. I wasn’t sure how that was going to work. People were going to notice a dead man walking.

“Registered and ignored, apparently.” He leans against the doorframe. “There’s nothing stopping someone from shooting you the moment you walk through that door. Roman’s security will be everywhere. One word from him and you’re a corpse. A real one this time.”

“Won’t be the first time I’ve been killed.” I meet his eyes in the mirror. “I got better.”

“That’s not funny.”

“Wasn’t meant to be.” I turn from the mirror, checking the knife concealed in my jacket. Old habits. “But I’m doing this regardless. Everyone needs to know I’m back.”

“Why?” Semyon’s frustration bleeds through. “Why announce yourself like this? Why not stay dead, gather intelligence, strike when you have the advantage?”

“Because I want to see their faces.” The truth comes out harsh. Raw. “Roman’s face when he realizes I survived. Kira’s face when she sees the man she had killed standing across the ballroom. I want them to know that hell gave me back.”

“You want to read their reactions.”

“Yes.”

“Roman was pretty torn up when you were killed,” Semyon reminds me. “He comforted your father.”

“Sounds like my funeral was pretty entertaining,” I reply dryly. “But someone set me up. I want to look every one of them in the eyes. I want to know who killed me.”

Semyon runs a hand through his hair. “And if that person is in the room and decides to kill you?”

“Then I die knowing I looked them in the eyes first.” I check my watch. “The party started an hour ago. They’ll be past the formal introductions, into the dancing and drinking. Perfect time to make an entrance.”

“Perfect time to get murdered.”

“Always the optimist.” I clap him on the shoulder. “Stay near the exits. If this goes sideways, I want you out clean.”

“If this goes sideways, I’m dragging your stupid ass out with me.” He pulls on his own jacket. “Someone has to keep you alive long enough to realize you’re being an idiot.”

We take separate cars to the venue. It’s a luxury hotel in the heart of Moscow that caters to the kind of events where everyone is armed, and nobody calls the police. The kind of place where the Bratva conducts its public business.

I wait in the car for ten minutes after arriving, watching the entrance. Security is tight—Semyon was right about that. At least a dozen visible guards, probably twice that many inside. All of them Roman’s people.

I don’t recognize any of the faces. Semyon said my father’s people were replaced. That’s not really a smoking gun. A new pakhan would want his own loyal people.

But it’s a little fact I’m keeping in the back of my mind.

Right now, I trust no one. Everyone is a potential enemy. Semyon is the only one I truly believe is on my side.

My phone buzzes. Semyon: In position. North entrance is your best bet. Fewer guards.

I type back:

I can hear the frustration in his response: Of course you are. Idiot.

I smile despite myself and exit the car.

The night air is cold enough to see my breath. February in Moscow is beautiful and brutal. I walk toward the entrance like I own the place—shoulders back, head high, the golden prince returned from the dead.

The guards notice me immediately. Hands drift toward weapons. One of them speaks into his radio.

“Name?” The largest one steps forward, blocking my path.

“Maksim Barinov.” I let the words hang in the air.

His face goes pale. “That’s not—you’re supposed to be—”

“Dead?” I smile, and I know it doesn’t reach my eyes. “Clearly rumors of my demise were exaggerated. Now, am I on the guest list or do we have a problem?”

He stammers into his radio while his colleagues stare at me like I’m a ghost. Which, to be fair, I am.

A response crackles back. I can’t hear the words, but I see the guard’s expression shift from shock to confusion to something like fear.

“You can…go in,” he says finally. “Sir.”

The honorific is telling. Either they’ve confirmed my identity or Roman wants to see what I’m about to do.

Probably both.

I walk through the entrance into opulence that would make czars jealous. Crystal. Gold. Marble.

Everything designed to display wealth and power.

The ballroom opens before me like a scene from another life. Hundreds of people in evening wear, drinking champagne that costs more than a car. Caviar and other appetizers on trays are carried through the room by waitstaff. The music is classical—strings and piano, elegant and completely at odds with the violence that permeates every conversation in this room.

I stay near the wall, scanning faces. Looking for threats. Looking for allies.

Looking for her.

And then I see her.

Kira stands near the center of the room, Roman’s hand possessive on her waist. She’s wearing midnight blue—a color that makes her pale skin luminous. She’s smiling at something someone said. The smile is perfect. Practiced.

And completely false.

Even from across the room, I can see it. The way she holds herself—too rigid, too controlled. The Ice Queen, they call her, and watching her now, I understand why. She’s beautiful in the way glaciers are beautiful. Cold, untouchable and capable of crushing anything in her path.

But I remember when she was warm. When her smiles reached her eyes, and her laugh could light up a room.

I remember loving her so much it felt like drowning.

The rage that surges through me is familiar. Comforting. I hold onto it like a lifeline because the alternative—acknowledging that I still love her is unthinkable.

She betrayed me. Had me killed. Everything she’s become, she built on my grave.

I have to remember that. Have to hold onto it.

Roman leans in to whisper something in her ear, and she nods. Playing the dutiful fiancée. I watch his hand trail down her spine—possessive, claiming—and I want to break every finger.

Then she glances toward the entrance, her eyes scanning the crowd with the practiced assessment of someone always looking for threats.

Her gaze passes over me. Continues on. Then snaps back.

Even from this distance, I see the moment recognition hits. Her face goes white. The champagne glass in her hand trembles.

Roman notices immediately, following her gaze. When he sees me, his expression cycles through shock, fear, and something darker before settling into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

I know his guards told him I was here. He is the only one that could have given the okay for me to enter his party.

Why didn’t he greet me, I wonder. Maybe he didn’t believe it.

He says something to Kira. She nods mechanically, her eyes never leaving mine.

She’s scared.

Good. Let her be afraid. Let her wonder what I’m about to do.

I stay against the wall, watching. Waiting. Security is moving now—I can see them repositioning, creating subtle barriers between me and the major players.

Is Roman afraid of me?

Why would he be? He’s supposed to be my grieving family.

I wait and continue to watch, cataloging every detail. It doesn’t appear anyone else has recognized me. Why would they? I’m not the same young man that disappeared all those years ago.

Semyon appears at my elbow. “It’s quiet.”

“That was the idea.” I accept a champagne flute from a passing server, more for the prop than any desire to drink it. “What’s the mood?”

“Confused. Terrified. Excited.” He scans the crowd. “Roman’s made no move to have you removed. That’s either very good or very bad.”

“Interesting.” I take a sip of champagne I don’t taste.

Kira has disappeared from view, lost in the crowd. I track her general direction—toward the terrace doors. Escaping.

“I need to move,” I tell Semyon.

“Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Too late for that.” I hand him my untouched champagne. “I’m going to have a conversation with my former fiancée.”

“Maksim—”

But I’m already moving, cutting through the crowd like a predator tracking prey. People notice me—of course they do—and conversations die in my wake. Whispers follow me across the ballroom.

I’m officially noticed.

Is that really him?

I thought he was dead.

What’s he doing here?

I ignore them all, focused on one target.

She’s slipped out onto the terrace. I watch through the glass as she moves further into the gardens beyond. Away from witnesses. Away from safety.

I follow, keeping to the shadows. The garden is elaborately landscaped. Someone has taken the time and effort to remove every trace of snow, as if the cold isn’t allowed to touch this area. The sounds of the party fade behind us as she walks deeper into the darkness.

She’s wearing heels—impractical for escape—and the midnight blue dress catches moonlight like water. I watch her and hate that she’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

Hate that six years of torture didn’t kill what I felt for her.

Hate that even now, planning her destruction, part of me wants to pull her close and pretend none of this happened.

She reaches a stone wall at the edge of the garden property and stops; her hand braced against it like she needs the support. Her shoulders rise and fall with deep breaths.

This is my moment.

I move silently—lessons learned in captivity, how to approach without being heard—and close the distance between us in seconds.

She starts to turn, some instinct warning her, but I’m faster. My hand grabs her shoulder and I spin her around, pressing her back against the stone wall. Hard enough to trap her, not hard enough to hurt.

Yet.

She opens her mouth to scream, and my hand covers it, cutting off the sound. We’re face to face now, close enough that I can see her pupils dilate in shock and recognition.

“Hello, Kira,” I say softly. “Miss me?”

Her eyes are huge above my hand, filled with something I can’t quite read. Fear, yes. Shock, definitely. But something else. Something that looks almost like…

No. I won’t let myself see hope or relief or love. Those are lies. Manipulations.

She tries to speak against my palm, and I shake my head.

“Not yet. I’m going to move my hand, and you’re not going to scream. Because if you do, if you bring security running, you won’t get answers to the thousand questions I can see in your eyes.” I lean closer. “Understand?”

She nods, jerky and uncertain.

I lower my hand slowly, ready to cover her mouth again if she makes a sound.

She doesn’t scream. Doesn’t call for help.

Instead, her hand comes up and connects with my face in a slap that rocks my head to the side.

The shock of it—the sheer audacity—almost makes me smile.

“You bastard,” she hisses, her voice low and furious. “You absolute bastard. Six years. Six years I thought you were dead, and you—”

She tries to slap me again, but this time I catch her wrist.

“Careful,” I warn. “You don’t get to play the grieving lover. Not with me.”

“Play?” Her laugh is sharp enough to cut. “I mourned you.”

She stops, her free hand coming up to cover her mouth. I can see tears gathering in her eyes, and something in my chest cracks.

No. I won’t let her manipulate me with tears.

She’s an actress. I will never believe her words or tears.

Never again.

Kira

The moment his hand touches my shoulder, every instinct screams danger.

I start to turn, to fight, to scream—and then I’m against the wall, stone cold and rough against my back through the thin fabric of my dress. A hand covers my mouth, cutting off sound, cutting off air, cutting off everything.

My brain catalogs threats in the half-second before I see his face.The moonlight hits his features, and the world stops.

No.

No, it’s not possible.

Maksim.

My Maksim.

The man I mourned, the man I dreamed about every single night, the man I loved so desperately that his death nearly killed me too is here.

He’s alive.

And he’s furious.”Hello, Kira,” he says softly, his voice rougher than I remember, edged with something dark and dangerous. “Miss me?”

The hand over my mouth prevents me from answering, but I couldn’t speak anyway. Can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can only stare at him and catalogue all the ways he’s changed.

Scars. God, the scars. One cuts through his eyebrow, another along his jawline. More disappear beneath his collar. I know—somehow I know—there are more hidden under his clothes. His face is harder, leaner, carved into sharp angles that make him look like a stranger wearing Maksim’s features.

His eyes are what break me. They used to be warm, full of laughter and love and dreams about our future. Now they’re cold. Dead. Looking at me with such hatred that I physically recoil against the wall.

This isn’t my Maksim. This is someone else. Someone hell forged into a weapon and pointed directly at me.

He leans closer, and I can smell him—different cologne, or maybe no cologne at all, just soap and something sharper. Dangerous.

My heart is hammering so hard I’m surprised he can’t hear it. The hand covering my mouth is calloused.

He removes his hand slowly, watching me like I’m a threat he needs to neutralize.

The second his palm leaves my mouth, I slap him.

The crack of skin-on-skin echoes in the garden. My palm stings. His head snaps to the side from the force of it, and when he turns back to look at me, there’s something almost like surprise in those dead eyes.

“You bastard!” The words explode out of me, too loud, I need to be quieter, but I can’t, I can’t control anything right now. “You absolute bastard! Six years. Six years I thought you were dead!”

I go to slap him again—need to hit him, need to make him feel even a fraction of what I’m feeling—but this time he catches my wrist. His grip is iron, unbreakable, and I realize with sudden clarity that this version of Maksim could hurt me if he wanted to.

“Careful,” he warns, his voice low and deadly. “You don’t get to play the grieving lover. Not with me.”

“Play?” The laugh that tears out of me is sharp enough to draw blood.

I cover my mouth, trying to hold back the emotion threatening to overflow. Tears are already streaming down my face, hot and mortifying. I hate that I’m crying in front of him. The Ice Queen doesn’t cry. The Ice Queen doesn’t break.

But apparently, seeing the love of your life return from the dead will shatter even the strongest armor.

“Where were you?” I demand, my voice breaking traitorously. “What happened to you?”

“A private prison where I spent six years being systematically destroyed. Thanks to you.”

I can’t make sense of what he’s saying. “What?”

“You had me killed so you could take power. Congratulations, by the way. The Ice Queen. Very impressive.”

The Ice Queen. He says it like a curse. I realize with dawning horror what he thinks. What he believes.

“You think I…” I can’t even say it.

I want to grab him and shake him until he sees the truth. Instead, I grab the lapels of his jacket and hold on. I can’t let go. The way he’s looking at me with disgust twists something inside me.

We’re too close. I can feel the heat of him, see the pulse in his throat, notice the way his eyes keep dropping to my mouth before snapping back to my eyes. The air between us is electric and filled with danger.

I should step back. Should create distance before I do something stupid.

But I can’t move. Can’t look away from eyes that used to look at me with such tenderness and now look at me like I’m the source of all his pain.

“I spent six years hating you,” he whispers, and he’s leaning closer despite the words. “Planning your destruction. Promising myself I’d make you pay for every scar and every moment of suffering.”

“I can see it in your eyes. The hate. The rage. But Maksim… I never betrayed you. I swear on everything I have, I never—”

He kisses me.

The world explodes.

His mouth is on mine, hard and angry and desperate. For a heartbeat I’m too shocked to respond. Then six years of grief and longing and love that never died crashes over me. I’m kissing him back just as desperately.

This isn’t the gentle, sweet kisses of our youth. This is fury and pain and need all tangled together into something that burns. His hands are in my hair, ruining the careful styling. I don’t care. My fingers dig into his shoulders, feeling muscles that weren’t there before.

I’m crying and kissing him, and I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

He tastes different. Sharper. Like he’s been drinking something bitter for so long he’s forgotten what sweetness is. Or maybe it’s me. All of my bitterness is bubbling to the surface. But underneath, he tastes like Maksim, and that’s all that matters.

Six years dissolve. The Ice Queen melts. The armor I’ve built cracks and falls away. I’m eighteen again, sneaking kisses and planning a future that seemed so certain.

His body presses me harder against the wall. I can feel every line of him—harder, leaner, dangerous in ways he never was before. But it’s still him. Still the man I loved more than breathing.

Still the man I thought I’d lost forever.His kiss turns savage. Punishing. I meet it with equal ferocity. My hands slide up into his hair—shorter than he used to keep it—and I pull hard enough to hurt. He groans against my mouth. The sound sends electricity straight through me.

This is wrong. We’re in a garden at my engagement party. Roman is inside. Security could find us at any moment.

I don’t care.

Six years of grief and longing explode between us. His hands drop from my hair to my waist, gripping hard enough to bruise through the thin fabric of my dress. I arch against him, needing to be closer, needing to erase every inch of space between us.

“Kira.” My name sounds like a curse and a prayer falling from his lips. He breaks the kiss, breathing hard, his forehead pressed against mine. “I hate you.”

“I know.” My hands are shaking as they frame his scarred face. “But you’re kissing me anyway.”

“Because I’m weak.” His eyes are wild, torn between rage and desire. “Because even knowing what you did, I still—”

I kiss him again before he can finish that sentence. Before he can say something we’ll both regret. His resistance lasts approximately two seconds before he’s kissing me back with renewed intensity.

His hands slide down my sides. When his fingers find the slit in my dress and slip underneath to touch bare thigh, I gasp against his mouth.

“Tell me to stop,” he demands, his hand sliding higher. “Tell me this is wrong.”

“It’s wrong,” I breathe, but I’m pulling him closer, not pushing him away. “So wrong.”

“Then why aren’t you stopping me?”

“Because you’re not the only one that’s been dead for six years.” The truth tears out of me.

Something breaks in his expression. The cold hatred cracks, revealing the raw pain underneath. His thumb strokes the inside of my thigh. I bite my lip to keep from making a sound.

“You ruined me,” he whispers against my throat, his mouth finding the pulse point there. “Destroyed everything I was.”

“You ruined me first.” My head falls back against the stone wall as his teeth graze my skin.

His hand moves higher, fingers finding the edge of my panties. I should stop this. Should push him away before we cross a line we can’t uncross.

Instead, I widen my stance, giving him access.

“We can’t do this here,” I manage, even as my body betrays every word. “If someone finds us—”

“Let them.” His fingers slip beneath the fabric, finding me already wet and ready. “Let them see exactly who you belong to.”

The possessiveness in his voice should anger me. The Ice Queen doesn’t belong to anyone.

But I’m not the Ice Queen right now. Right now, I’m just Kira, and the man I love is touching me like he’s trying to reclaim something that was stolen from him.

“Maksim.” His name breaks on a moan as his fingers find exactly the right spot. He knows my body like no time has passed at all. Knows exactly how to touch me, where to press, how to drive me out of my mind.

“Say it again.” His free hand tangles in my hair, pulling my head back so he can see my face. “Say my name.”

“Maksim.” I’m trembling, barely able to stand. “Please.”

“Please what?” His fingers are moving in slow, deliberate circles that are going to make me come apart. “Please stop? Please continue? Use your words, Kira.”

“Don’t stop.” I grip his shoulders for support, my nails digging in. “God, please don’t stop.”

He adds a second finger. I bite down on his shoulder to muffle the sound I make. The pain seems to drive him wild. He increases the pressure, the pace, his thumb finding my clit while his fingers work inside me.

“Look at me,” he commands. I force my eyes open to meet his. “I want to watch you. Remember who I am. Who I was.”

“Maksim, I—” The words dissolve into incoherent sounds as the pressure builds. Six years of grief and longing and repressed desire all coiling tighter and tighter until I can’t breathe.

“That’s it.” His voice is rough with his own need. “Come for me. Show me you’re still mine.”

The orgasm hits like lightning, white-hot and devastating. I shatter against his hand, my body convulsing. His other arm around my waist keeps me upright. I bury my face in his neck to muffle the sounds, tasting salt and soap and him.

Suddenly, he’s spinning me around, my face connects with the stone wall. His hands jerk up my dress, baring my ass to him. I feel the tug and then hear the tearing sound of my thong being ripped away.

Then the sound of his zipper.

I brace myself against the cold stone, my palms flat, my heart hammering so hard I think it might explode. Behind me, I hear the rasp of his belt, feel the heat of him as he presses against my back.

“Tell me you want this,” he growls in my ear, one hand gripping my hip hard enough to bruise. “Tell me you want me.”

“I want you.” The words come out broken, desperate. “I’ve wanted you every single day for six years.”

He makes a sound—half growl, half groan—and then he’s pushing inside me in one brutal thrust that steals my breath. The stretch is almost too much. I cry out, the sound escaping before I can stop it.

His hand clamps over my mouth. “Quiet,” he commands against my ear. “Unless you want everyone to know what’s happening out here.”

I nod frantically, my body adjusting to the invasion. It’s been so long. Too long. And he’s bigger than I remember, or maybe I’ve just forgotten what it feels like to be claimed like this.

He doesn’t give me time to adjust. His hips pull back and slam forward again, setting a punishing rhythm that has me seeing stars. Each thrust drives me harder against the wall. The stone scrapes my palms, but I don’t care. Can’t care about anything except the feeling of him inside me after all these years of emptiness.

“Is this what you wanted?” His voice is rough, savage. “When you had me killed, did you think about this? About what you were throwing away?”

I shake my head frantically against his hand, trying to tell him he’s wrong, but he’s not listening. He’s lost in his own fury and need, using my body like he’s trying to exorcise demons.

His free hand slides around my hip, finding my clit. The dual sensation—him pounding into me from behind while his fingers work that bundle of nerves—is overwhelming. I’m going to come again, impossibly soon, my body wound so tight I can barely breathe.

“That’s it,” he rasps. “Feel what you did to me. Feel what you destroyed.”

But his touch contradicts his words. Even in his rage, even believing I betrayed him, he’s making sure I feel pleasure. His fingers know exactly how to touch me, the pressure and rhythm that drives me wild.

I’m close. So close. My legs are shaking, barely holding me up. If it weren’t for his arm around my waist and the wall supporting me, I’d collapse.

“Come,” he orders against my ear, his voice strained. “Come on my cock so you remember who you belong to.”

The orgasm rips through me like a tidal wave. I scream against his palm, my body clenching around him so hard I see spots. He groans, his rhythm faltering, and then he’s following me over the edge, his release hot inside me.

We stay frozen like that for several heartbeats, both of us breathing hard, bodies still joined. The reality of what we just did crashes over me.

I had sex with Maksim in the garden at my engagement party to another man.

He pulls out roughly. I feel his release start to drip down my thighs. I hear him zip up behind me, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet garden.

I turn around slowly, my legs still trembling, and find him watching me with an expression I can’t read. The rage is still there, but it’s mixed with something else now. Confusion maybe. Or regret.

“Maksim—”

“Don’t.” He cuts me off, taking a step back. “This changes nothing. You still betrayed me. This was just…” He gestures between us, his jaw tight. “Unfinished business.”

The words hurt more than they should. I straighten my dress with shaking hands, trying to regain some dignity even though I can feel him dripping down my legs.

“I didn’t betray you,” I say quietly. “I don’t know what you think happened, but I loved you. I mourned you. Everything I built, I built because I had nothing left to lose after you died.”

“After you had me killed,” he corrects coldly.

I’m sobbing. Again. My emotions are all over the place. I don’t know what to think. What to feel.

He’s alive.

I can’t get my head around the fact he’s standing front of me.

I don’t know if this is a dream come true or the start of a nightmare.

Maksim

What the fuck did I just do?I step back from Kira, putting necessary distance between us while my brain tries to catch up with my body’s betrayal. She’s breathing hard, her lips swollen from my mouth, tears streaming down her face, and she’s never looked more beautiful.

I hate that I noticed.

Hate that kissing her felt like coming home after six years in hell.

Hate that every cell in my body is screaming at me to pull her close again and never let go.

She’s staring at me with those wide eyes—still the same shade of blue I used to dream about in my cell—and I can see hope blooming there. Hope that I’ll believe her. That I’ll forgive her. That we can somehow go back to what we were.

Not a chance.

I straighten my jacket and smooth down my tie. Her hair is a mess where my fingers tangled in it. Her dress is askew. There’s a scrape on her shoulder from the wall.

Evidence of my weakness written all over her.

“Fix your dress,” I say coldly. “You look like someone just fucked you against a wall.”

She flinches like I slapped her. Good. She should hurt. Should feel even a fraction of what I’ve felt.

“Maksim—”

“Don’t.” I hold up a hand. “Don’t say my name like that. Like we’re still… like you have any right to—”

“Why are you angry with me?” she whispers. “I don’t understand what’s happening right now. How are you here? I mourned you.”

I scoff. “I can see that. I guess the idea of marrying into money and power cut your grief short.”

Her eyes flash. “You asshole. You complete fucking asshole. You have no idea what my life is like. You don’t know what I’ve had to do to survive.”

I cock a brow. “I’m guessing it involved you on your back.”

Her hand comes up. I snatch her wrist. “Don’t fucking slap me again, Kira. I’m not the man you used to know. I will fucking snap your goddamn arm in two.”

She jerks her hand away. “Where were you?”

“Where have I been? You want to know where I’ve been?”

“Yes.” Her voice is barely a whisper. “Please.”

“Georgia.” I let the word hang between us. “A private prison outside Tbilisi. Someone paid a lot of money to keep me there.””Who? Why?”

“Six years, Kira.” I step closer again, and she presses back against the wall. “Six years of interrogation. Torture. Psychological warfare designed to break me into something useful or kill me trying. Do you want the details? Should I describe what it feels like to have your bones broken systematically? To be starved until you’re desperate enough to eat things that would make you vomit? To be—”

“Stop.” She’s crying harder now, her hands over her mouth. “Please stop.””Why? Does it hurt to hear?” My laugh is vicious. “Imagine how it felt to live through it. Imagine spending six years in hell while the woman who put you there built an empire and planned her wedding.”

“I didn’t put you there!” Her voice rises, desperate. “Maksim, I swear to God, I had nothing to do with your kidnapping. I thought you were dead. I wanted to die with you. I have never stopped loving you.”

“You took over your family’s organization within months of my disappearance.” I count off on my fingers. “Built a reputation as the Ice Queen. Made strategic alliances. Became one of the most powerful players in Moscow. All while I was rotting in a cell. You needed me out of the way so you could have what you always wanted.”

“I built power because I needed to survive!” She’s shouting now, too loud, but I can see she doesn’t care anymore. “Your family—Roman—blamed my father for your death. We were targets. I had to become strong, or we’d be killed. Don’t you understand? I was trying to survive, not capitalize on your death!”

The logic is sound. Semyon made the same argument. But I can’t afford to believe it.

“Convenient explanation.”

“It’s the truth!” She grabs for me again, but I step back. “I loved you. I love you. Why would I—”

“Don’t.” The word comes out harsh. “Don’t say that. Don’t cheapen what we had with lies.”

“It’s not a lie!” Her voice breaks. “I never stopped loving you. Even when I thought you were dead. Even when I had to become someone else to survive. You were always—”

“If you loved me, you would have searched harder. Questioned the story. Refused to believe I was dead.”

I’m grasping now, I know it, but I can’t stop. “Instead, you accepted it and moved on.”

“There was a body!” she shouts. “Roman identified it himself. There was evidence. A funeral. Your father died from grief six months later. What was I supposed to think?”

“You were supposed to know.” The words come from somewhere raw and wounded. “You were supposed to feel it if I was still alive. I would know if you were dead, Kira. My heart would know.”

Silence falls between us. She’s staring at me like I just revealed something I didn’t mean to show.

“You wanted me to know,” she says slowly. “Even with a body, even with evidence, you wanted me to somehow know you were alive. That’s not fair, Maksim. That’s not—”

“Fair?” I laugh, and it sounds broken. “Nothing about this is fair. Nothing about spending six years being destroyed while everyone I loved moved on with their lives is fair. But here we are.”

I can see her trying to find words, trying to reach me through the rage and pain. But I won’t let her.

Because if I let her in, if I believe her innocence, then I have to face what that means: that I’ve spent six years hating the wrong person. That I’m about to destroy the woman I love based on a lie.

That possibility is worse than any torture I endured.

I start fixing my clothing properly—straightening my tie, buttoning my jacket, erasing any evidence of what just happened. She watches me, and I can see the moment she realizes I’m leaving.

“Where are you going?”

“Back to the party.” I brush off my sleeves. “I came here to make a scene, remember? Let everyone know I’m back. Can’t do that hiding in a garden.”

“Maksim, please. We need to talk about this. About what really happened—”

“We’re done talking.” I turn to face her fully. “Here’s what’s going to happen: you’re going to go back to your engagement party. Smile for Roman. Play the dutiful fiancée. And I’m going to systematically destroy everything you’ve built. Your organization. Your reputation. Your power. All of it. I will destroy you.”

“Why?” The question comes out broken. “If you’re not sure I betrayed you, why would you—”

“Because I need to.” The truth slips out before I can stop it. “Because if I don’t have revenge, I don’t have anything.”

Understanding dawns in her eyes, and I see pity there. I can’t stomach her pity.

“I can help you.”

I smirk. “You already did. Thanks for breaking the dry spell, by the way. Six years is a long time. Good to know some things still work.”

I watch the words land like bullets. Watch her face crumple. Watch the Ice Queen crack.

Then I turn and walk away before I can take it back.

The party is in full swing when I step back into the ballroom.

Then someone sees me.

The silence spreads like ripples in water. One person stops talking. Then another. Then a whole cluster. Within seconds, the entire ballroom is quiet, everyone staring at the ghost who just walked out of the garden.

Let them stare. Let them see.

I move through the crowd with my head high, shoulders back, every inch the Barinov heir. People part for me like I’m carrying a plague, and maybe I am. The plague of uncomfortable truths and disrupted plans.

Then I catch sight of him.

Roman stands near the center of the room with a drink in his hand.He smiles at me, holding up his glass in invitation for me to join him. I walk to him. Let everyone watch this reunion. He pulls me into a hug.

“You’re alive. Thank God, you’re alive.”

The embrace is brief but witnessed by everyone in the room. When he pulls back, there are actual tears in his eyes.

“Good to see you again,” I say.

He puts one hand on my shoulder. “We have much to discuss.”

“Yes, we do.”

“But tonight, we celebrate.”

“Yes, I noticed. I hear congratulations are in order.”

“Yes.”

Roman’s hand remains on my shoulder as his eyes scan my face with what looks like genuine concern. “The scars,” he says quietly, his voice pitched low enough that only I can hear over the resumed murmur of conversation around us. “Maksim, what did they do to you?”

I resist the urge to pull away from his touch. “These?” I gesture vaguely at my face. “One of many.”

His jaw tightens, and I watch something dark flicker across his features. Anger, maybe. Or a good imitation of it. “Who was responsible? Tell me, and I’ll make them pay. Every single one of them will suffer for what they did to you.”

The vow sounds sincere. Passionate, even. But something about Roman’s righteous fury feels… rehearsed.

Still, I play along. “I appreciate the sentiment.”

“How did you escape?” He guides me toward a quieter corner of the ballroom, away from the worst of the staring. “Who did we bury?”

I shrug, keeping my expression neutral. “Eventually, I found an opportunity. Took it. Made my way back.”

“That’s…” He shakes his head. “That’s incredible. You must have been through hell.”

“Something like that.”

“And how long have you been back? In Moscow, I mean.” His eyes search mine, looking for something. Information. Confirmation. I’m not sure what.

“A few days. Took me some time to get my bearings. Figure out what I missed.”

“A few days.” Roman repeats the words slowly. I can practically see him calculating. Wondering what I’ve learned in those few days. Who I’ve talked to. What conclusions I’ve drawn. “You should have come to me immediately. I could have helped you.”

“I needed time to process.” I meet his gaze directly.

“Of course. Of course.” He squeezes my shoulder again before finally releasing me. “But you’re here now. That’s what matters. We have so much to discuss—your father’s affairs, the organization, your rightful place in everything.”

My rightful place. Interesting choice of words.

“I’m sure we do,” I say. “But tonight is your celebration. I wouldn’t want to take away from that.”

Something flashes in his eyes—relief, maybe—before he masks it with a smile. “Nonsense. Your return is cause for celebration too. In fact—” He raises his voice, addressing the room.

“Everyone! A toast!”

The crowd quiets immediately, all eyes turning toward us.

“Tonight, we celebrate not just my engagement,” Roman announces, his glass held high. “The return of a man I consider my family. My son!”

Son, my ass.

But I still stand beside him and let my reintroduction to the world be completed.

Kira

I make it three steps back into the ballroom before my legs start to give out.

The walls tilt. The chandeliers blur into streaks of light. I grab onto a marble column and hold on like it’s the only thing keeping me upright. Which, right now, it is.

Maksim is alive.

The thought keeps looping through my brain, unable to fully process.

My stomach lurches. I need to get somewhere private before I fall apart in front of everyone. The Ice Queen doesn’t collapse at engagement parties. She doesn’t let anyone see her break.

I force my legs to move, each step requiring conscious effort. People are staring—of course they are, they just watched a dead man walk through the ballroom—but I keep my chin up and my expression blank. The bathroom is only twenty feet away. I can make it twenty feet.

Fifteen.

Ten.

Five.

I push through the door and barely make it to the sink before my knees buckle. I catch myself on the marble counter and hold on for dear life.

The woman in the mirror looks like a stranger. Smeared makeup. Wild hair. A scrape on my shoulder that’s going to bruise. And my eyes—God, my eyes look like someone ripped my heart out and showed it to me still beating.

I can feel him inside me still. Feel the places where he gripped too hard, where his mouth bruised mine, where his body claimed mine against that wall. I can feel his release dripping down my thighs.

Evidence of my weakness. Of my need. Of the fact that even after six years, I’m still completely, desperately in love with him.

And he hates me.

The sob that tears out of me sounds like an animal in pain. I slap my hand over my mouth to muffle it, but another one follows. Then another. My whole body shakes with the force of grief I’ve been holding back for six years finally breaking free.

He’s alive. He’s alive and he thinks I had him killed.

I turn on the faucet, splashing cold water on my face. It does nothing to help. I look worse—mascara running, lipstick gone, the carefully constructed mask of the Ice Queen completely destroyed.

I grab paper towels and start cleaning up the damage. Wiping away makeup. Fixing my hair. Trying to erase the evidence of what just happened in the garden. But I can’t erase the marks on my skin. Can’t erase the feeling of his hands on me, his mouth, his body moving inside mine with fury and desperation.

Can’t erase the way he looked at me with such hatred.

I lean against the counter, taking deep breaths. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

“Kira?” Anya’s voice cuts through the fog followed by a soft knock on the door. “Let me in.”

Despite my desire to keep her away from the party, Roman demanded it and my father promised to have her here.

I move to the door and unlock it, hiding myself behind the door.

“Oh God, what happened to you?” Anya gasps.

“Shh. Don’t.”

I close and lock the door behind her.

I can’t find words. Can’t explain that my entire world just got thrown into a tailspin and I don’t know which way is up anymore.

I collapse to the floor.

I’m so tired of being strong.

“You’re bleeding.” She kneels beside me, her pale pink dress pooling around her.

The rough stone scraped my skin when he pressed me against the wall. Physical evidence of a moment that destroyed me more than his death if that was even possible.

“I’m fine,” I lie.

“You’re not fine. You’re crying. You’re hurt. What happened?”

She goes to the sink to get more paper towels.

It’s clear she’s only just arrived and hasn’t seen him. I don’t know where he is. Maybe he already left.

“He’s alive.” The words come out broken. “Anya, Maksim is alive.”

She freezes and then slowly turns to look at me. I can see her trying to determine if I’ve suffered some kind of head injury.

“I saw him. He’s here. He’s alive.”

“That’s… how is that possible?”

“I don’t know. He thinks—” My voice cracks. “He thinks I had him kidnapped. Tortured. He thinks I betrayed him so I could take power.”

“That’s insane.” Anya gently washes the scrape on my shoulder. “You loved him. Everyone knew you loved him.”

“He doesn’t believe that anymore. He spent six years in a Georgian prison planning revenge. Against me.”

“Did he hurt you?” she asks. “Did he attack you?”

I almost laugh. “Yes. But not in the way you think.”

A soft smile spreads over her lips. “I understand.”

“I’m so foolish.”

“We need to get you cleaned up,” Anya says, practical despite her shock. “Roman will notice if you’re gone too long. I have makeup in my purse.”

Roman. God. How do I face him now, knowing Maksim is in that ballroom watching?

But Anya’s right. I need to pull myself together.

I step in front of the mirror.

The woman staring back looks haunted. My lips are slightly swollen.

I rebuild it piece by piece. Concealer for the redness. Fresh lipstick to hide the evidence of Maksim’s mouth on mine. Hair pinned back into submission. By the time I’m done, the Ice Queen is back.

On the outside, at least.

“You don’t have to go back out there,” Anya says quietly. “We could leave. Say you’re sick.”

“And let Roman wonder what happened? Let him suspect something?” I shake my head. “No. I go back. I smile. I play my part.”

“Even with Maksim watching?”

“Especially with Maksim watching.” I meet my sister’s eyes in the mirror. “He wants to see me break. I won’t give him the satisfaction.”

It’s a lie. He’s already seen me break. Already knows exactly where to strike to make it hurt most.But he doesn’t need to see it again.

The ballroom feels different when I step back inside. Charged. Dangerous. Every conversation seems to be about the fact Maksim Barinov is alive.

The dead heir walking.

I scan the room and find him immediately, like my body has a compass that points to him regardless of my wishes. He’s near the bar with Roman, both of them holding drinks, both of them the picture of familial reunion.

But I can see the tension in Maksim’s shoulders. The way he holds himself ready for violence. The cold calculation in his eyes as he surveys the room.

Our eyes meet across the ballroom, and for a heartbeat, I see something flicker in his expression. Regret. An apology.

Then it’s gone, replaced by ice.

I force myself to look away first. To smile at someone whose name I can’t remember. To pretend my world didn’t just explode.

“There you are.” Roman appears at my elbow, his hand immediately going to my waist. “I was getting worried.”

“Just needed some air.” I keep my voice light. “The excitement was overwhelming.”

“I can imagine.” His fingers dig into my side. “Have you heard the news?”

“What news?” I ask.

“Ah, let me be the first to show you.” Roman guides me toward where Maksim stands. “Come. Let me properly introduce you.”

No. No, I can’t do this. Can’t stand there and pretend we’re strangers while my lips still burn from his kiss.

But I don’t have a choice.

Roman leads me across the ballroom like I’m a prize he’s displaying.

“Maksim,” Roman says warmly. “I don’t think you’ve been properly reintroduced to my fiancée. Kira Markov. Though I believe you knew each other before.”

The understatement is deliberate. Cruel. Roman knows exactly what we were to each other. He was one of the few that knew about us back then.

This is him twisting the knife. Showing Maksim that he won. That he’s taking what should have been Maksim’s.

Maksim’s eyes drift over me like I’m a stranger he’s mildly interested in. No recognition. No warmth. Nothing but cold assessment.

“We’ve met,” he says, his voice flat. “Long time ago. You look different.”

“People change.” I manage to keep my voice steady. “Circumstances change us.”

“They do.” He takes a sip of his drink. “Congratulations on your engagement. I’m sure you’ll be very happy together.”

The words are polite. Proper. Completely devoid of emotion.

Roman laughs, pulling me closer. “I’m certainly happy. She will give me many strong sons.”

He’s doing it on purpose. Rubbing in what Maksim lost.

“I’m sure,” Maksim agrees, his tone suggesting he’s commenting on the weather. “Though I’d watch your back, Uncle.”

Roman’s smile falters slightly. “Oh?”

“Well.” Maksim’s eyes finally meet mine, and they’re dead. Empty. “The Markov family has a history of eliminating their problems. Just ask my kidnappers. Or me, I suppose, since I’m the one who survived them.”

Roman chuckles. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Take it from someone with experience. There’s a good chance she’ll kill you eventually. Might want to sleep with one eye open.”

He says it casually. Like he’s suggesting Roman try the salmon.

Several people nearby have stopped pretending not to listen. This is going to be all over Moscow by morning.

“That’s quite an accusation,” Roman says, his voice dangerous now.

“Is it?” Maksim’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

I want to defend myself. Want to scream that I never betrayed him. But it’s pointless.

Maksim straightens his jacket. “If you’ll excuse me, I should make the rounds. Let everyone know the dead have risen. Enjoy your party.”

He walks away without looking back, leaving me standing there with Roman’s hand like a manacle on my waist.

“Well,” Roman says after a moment. “That was interesting.”Interesting. He thinks Maksim publicly calling me a murderer is interesting.

“He’s been through trauma,” I say, keeping my voice neutral. “He’s not thinking clearly.”

“Or he’s thinking very clearly.” Roman turns me to face him. “Tell me the truth. Did you have anything to do with his kidnapping?”

The question catches me off guard. “What? No. Of course not.”

“You don’t have to lie to me,” he says in a low voice. “I actually admire the idea.”

I glare at him. He knows I hate him. I’m never going to pretend otherwise when it’s just the two of us. I’ll fake it in front of these people, but he will always know I loathe him.

“Now then.” He tucks my hand into his arm. “Let’s finish this party.”

I catch glimpses of Maksim throughout the night. He’s working the room, talking to people, making connections. Planning something.

Every time our eyes meet, I see the same cold hatred.

The boy I loved is gone. Buried under six years of torture and rage.

And the man who returned wants me destroyed.

The party finally ends near midnight. I survive the last round of congratulations. I want nothing more than my warm bed.

I’m heading for the exit when Anya catches my arm.

“We need to talk,” she says urgently.

“Not here.” I glance around at the remaining guests. “Later. At home.”

“Now, Kira. Please.”

There’s something in her voice—desperation or fear—that makes me follow her to a quiet alcove.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’ve been thinking about this all night. We should run. Both of us. Right now. Before the wedding. Before Maksim can destroy you. Before Roman can—”

“We can’t run.” I squeeze her fingers. “I explained this. Roman would find us.”

“Then we go somewhere he can’t. America. Asia. Somewhere far enough that—”

“There’s nowhere far enough.” I wipe her tears with my thumbs. “And even if there was, Maksim would find me. You heard him tonight. He’s planning something. Running would just confirm his suspicions.”

“So what? Let him think you’re guilty if it means you’re alive!” Her voice breaks. “Kira, I can’t lose you.”

My heart cracks seeing her like this. My baby sister, who should be worried about boys and art and normal nineteen-year-old problems, reduced to begging me to run for my life.

“You’re not going to lose me,” I promise, even though I have no idea if it’s true. “I’m going to figure this out. Handle Roman. Handle Maksim. Keep us both safe.”

“How?” She searches my face. “How can you possibly handle all of this?”

“I don’t know yet.” The honesty feels necessary. “But I will. I always do.”

“Please.” She holds my hands tighter. “Please don’t marry Roman. We’ll find another way to save me. We’ll—”

“There is no other way.” I pull her into a hug. “I promise you, Anya—I will survive this. We both will.”

She cries against my shoulder, and I let her. Let her have this moment of fear and grief.

Then I pull back and fix her hair, wipe her face, rebuild her armor like I rebuilt my own.

“Go home,” I tell her. “In one week, you’ll be gone. Safe. Building a new life.”

“And you’ll be stuck here.”

“For now.” I manage a smile. “But not forever. I promise you that.”

She doesn’t look convinced, but she nods.

We leave separately—her with our father, me alone.

I need space to fall apart without witnesses.

The car ride home is silent. The driver knows better than to make conversation with the Ice Queen.

Maksim

The estate feels like a museum of my former life.

Two days since the engagement party, and I still can’t reconcile this place with the hell I survived. My old room is untouched. All the creature comforts I took for granted still grace the space. Soft bed. Expensive furniture. Views of Moscow that used to feel like looking at my future kingdom.

Now it just feels like a gilded cage.

Roman insisted I come home. Weird that he’s giving me permission to return to my home. Yes, my father is gone, but this is my home. If I hadn’t been ‘killed’ I would have inherited the place. I’m not entirely sure how Roman came to be in possession of Barinov property.

There was a lot I was still trying to understand.

The home once belonged to my grandfather and then my father inherited it as the new pakhan. I supposed Roman assumed that his role as the current head of the bratva entitled him to the property.

Maybe it did.

The door opens without a knock.

I sense her without needing to see her. I smell her. Feel her.

I don’t turn around. “Get out.”

“Maksim—”

“I said get out.” My voice comes out harsh, but I don’t soften it. “I have nothing to say to you.”

“Then listen.” Kira closes the door behind her. I can hear the soft click. “Please. Just listen.”

I turn to face her, and the sight hits me like it did in the garden. She’s beautiful—more beautiful than the memories that have plagued me every day for the last six years. She’s wearing simple clothes today, jeans and a sweater, her hair loose around her shoulders. She looks younger like this. Less like the Ice Queen.

More like the girl I used to love.

Used to. Past tense. Deliberate.

“Five minutes,” I say. “Then you leave.”

She nods, moving deeper into the room. I notice she keeps distance between us. Smart girl. Her eyes catalog everything. She has been in this room many times before. We were young and in love and couldn’t keep our hands off each other.

Looking around the room, I see what she sees. Every space we made love. The chair. The couch. The bed. The floor.

“What happened to you?” she asks quietly. “What did they do?”

The question opens something dark inside me. She wants to know? Fine. Let her know exactly what her betrayal cost.

“You want details?” I lean against the window frame, casual despite the rage building in my chest. “Sure. Why not? Let’s start with the kidnapping itself. I need to understand why you think I had something to do with it.”

I watch her face as I describe it—the ambush, the bag over my head, waking up in a concrete cell with no windows and one door that only opened when they wanted to hurt me.

“The first month was interrogation,” I continue. “They wanted information about the Barinov operations. Thought I’d break quickly—rich boy, soft life, never experienced real pain. They were wrong.”

She’s staring at me like she isn’t sure she believes me.

I decide to go even darker.

“When interrogation didn’t work, they got creative. Waterboarding. Electricity. Breaking fingers one by one and then letting them heal wrong just to break them again.” I hold up my left hand, showing the slightly crooked fingers. “This one took three tries before I stopped screaming.”

“Maksim, please—”

“No.” I cut her off. “You asked what happened. I’m telling you. Month two, they decided psychological torture was more effective. Isolation. Sensory deprivation. They’d leave me in darkness for weeks, then blast light and sound until I couldn’t tell what was real anymore.”

I push off the window and move closer. She holds her ground, but I see her throat working as she swallows.

“They showed me the evidence of your betrayal when I refused to believe it. Photos of you at family gatherings, smiling like I’d never existed. Documents showing your rise to power. Recordings of you making deals, building alliances. All while I rotted in that cell.”

“Those could have been faked—”

“You looked happy in the photos. Radiant. Like you got exactly what you wanted.”

Her face goes pale. “That’s not…I didn’t—”

“Didn’t what? Didn’t have me killed because you were done with me?”

She shakes her head. This time, there is emotion. Tears slide down her cheeks.

“Oh now, let’s not pretend you haven’t gotten everything you wanted. You’re marrying the king.”

“I didn’t—”

“Didn’t agree to marry him? Because you’re wearing his ring.” I grab her left hand, holding up the diamond that catches light.

She jerks her hand back. “You don’t understand the circumstances—”

“I understand perfectly.” I circle her slowly, predator assessing prey. “Your family was in debt. Disgraced. My disappearance created an opportunity. You took it. Built power. Made yourself valuable enough that Roman would marry you instead of destroying you. Smart strategy. Ruthless. I’d almost admire it if I wasn’t the one who paid the price.”

“That’s not what happened!” Her voice rises. “I built power to survive! To protect Anya! Your family blamed us for your death. We were targets—”

“Because you were responsible.” I stop in front of her. “Someone set me up, Kira. Someone sent me out there that night and made sure it was a clean grab. It was you. Your father.”

“No! I wouldn’t. I didn’t.”

“You did!” The shout explodes out of me. “You went from being my fiancée to being a power in your own right. The Ice Queen. Feared and respected. You wouldn’t have had that if I would have survived. My father was young. Healthy. You would have been stuck with me in this house with no real power.”

“I would have had you!” Her tears spill over. “I would have had the man I loved, the future we planned, a life that didn’t require becoming someone I barely recognize! You think I wanted this? You think I chose to be cold and calculating and alone?”

“You chose to survive,” I say coldly. “At my expense.”

“I chose to survive because I thought you were dead!” She’s crying openly now, and part of me—the part that remembers loving her—wants to comfort her. “There was a body, Maksim. Roman identified it himself. Your father died from grief. We had a funeral. What was I supposed to think?”

“You were supposed to question it. Investigate. Not just accept—”

“I was a teenage girl!” The words come out raw. “A young girl grief-stricken and being blamed for your murder by the most powerful family in Moscow. I didn’t have the luxury of investigation. I had to survive.”

The logic is sound. Semyon said the same thing. But I can’t afford to believe it.

“Let me tell you what happened after month three,” I continue, ignoring her tears. “They realized their basic torture methods weren’t enough to break me.”

I pull off my shirt, watching her eyes widen at the scars covering my torso. Burns. Knife wounds. The raised tissue of poorly healed injuries forming a roadmap of suffering across my skin.

“Every single one of these, I got while planning my revenge,” I say. “While promising myself that when I got free, I would make everyone who betrayed me pay. And you were at the top of that list.”

“I never betrayed you.” Her voice is barely a whisper. “I swear on everything I love—”

“Your sister?” I pull my shirt back on. “The one you’re supposedly protecting by marrying Roman? Here’s what I think: I think you’re using her as an excuse. A justification for choices you wanted to make anyway.”

Her hand connects with my face in a slap that rocks my head sideways. The second time she’s hit me. I’m almost impressed.

“Don’t you dare,” she hisses. “Don’t you dare question what I would do for Anya. She’s the only thing in this world that matters to me.”

“Not revenge? Not power?” I rub my jaw. “Because from where I’m standing, you’ve done pretty well for yourself on both counts.”

“I never wanted power!” She’s shouting now, past caring about volume. “I wanted you! I wanted the life we planned! And when that was taken from me, I did what I had to do to survive and protect my family! That’s it! That’s the whole story!”

“Convenient that survival made you rich and powerful.”

“Convenient that you survived to come back and destroy me.” She wipes her tears angrily. “Even knowing you’re planning my destruction, I’m glad you’re alive.”

The confession surprises me, but I refuse to show how happy that makes me.

“Your joy over me being alive means nothing.” I force the words out cold. “Your tears mean nothing. You want to know what I’ve been doing the past two days? Since the party?”

She just stares at me, tears still streaming.

“I’ve been dismantling your empire.” I let the words sink in. “Pavel switched sides yesterday. Took three of your best runners with him. Mikhail will be next—I’m meeting with him tomorrow. By the end of the week, half your organization will be working for Roman instead of you.”

Her face goes white. “You’re lying.”

“Am I?” I pull out my phone and show her messages. Confirmations from her people—her former people—agreeing to new arrangements. “I’ve spent six years planning this, Kira. Learning patience. Strategy. How to destroy someone piece by piece. And I’m using everything I learned on you.”

“Why?” The question comes out broken. “Maksim, I loved you.”

“Because I need this.” The truth slips out raw. “I spent six years surviving on the promise of revenge. It’s all I have. All I am now. Take that away and I’m just… broken.”

Understanding flashes in her eyes, and with it, pity.

I can’t stomach her pity.

“Here’s how this plays out,” I say, stepping closer until she has to tilt her head back to meet my eyes. “I’m going to systematically destroy everything you’ve built. Your organization. Your reputation. Your power. I’m going to leave you with nothing but Roman’s ‘generosity’ and your sister’s safety. And then I’m going to watch you realize that becoming the Ice Queen was pointless because you couldn’t protect what mattered.”

“Maksim—” She reaches for me. I catch her wrist, squeezing enough to leave marks.

“I’m going to break you,” I whisper. “The way I was broken. And when you’re at your lowest, when you have nothing left, I want you to remember that you did this. Your choices. Your betrayal. All of it.”

“I didn’t betray you,” she says again. She’s crying so hard she can barely speak. “But you’re never going to believe that, are you? No matter what I say, what evidence I provide, you need me to be guilty.”

She’s right. The truth of it sits heavy in my chest.

“Get out,” I say, releasing her wrist. “Before I do something we’ll both regret.”

“Like what? Admit you still love me?” Her laugh is bitter. “That fucking me in the garden felt right? That destroying me is destroying yourself?”

“Get. Out.”

She stares at me, her eyes shining with her tears. I see her making a decision. Then she nods once, sharp and final.

“Fine. Destroy me if you need to. Take everything I built. But know this, Maksim Barinov: when you finally figure out the truth, when you realize you were wrong about me, it’s going to destroy you worse than any torture you endured.”

She walks to the door, pauses with her hand on the knob.

“I loved you,” she says without turning around. “I still love you. And nothing you do to me will change that. Not because I’m guilty and trying to manipulate you. But because some things survive even the worst betrayals. Even the ones that never actually happened.”

Then she’s gone.

Kira

Maksim’s words loop in my head on repeat.

I’m going to break you the way I was broken.

The scars covering his torso. The dead look in his eyes when he described what they did to him. The cold certainty that I was responsible for all of it.

I barely make it inside my apartment before the sobs tear free.

Six years. Six years I’ve held myself together with ice and willpower and the absolute conviction that I had to be strong. Strong enough to survive in a world designed to destroy women like me.

But seeing what they did to him shatters me. My heart feels like splinters stabbing me in the chest.

I slide down the door and let myself break.

I sob like I did the day I found he was dead. I cry for the loss of the man I love all over again. Nothing I say will convince him otherwise because he needs me to be guilty. Needs the revenge he planned for six years to have a target.

How do I fight that? How do I prove innocence to someone who’s decided I’m guilty?

The worst part is that I still love him.

Even knowing he wants to destroy me. Even seeing the hatred in his eyes. Even after he systematically detailed how he’s going to dismantle everything I’ve built.

I still love him so much it feels like dying.

When he was dead, I grieved. I don’t know how I’ll survive him being alive and dead to me.

I cry until there are no tears left. Until my throat is raw and my eyes are swollen and I’m empty of everything except exhaustion.

Then I force myself to stand.

The Ice Queen doesn’t stay down. She adapts. Strategizes. Survives.

I wash my face in cold water, studying my reflection. Red eyes. Blotchy skin. The physical evidence of weakness I can’t afford.

But underneath it, I see something else: determination.

Maksim wants to destroy me? Fine. Let him try.

I’ll marry Roman like planned. Secure Anya’s safety. Get her to Paris where she’ll be protected from all of this.

And then I’ll kill my husband.

The thought should horrify me. Should make me recoil from what I’m planning.

Instead, it feels like the only clear thing in a world gone mad.

Roman Belsky is a monster. Three dead wives. A reputation for cruelty that makes even hardened criminals nervous.

He deserves what’s coming.

The original plan was always to kill him eventually. Take over the combined empires. Rule in my own right instead of as someone’s wife.

But now Maksim is back, and everything is more complicated.

If Roman dies, who takes over the Barinov bratva? In the normal line of succession, it would be Maksim—the rightful heir returned from the dead. But what happens to my organization? Does it get absorbed into his control? Do I become subordinate to the man who hates me?

Do I inherit as Roman’s wife?

I pace my apartment, thinking through scenarios.

If Maksim takes over and I’m his enemy, he’ll push me out completely. Strip me of power. Leave me with nothing including no ability to protect myself or Anya.

But if I stay married to Roman, I’m trapped in a cage with a predator.

The choice is impossible: be destroyed by the man I love or be destroyed by the man I’m forced to marry.

Unless I can find a third option.

I need to keep the organizations separated. Need to maintain my independence even after Roman’s death. That means securing loyalty now, before Maksim can steal it all.

I grab my phone and start making calls.

The first number rings six times before going to voicemail. Pavel—my most trusted lieutenant. The man I pulled out of a bad situation in Petersburg three years ago.

“Pavel, it’s Kira. Call me back. We need to discuss the new arrangements.”

I try to keep my voice steady. Professional. No hint of the desperation clawing at my throat.

The second call connects, but Mikhail’s voice is guarded. “Kira.”

“I need to meet. Tomorrow. Usual place.”

Silence on the other end. Long enough that I know.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says finally. His tone is apologetic but firm. “I’ve got a family to feed, Kira. I can’t afford to back the wrong horse.”

He disconnects.

I stare at the phone, fury and fear warring in my chest.

I try three more numbers. Two don’t answer. The third—Ruslan, who’s been with me since the beginning—at least has the decency to tell me to my face.

“I’m sorry, boss. But Maksim Barinov is back. The rightful heir.” His voice is heavy. “You know how this works. Power flows to power. Right now, you’re on the wrong side of it.”

“I built this organization,” I say. “Pulled you all up from nothing. Gave you opportunities you’d never have had otherwise. That counts for nothing?”

“It counts for a lot.” He sounds genuinely sad. “But not enough to bet against the Barinov heir and Roman combined. I hope you understand.”

He hangs up before I can respond.

I throw my phone across the room.

Maksim wasn’t bluffing. He’s systematically turning my organization against me, using his name and Roman’s power to convince them I’m a sinking ship.

And they’re all jumping overboard.

The only way to stop this is to find out the truth. I know I was not involved, but I’ve always wondered if my father was. The evidence brought against us wasn’t real.

At least, I didn’t think it was.

But what if there is a way to prove to Maksim it wasn’t me. I have no loyalty to my father. Not anymore. I will absolutely expose him if he had anything to do with what happened to Maksim.

It’s after midnight when I break into my father’s house.

Break in is generous—I still have keys. But he doesn’t know I’m coming. I need to search his study without interruption.

The house is dark and quiet. He’s asleep upstairs, probably drunk on expensive vodka he can’t afford but buys anyway.

I walk to the study that he pretends is a place he actually handles business. I lock the door behind me and get to work.

I start digging through the filing cabinet that I’ve been in before, but it’s old stuff. When I took over running things, I went digital. But my dad is old school. He’s too stupid not to leave paper trails.

Another reason I succeeded where he failed.

I find a ledger. At first, I ignore it, but then I take a closer look.

Payments. Large sums written in my father’s horrible handwriting. They start three months before Maksim’s disappearance and continue for six months after.

I photograph each page with my phone.

My father gambled a lot back then. This could all be bets and money he owed to people.

Or it could be more.

“What are you doing?”

I spin around. My father stands in the doorway in his bathrobe, his face red with fury.

“Getting answers.”

“Get out.”

“Where is all this money?” I ask and hold up the ledger. “You took money from someone—who?”

“Those were business investments!” He moves into the room, trying to grab the thing.

“Bullshit!” I dodge his reach, keeping the desk between us. “You were in debt. Desperate. But according to this, someone was giving you money. A lot of it!”

“Get out.” His voice is low. Dangerous. “You are not the head of this family. I let you play long enough. Get out of my house. I am taking back my power.”

I smirk. “You never had any power.”

I drop the ledger and walk to the door. “If you had something to do with Maksim’s abduction, I will find out. I will tell him. And he will kill you.”

I walk out of the house knowing there’s a very good chance I’ll never return to my childhood home. My relationship with my father is over. He’s not the man I remember from my childhood. He changed. I changed.

If I discover he took away the man I loved, I will not hesitate to exact revenge. I don’t need Maksim to do that for me.

I’ll do it myself.

Maksim

The private dining room at Oblomov’s reeks of expensive cigars and whiskey.

I watch the three men across the table. They’re all former lieutenants in Kira’s organization, now potential assets in mine. I’m building my own army. Not Roman’s. Mine. I calculate exactly how much pressure to apply. Too little and they’ll stay loyal to her. Too much and they’ll panic and warn her.

It’s a delicate balance.

“Gentlemen.” I lean back in my chair, projecting confidence I don’t entirely feel. “I appreciate you meeting with me.”

“With respect, Maksim, we’re loyal to Kira Markov. She’s been good to us.”

I pour vodka for all of us—a good vintage, expensive enough to show respect. “Because from where I’m sitting, she’s about to become Roman Belsky’s wife. Which means her organization becomes his. Which means you all become his. Have you thought about what that transition looks like for you?”

“We assumed—” Dmitri starts.

“That you’d keep your positions? Your territories? Your cut of the profits?” I shake my head. “Roman doesn’t work that way. He consolidates. Streamlines. Eliminates redundancy. Three weeks after that wedding, half of you will be out. The other half will be working for a fraction of what you make now.”

I can see the calculation happening behind their eyes. Fear and greed warring with loyalty.

“But here’s the thing,” I continue, leaning forward. “I’m back. And I’m offering a better deal. Work with me now, help smooth this transition, and when the dust settles, you’ll have better territories, better arrangements, and the backing of the Barinov name.”

“What kind of help are you looking for?” one asks, and I know I’ve got him.

“Information. Loyalty. When the time comes, I need to know you’ll follow the power instead of sentiment.” I meet each of their eyes in turn. “Kira built something impressive. I respect that. But she’s about to lose it all anyway. The question is whether you lose it with her or gain something better by making the smart choice now.”

“She won’t go down easy,” Dmitri warns. “The Ice Queen doesn’t break.”

“The Ice Queen is already cracking.” I inject just enough certainty into my voice. “I’ve seen it. She’ll be married soon. Pregnant. A mother. A wife. She will not be the leader you once knew.”

Silence as they process this.

“What exactly do you need from us?”

And just like that, I’ve won.

We spend the next hour discussing specifics. Territories they’ll control. Profit percentages. The timeline for switching their allegiance from Kira to me. By the time we finish, I’ve secured three more pieces of her organization.

Three more nails in the coffin I’m building.

They leave first—safer that way, less obvious. I sit alone with the bottle of vodka and the hollow victory.

This is what I wanted. What I planned for six years.

So why does it feel like I’m destroying something valuable instead of getting justice?

“She was devastated, you know.”

I look up.

Ruslan has returned.

“What?”

“After you disappeared. Kira.” He moves back into the room, closing the door. “I knew her family back then. Saw her at a few gatherings. She wasn’t the same for months. Maybe longer. She was destroyed. I honestly don’t know how she recovered. Everyone speculated she would take her own life.”

I don’t want to hear this. Don’t need his observations complicating the certainty I’ve built.

“People grieve,” I say flatly. “Doesn’t mean she didn’t cause it.”

“Maybe.” He pours himself another vodka. “It was real. She was broken. Genuinely broken. She lost a lot of weight.”

“Your point?”

“No point.” He downs the vodka. “Just an observation. From someone who’s been in this life long enough to know the difference between performance and pain.”

He leaves again, and this time he doesn’t come back.

I sit there with his words echoing in my head.

Semyon said the same thing. Everyone who saw her in those first months after my disappearance said she was devastated.

But grief can be faked. Manipulated. Used as a tool.

Can’t it?

I force myself to remember the evidence. Her father’s debts. Her rise to power. The perfect timing of it all.

It fuels my resolve to keep going.

I down the rest of my drink and leave the restaurant. Roman asked me to meet him. I’m not sure why, but to say I’m a little leery is an understatement.

I drive my new car, courtesy of Roman, down to the warehouse district.

The place hasn’t changed much in six years. I park the car and climb out. The familiar smell of tires, grease and filth greets me.

I stand across the street from the building where I was taken and can’t help but have a flashback.

An SUV with tinted windows pulls up behind me. Roman climbs out of the backseat.

“What’s this about?”

He raises his hand and makes a gesture. Soon, heavy machinery started rumbling down the road. I frown with confusion.

“It goes down. Now.”

“Goes down?”

“This place is nothing but bad memories,” he says. “It’s better to tear it down and build something new. You’re back. We will rebuild.”

I nod.

He gestures once again, and an excavator moves in. The noise of walls coming down fills the street. Dust rises in large plumes.

I watch and try to remember that night with perfect clarity.

The meeting had been called at the last minute. I should have known something was off. There wasn’t supposed to be a meeting.

And I remember Kira’s words. She told me to be careful. Why? Did she know? She never told me to be careful. Dmitri wasn’t there when I arrived at the warehouse. I haven’t told anyone about the text that pulled me from Kira’s bed—but she did.

Dmitri had been executed days after my disappearance. I wonder if they were working together, and she turned on him.

I have so many questions, but I know I can trust no one.

I’ve replayed that night a thousand times. Used it as fuel for my hatred. Proof that she set me up.

But standing here now, watching the building that held my last moments of freedom crumbling, I feel doubt creeping in. Doubt about her guilt.

She was young, relatively sheltered despite her family’s connections. In all the time I knew her, I never got the impression she was sneaky or vindictive.

“I want to see the original evidence,” I say. “The files from your investigation. All of it.”

Roman’s expression doesn’t change, but I see calculation flash through his eyes. “Of course. You have every right. I’ll have my people pull the files tomorrow.”

I leave the warehouse site with Roman’s promise echoing in my head.

The drive to Semyon’s apartment is automatic. I don’t consciously decide to go there—my hands just turn the wheel in that direction. Like my body knows I need someone who won’t lie to me, even if the truth is uncomfortable.

He opens the door before I can knock, takes one look at my face, and steps aside without a word.

I shed my jacket and drop into the chair by the window, staring out at Moscow’s lights without really seeing them.

“How are you doing?” Semyon asks from the kitchen. I hear the clink of glasses, the pour of vodka.

“Fine.”

“Bullshit.” He hands me a glass and settles into the chair across from me, putting the bottle in the center of the table. “Try again.”

I down the vodka in one swallow, welcoming the burn. “Kira came to see me. At the estate.”

Semyon’s expression doesn’t change, but I see his grip tighten on his glass. “And?”

“And nothing.” The words come out harsh. “She cried. Swore she never betrayed me. Gave me the same story everyone else does. That she still loves me.”

“Do you believe her?”

The question sits heavy between us. I should say no immediately. Should reaffirm my certainty in her guilt.

Instead, I pour myself another drink.

“I don’t know.” The admission feels like defeat. “I want to believe she’s guilty. Need to believe it. But every person I talk to says the same thing—that her grief was real. That she was destroyed.”

“Maybe because it’s true,” Semyon suggests quietly.

“Or maybe she’s a better actress than I gave her credit for.” I lean back, closing my eyes. “I showed her the scars. Told her exactly what they did to me in that prison. She cried like it physically hurt her to hear it.”

“Maybe it did.”

“Stop.” I open my eyes and glare at him. “Stop defending her. You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am on your side.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “That’s why I’m asking questions you don’t want to answer. Because watching you destroy the woman you love is destroying you.”

The words hit harder than they should. I stand, moving to the window to put distance between us.

“I fucked her,” I say, my voice flat. “In the garden at her engagement party. Pressed her against a wall and took her like I had every right.”

Semyon doesn’t respond immediately. “How did that feel?”

“Like coming home.” The truth rips out of me before I can stop it. “Like everything wrong in the world suddenly made sense again. Like I could breathe for the first time in six years.”

“Maksim—”

“And then I told her I hated her. That I was going to destroy her. That everything between us was just unfinished business.” I press my forehead against the cold glass. “I’m turning her organization against her. Taking her people one by one. By the time she marries Roman, she’ll have nothing left. And I’m doing it all while knowing it might be wrong.”

“What can I do to help?” Semyon asks. “Tell me what you need.”

I laugh, and it sounds broken even to my own ears. “I don’t know. Maybe I should just leave. Get out of Russia. Start over somewhere that doesn’t have her ghost around every corner.”

“You’d never leave.” His certainty is absolute. “You’d die first.”

He’s right. I know he’s right. The thought of running makes my stomach turn. I didn’t survive six years of hell just to give up now.

But I also don’t know how to move forward. Don’t know how to reconcile the hatred that kept me alive with the doubt that’s eating me from the inside.

“Roman’s pulling the investigation files tomorrow,” I say. “All the evidence that pointed to her family. Maybe that will help.”

“Or maybe it won’t tell you what you want to hear.”

I turn to face him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re looking for proof of her guilt because you need her to be guilty. Because if she’s innocent—” He stops, shaking his head. “If she’s innocent, then you’re destroying an innocent woman. The woman you love. For nothing.”

“She’s not innocent.” But the words lack conviction even as I say them.

“Are you sure?” Semyon stands. “Or are you just afraid of what it means if she is?”

I don’t answer. Can’t answer. Because he’s right, and we both know it.

“Tell me about the kidnapping,” Semyon says. “Walk me through it again. Every detail.”

“Why?”

“Because maybe if we go through it together, we’ll see something you missed.”

I drain my glass and start from the beginning. The text from Dmitri calling an emergency meeting. Leaving Kira’s bed in the middle of the night. Her words telling me to be careful.

“Wait.” Semyon holds up a hand. “She told you to be careful?”

“Yes.”

“Why would she do that if she knew you were walking into a trap?”

“To make herself look innocent.” But even as I say it, I hear how weak it sounds. “Or maybe she didn’t know the specifics. Just knew something was going to happen.”

“Or maybe she had a bad feeling and was worried about you.” Semyon’s watching me carefully. “Like someone who loved you might do.”

I shake my head, rejecting the implication. “Dmitri was executed days after my disappearance. That’s not a coincidence.”

“No, it’s not.” Semyon nods slowly. “So maybe Dmitri was involved. Maybe he set you up. And maybe whoever killed him was covering their tracks.”

“Or Kira had him killed to eliminate a witness.”

“Did she have that kind of power back then?” The question is pointed. “You knew her, Maksim. Could the eighteen-year-old girl you loved have orchestrated a kidnapping, a murder, and a cover-up? That’s impressive.”

I want to say yes. Want to insist she’s capable of anything.

But the truth is, I don’t know. The Kira I knew was fierce and intelligent, but she wasn’t ruthless. Wasn’t cold. That came later—after I was gone.

“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” I admit. The words feel like defeat. “Six years of certainty, and now I’m second-guessing everything.”

“That’s not weakness.” Semyon puts a hand on my shoulder. “That’s growth. That’s being willing to question your assumptions instead of blindly following them.”

“It feels like weakness.”

“It feels like torture,” he corrects. “Because you’re caught between what you want to be true and what might actually be true. And those two things are destroying each other.”

I sink back into the chair, suddenly exhausted. “All I know is that I can’t stop now. Can’t let go of the revenge that kept me alive. Even if it’s pointed at the wrong target.”

“That’s not living, Maksim. That’s just existing with purpose.”

“It’s all I have.”

“No.” His voice is firm. “You have more. You’re back. You’re free. You have choices now that you didn’t have in that cell. The question is whether you’re brave enough to make them.”

I stare at him, feeling the truth of his words settle like lead in my chest.

He’s right. I know he’s right.

But I don’t know if I’m brave enough to let go of the hatred that’s defined me for so long. Don’t know if I can survive without it.

“Stay here tonight,” Semyon says. “Sleep. Clear your head. Tomorrow you’ll get the files, and we’ll figure this out together.”

I nod, too tired to argue.

Kira

The warehouse is empty.

I stand in the center of the concrete floor where I’ve negotiated some of my most important deals, and the silence is deafening. No suppliers. No product. No Misha.

Just me and the echoing evidence of my crumbling empire.

My phone buzzes. A text from Misha:

Better opportunities. The words are a knife between my ribs.

Misha was supposed to be loyal. He swore he’d stand with me no matter what.

But apparently “no matter what” has limits.

And that limit is named Maksim Barinov.

I want to scream. Want to throw something. Want to call him back and demand answers I already know.

Instead, I stand in the empty warehouse and feel the walls of everything I built closing in.

This was supposed to be a routine meeting. Suppliers from the south bringing in a shipment I’d arranged weeks ago.

And now another piece of my organization has been stripped away.

I pull up my contacts and start calling. Five remaining lieutenants. Five people who should still be loyal.

Three don’t answer.

The fourth—a man that’s been with me for four years—at least has the decency to be honest.

“I’m sorry, Kira. But Maksim came to me yesterday. Made an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

“What kind of offer?” My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears.

“Better territory. Direct access to the Barinov network. Protection from Roman’s consolidation after the wedding.” He pauses. “He said you were going under anyway. That I could either go down with you or come out ahead. I’ve got a family to think about.”

“I understand. Good luck.”

I disconnect before he can offer more apologies I don’t want to hear.

Maksim isn’t just stealing my people. He’s already stolen them. The organization I built is gone. Absorbed into his control in less than a week.

And I walked right into it.

When I agreed to marry Roman, I was certain I’d come out on top.

But I didn’t account for Maksim returning from the dead.

The wedding is in two weeks. Two weeks until I become Roman’s wife.

And then what?

Even if I manage to kill Roman—and that’s a big if with Maksim watching my every move—what happens next? Does Maksim take over as the rightful Barinov heir? Does he decide to kill me? He’s already taking over everything. He hates me. Why would he keep me around?

If Roman dies and Maksim takes over, I’ll be under the control of a man who hates me. Who wants to destroy me. Who’s already proven he can strip away my power in days.

Either way, I lose everything.

I’m a dead woman walking.

The realization makes my legs weak. I sink down onto a crate. I can’t breathe.

Everything I built. Every sacrifice I made. Every cold decision, every ruthless move, every piece of myself I carved away to become the Ice Queen—all of it was for nothing.

Because in the end, I’m still just a pawn. Still just someone’s property to use and discard.

No. No, I refuse to accept that.

I force myself to stand. To think strategically instead of emotionally.

There’s one man that I’m certain Maksim wouldn’t have been able to reach.

I’m not going to call. This is a meeting that needs to happen in person.

I drive across Moscow with my mind racing. Planning arguments. Preparing for the conversation that might be my last chance to save something from the wreckage.

Jakob’s office is in a nondescript building in the industrial district. I’ve been here dozens of times over the years. He’s a German businessman that has an excellent cover. He owns a chain of stores, and no one suspects he’s anything but a businessman. Not even my people know about him.

I take the stairs to the third floor, my heels clicking on concrete. I smile at the woman sitting at the reception desk in his office.

“I’m here to see Jakob,” I say.

She looks…scared.

That’s not all that unusual.

I don’t bother to wait for permission. I walk down the short hallway and knock on the door.

“Come in.”

The voice isn’t Jakob’s.

I open the door, and my worst fear is confirmed.

Maksim sits behind Jakob’s desk like he owns it. Like he owns everything in this room, including the man standing nervously in the corner.

Jakob won’t meet my eyes.

“Kira.” Maksim leans back in the chair, completely at ease. “What a pleasant surprise.”

This couldn’t be happening.

“What are you doing here?” I snap.

Maksim’s smile was cold. Ruthless. “We were just finishing up some business. Weren’t we, Jakob?”

“Yeah.” Jakob’s voice is thick with guilt. “Just finishing up.”

“Jakob.” I turn to him, ignoring Maksim for the moment. “We’ve worked together for four years. I’ve always treated you fairly. Given you opportunities to grow. Protected you when others wanted you gone. That counts for something.”

“It does,” he says quietly. “But Maksim has explained the way things will change after the transition. I’ll lose everything I’ve built. Unless I make other arrangements now. I can’t afford to expose myself. Maksim has promised I can remain anonymous in this world.”

“So you’re abandoning me.” The words come out flat. “Like everyone else.”

“I’m surviving.” He finally meets my eyes. “Like you would do.”

The irony would be funny if it didn’t hurt so much.

Jakob walks to the door. “You two clearly have things to talk about. Feel free to use my office.”

He walks out, closing the door and leaving me alone with the man I know is my enemy.

“Well played,” I say. “It took you days to steal something that took me years to build.”

“Not stolen.” He stands, moving around the desk with predatory grace. “They’re choosing the winning side.”

“The winning side.” I laugh, and it sounds bitter. “Is that what you call working for the man who wants to destroy me?”

“I prefer to think of it as justice.” He’s circling me now. I turn to keep him in view. “Everything you built, you built on my grave. Now I’m taking it back.”

“I didn’t—” I cut myself off. We’ve had this argument. Nothing I say will convince him. “Believe what you want. Clearly you’ve already decided I’m guilty.”

“The evidence decided.” He moves closer. I hold my ground even though every instinct screams to retreat.

“So, now you’re working with Roman or are you taking my organization for yourself?”

“Roman wants to consolidate power. I want revenge.” Maksim shrugs. “Our goals align.”

“For now.” I take a step toward him, ignoring the danger. “But what happens after? Do you really think Roman will just let you hold onto something that he believes is his?”

“That’s my problem to solve.”

“Is it?” Another step. We’re too close now, but I can’t stop. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re being used. Roman is letting you destroy me, and once I’m out of the picture, you’ll be next.”

“Careful, Kira.” His voice drops to something dangerous. “Trying to turn me against Roman won’t save you.”

“I’m not trying to save myself.” The truth slips out. “I’m trying to save you. Because despite everything—despite the fact that you hate me, that you want to destroy me, that you’ve taken everything I built—I still love you enough to want you to survive this.”

The confession hangs between us like a live wire.

“Your love means nothing.” But his voice lacks conviction.

“I know.” I’m close enough now to see the scars on his face, the ones that disappear under his collar. Close enough to remember how his mouth felt on mine in the garden. “But I’m telling you anyway. Because when Roman eventually betrays you—and he will—I want you to remember that I warned you. Even while you were destroying me.”

“Stop.” He grabs my wrists, but gently. Not restraining. Just… touching. “Stop trying to manipulate me.”

“I’m not manipulating you.” I look up at him. I don’t bother hiding the pain. “I’m telling you the truth. The truth you’ve been refusing to hear since you came back.”

We stand there, too close, his hands on my wrists and my heart breaking all over again.

“I won’t stop until I’ve destroyed you.”

“You already have.” The admission costs me. “My organization is gone. My power is gone. In two weeks, I’ll be Roman’s wife. Everything you wanted to destroy is already destroyed. Congratulations.”

“Good.” But he doesn’t sound satisfied. Doesn’t sound victorious.

He sounds hollow.

“Is it?” I challenge. “Does my destruction make you feel better? Fill the void where your life used to be?”

“It’s supposed to.” His grip on my wrists tightens.

“And does it?”

“I don’t know.” The honesty surprises both of us. “All I know is that I can’t stop. Can’t let go of this need to make you pay. Even if—”

He doesn’t finish. Doesn’t need to.

Even if I’m innocent. Even if it’s destroying us both.

“Then do it,” I whisper. “Take everything. Destroy me completely. But know that when you’re standing in the ruins of what we could have had, it won’t bring back what you lost. It won’t heal what they broke. It’ll just make you like them.”

I pull my wrists free and head for the door.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“Home.” I pause at the threshold. “Good luck with your revenge, Maksim. I hope it’s worth it.”

I leave before he can respond. Before I can see whether my words landed or bounced off his armor.

The walk to my car feels like miles.

The Ice Queen is melting, and there’s nothing left underneath but a girl who loved the wrong man and paid for it with everything she had.

I drive home through Moscow traffic, and for the first time in six years, I have no plan.

No strategy.

No hope.

Just the countdown to a wedding that feels like a funeral.

And the knowledge that no matter what I do, I’ve already lost the only thing that ever really mattered.

Maksim

I walk into Roman’s office. He’s summoned me here for whatever reason. I assume he wants to gloat about his upcoming wedding. I’m not a fool. I know Roman knows about my history with Kira. He can pretend he forgot, but I know better.

I’m playing it cool for now. I’m not going to act jealous. I’m not jealous. He can do whatever he wants with whomever he wants.

“Sit, sit,” Roman gestures. “I’m just finishing up with some details for my bride’s sister.”

Anya.

Something triggers my radar.

“She’s going to Paris. Art school. That was the arrangement, yes?”

“Change of plans.” Roman’s smile makes my skin crawl. “I’ve arranged a better match for her. Artem Trotsky. He’s been looking for a wife, and the alliance would strengthen our position in the northern territories.”

The name hits me like ice water. The man is sixty years old. And like Roman, his past wives have mysteriously died. Before I died, there were rumors about Artem. He was known for breaking young women.

“She’s nineteen,” I say carefully.

“Perfect age.” Roman pours himself scotch. “Young enough to mold. Old enough to be useful. He’s willing to pay handsomely for the connection.”

“Kira agreed to marry you so Anya could go to Paris. That was the deal.”

“Deals change.” Roman’s smile sharpens. “Kira needs to understand that her compliance determines her sister’s fate. If she’s difficult during the transition—if she makes problems—then Anya’s situation becomes less pleasant. If she’s cooperative, we can revisit the Paris arrangement later.”

It’s brilliant strategy. Ruthless and effective. Using Anya as an ongoing leverage point instead of releasing her.

It’s also monstrous.

“Trotsky will destroy her,” I hear myself say.

“Probably.” Roman shrugs. “But that’s not our concern. Our concern is consolidating power and ensuring Kira’s cooperation. This arrangement accomplishes both.”

I should agree. Should see this as another tool to break Kira. She loves her sister—everyone knows it. Watching Anya marry a sadist will destroy her.

That’s what I want. Isn’t it?

“When?” I ask.

“Week after my wedding. Strike while the iron is hot.” Roman raises his glass. “To family alliances.”

I don’t drink.

I’m seeing Anya’s face from six years ago. Fifteen years old, braiding flowers into Kira’s hair at a family gathering. Both of them laughing. Anya looking at her older sister with pure adoration.

I remember thinking they were lucky to have each other. To have that bond. Their father was a piece of shit. Their mother long dead. Anya and Kira were close because they were all one another had. I didn’t know that kind of relationship.

Well, I thought I did.

I remember Anya asking me about wedding plans. Excited about being in the ceremony. Asking if she could paint something for our reception.

She was innocent. Sweet. Everything this world usually destroys.

“Problem?” Roman asks, watching me.

“No problem.” I force the words out. “Smart strategy.”

I get to my feet and walk out of the office. I feel something I haven’t felt since my return—guilt.

Kira deserves pain. Deserves to lose everything like I lost everything.

But Anya? What did she do except be born into the wrong family?

I tell myself it doesn’t matter. That collateral damage is inevitable. That I would have given my life for Kira once, but she took it. There’s a difference between sacrifice and theft.

I find myself pulling out my phone and typing before I can think better of it.

I send it to Kira’s number and immediately regret it.

What am I doing? Meeting her alone accomplishes nothing. Changes nothing.

Except I need to see her face when I tell her about Anya. Need to watch her realize that even her sister’s safety isn’t guaranteed anymore.

That’s why I’m doing this. For the satisfaction of watching her break.

Not because guilt is eating me alive.

Not because some part of me needs to warn her.

The phone buzzes.

Kira:

I leave the estate and drive around the city. I don’t know why, but I don’t feel like I can or should trust anyone. My eyes go to the rearview mirrors, keeping a close eye on the cars behind me. I want to make sure I’m not being followed.

When I get to our secret place that I know isn’t really a secret, I park in the trees and then walk to the spot.

The creek looks the same as it did six years ago.

Hidden from roads by a thick line of trees, accessible only by a path most people don’t know exists. The water runs clear over smooth stones. The sound used to calm me when the pressure of being the Barinov heir got too heavy.

I brought Kira here for the first time a few months after we got together. It was my spot before it was ours. I can still picture her sitting on the bank with her shoes off her dainty feet in the water. We would sit out here and talk for hours about nothing important.

It was one of the last times I remember being truly happy.

Now I’m back, and the memory tastes like poison.

She arrives just before sunset.

When she sees me standing by the water, she stops about ten feet away. Strategic distance. Close enough to talk, far enough to run if necessary.

I’d catch her, but it would give her a good head start.

“You came,” I observe.

“You summoned.” Her voice is cold. “Are you planning to kill me? Because if so, I’d appreciate getting it over with. I have a dress fitting tomorrow and I’d hate to miss it. Rather, I would love to miss it, but not if my corpse is rotting under some trees.”

“Not planning to kill you.” I turn to face her fully. “Though the thought has appeal.”

“I’m sure.” She crosses her arms. “So what is this? Another chance to tell me how you’re destroying my organization? Because I’m aware. Do you want a gold star? Maybe a cookie? Get on with it.”

My girl’s fight is back.

I like it.

But I’m about to destroy her.

“If you’ve got a glass of vodka—”

“What do you want, Maksim? Why am I here?”

“Roman changed the arrangement.” The words come out harsher than intended. There’s nothing gentle about it. “About Anya.”

Her head snaps toward me. Her entire body stiffens. “What?”

“She’s not going to Paris.”

“What do you mean?” Her words are so faint I barely hear them.

“He’s arranged a marriage instead. To Artem Trotsky.”

The color doesn’t just drain from her face—it vanishes. She actually sways on her feet.

“No.” The word comes out strangled. “That wasn’t the deal. She goes to Paris. That was the only reason I agreed to—”

“Roman doesn’t care about deals.” I cut her off. “He cares about leverage. As long as Anya’s fate is uncertain, you’ll cooperate. The moment she’s safe in Paris, you become unpredictable.”

“Trotsky will kill her.” Kira’s voice breaks. “He’ll destroy her. She’s nineteen. She’s innocent. She’s—”

“Your sister. I know.” The guilt twists harder. “Which is why Roman chose him. Maximum leverage.”

She’s shaking now. Fury and fear warring in her expression. “You agreed to this. You sat in that meeting and agreed to let him marry my baby sister to a monster.”

It’s not a question. Just an accusation I can’t deny.

“The decision was made without me.”

“Why?” She takes a step toward me. “Maksim, I get that you hate me. I understand you want to destroy me. But Anya? What did she ever do to you?”

“She hasn’t done anything to me. She exists as leverage. She’s collateral damage.”

“Collateral damage.” Kira’s laugh is wild. “That’s what you call my sister? The girl you used to bring books to? The one you helped with her art projects? The one who cried when she heard you died because she loved you like a brother?”

I force down the regret. “That was before everything changed.”

“She didn’t change!” Kira’s shouting now. “She’s still that same girl! Still innocent! Still everything good in this fucking world! And you’re going to let Roman destroy her to hurt me?”

“You destroyed me to get power,” I shoot back. “Why is this different?”

“Because I didn’t!” The scream tears out of her. “How many times do I have to tell you? I didn’t betray you!”

We’re too close now. I don’t remember closing the distance but we’re almost touching.

“You were marrying him anyway,” I snarl. “Roman would have taken your organization with or without me. At least this way I get the satisfaction of watching it happen.”

“My organization was my only shot at survival!” Her hands fist in my jacket. “Don’t you understand? Without power, I’m nothing in this world. Just another woman to be used and discarded. At least with my organization, I had leverage. Had options. Had a chance of killing Roman before he could kill me!”

The admission stops me cold. “You were planning to kill him?”

“Of course I was planning to kill him!” She’s crying now, furious tears. “Did you really think I’d just roll over and accept being his wife? That I’d let him control me? I was going to marry him, get Anya to safety, and then put a bullet in his head!”

“And take over his empire,” I finish.

“And survive!” She shakes me. “Not for power! Not for glory! To fucking survive in a world that was trying to destroy me!”

I grab her wrists, stopping the shaking but not pulling her away.

We’re breathing hard. Standing too close. Her hands still gripping my jacket. My fingers are on her pulse at her wrist. Her heart is racing.

“I don’t know what you are anymore.” My voice comes out rough. “I thought I knew you. Thought I understood you. I hate you, Kira.”

“I never betrayed you.” Her eyes search mine. “I swear on Anya’s life—on everything I love—I never betrayed you.”

The oath hits different than all her previous denials. Because swearing on Anya means something. That girl is the only thing Kira actually loves.

“Then who did?” The question I’ve been avoiding. “If not you, then who sold me out?”

“I don’t know.” Frustration bleeds through her tears.

“That doesn’t make you innocent,” I say, but the conviction is weaker.

“It makes me a victim.” Her voice softens. “Like you. We’re both victims of whatever someone orchestrated.”

“I can’t—” I don’t finish. Can’t admit that I’m starting to believe her.

“Can’t what? Can’t admit you might be wrong?” She’s watching my face. “Or can’t admit you still love me?”

The question hangs between us like a live grenade.

“I don’t love you.” The lie tastes bitter.

“Liar.” She tilts her head up, her eyes searching mind. “You hate me and love me. Just like I hate you and love you. We’re trapped in this thing neither of us wanted.”

“I hate what you did to me.” My hands tighten on her wrists.

“I hate what you think I did.” Her voice breaks. “And I hate that nothing I say will convince you otherwise.”

We stand there at an impasse. The past and present colliding in the space between us.

Then somehow—I don’t know who moves first—we’re kissing.

It’s not gentle like it used to be. Not sweet or tender. It’s fury and pain and violent.

Her hands are in my hair tugging hard. My hands release her wrists and drop to her waist. We’re trying to hurt each other or heal each other or maybe both simultaneously.

When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard.

“This doesn’t change anything,” I lie.

“I know.” She touches my face, tracing the scar through my eyebrow. “But for just this moment, can we pretend it does?”

I should say no. Should push her away and stick to my plan.

Instead, I kiss her again.

Because apparently, some things survive even six years of torture and hatred.

Some things refuse to die no matter how much you want them to.

Like love.

Damnit.

Kira

“Kira.” My name on his lips sends shivers running down my spine.

“Don’t talk.” I pull him closer. “Just—don’t.”

Because if we talk, we’ll remember all the reasons this is wrong. That he hates me. That I’m marrying another man. That we’re enemies in a war neither of us wanted.

But right now, I don’t care about any of it.

His hands slide under my sweater, finding bare skin.

I’m already pulling his jacket off, letting it fall to the ground.

He makes a sound—half groan, half growl—and then he’s walking me backward until my back hits a tree. The bark is rough through my sweater, grounding me in this moment. Making it real.

His mouth moves to my neck, finding the spot that always made me melt. Still does. My head falls back, giving him access. I feel his teeth graze my skin.

“I hate you,” he murmurs against my throat.

“I hate you too.” My hands are working his belt, desperate to feel him. “So much.”

“Good.” He yanks my sweater over my head, tossing it aside. His eyes rake over me, dark with need. “Because this doesn’t mean forgiveness.”

“I don’t want forgiveness.” I reach for his shirt, pulling it free. “I want you.”

He captures my wrists, pinning them above my head with one hand. The position leaves me vulnerable, exposed. At his mercy.

I should be afraid. Should remember that this man wants to destroy me.

Instead, I arch into him.

“Say it again,” he demands, his free hand tracing down my ribs to my waist. “Tell me you want me.”

“I want you.” The words come out desperate. Honest. “I’ve wanted you every single day for six years.”

Something breaks in his expression. The cold hatred cracks, revealing the raw need underneath. He releases my wrists to cup my face, his thumbs brushing away tears I didn’t realize were falling.

“Kira.” He sounds angry. Furious. “What are you doing to me?”

“The same thing you’re doing to me.” I pull him down for another kiss. “Destroying everything.”

This kiss is different. Slower. Deeper. Like we’re trying to memorize each other through touch alone.

His hands move to my jeans, working the button and zipper. This is different from the garden. Neither wants to admit we want this.

“Tell me to stop.” His fingers slip beneath my panties, finding me already wet. “Tell me this is wrong.”

“It is wrong.” I gasp as he strokes me. “Do it anyway.”

He makes that sound again—the one that’s pure frustrated need—and drops to his knees.

The sight of him like this—Maksim Barinov on his knees before me—would be powerful if I had any brain cells left. But he’s pulling my jeans and panties down, and I can’t think about power dynamics or who’s winning this war between us.

I can only feel.

His mouth finds me, and I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out. We’re outside. Anyone could stumble across this spot. But I can’t bring myself to care.

His tongue works my clit with devastating precision. He remembers exactly how I like it—the pressure, the rhythm, the way I need him to—

“Maksim.” My hands fist in his hair. “Please.”

He looks up at me, and the sight of him between my thighs, his eyes dark with desire and something that might be love, nearly undoes me.

“Please what?” His breath ghosts over sensitive flesh. “Tell me what you need.”

“You.” The word breaks. “I need you.”

He stands abruptly, leaving me teetering on the edge. I whimper at the loss. But then he’s turning me around, pressing my palms flat against the tree trunk.

“Don’t move.” His voice is rough. Commanding. “Keep your hands right there.”

I hear his zipper. Feel him behind me, hard and ready. His hand slides up my spine, into my hair, gripping just hard enough to send pleasure-pain shooting through me.

“Last chance to stop this.” He positions himself at my entrance. “Once I’m inside you, I won’t be gentle.”

“I don’t want gentle.” I push back against him. “I want you to make me feel something other than this emptiness.”

He enters me in one brutal thrust that steals my breath. I cry out, the sound swallowed by the evening air.

“Fuck.” His hand tightens in my hair. “You feel—”

He doesn’t finish. Just pulls back and drives into me again. Setting a punishing rhythm that has me seeing stars.

This isn’t making love. This is fury and grief being channeled into something physical. Something we can control.

His free arm wraps around my waist, holding me steady as he takes me. Each thrust drives me harder against the tree. The bark scrapes my palms but I don’t care. Can’t care about anything except the feeling of him inside me. He’s the only man I’ve ever been with. The only man I will ever want.

And that kills me.

“Is this what you wanted?” His voice is ragged. “Is this what you missed?”

“Yes.” I’m crying again, but I don’t know if it’s from pleasure or pain or the sheer relief of having him back. “God, yes.”

He releases my hair to grip my hips with both hands. The new angle lets him go deeper, hitting spots that make me moan.

“You’re mine.” The words come out possessive. Absolute. “No matter who you marry, no matter what happens, you’re mine.”

“I’m yours.” The admission costs me everything. “I’ve always been yours.”

He makes a sound like I’ve wounded him. His rhythm falters, becomes less controlled. More desperate.

His hand slides down my belly with his strong fingers reaching out to find my clit, circling with perfect pressure. Pressure builds low in my belly.

“Come for me.” It’s not a request. “Let me feel it.”

The orgasm hits like lightning. I cry out his name as my body clenches around him. He follows seconds later, his own release hot inside me as he buries himself deep.

We stay frozen like that—him buried inside me, both of us breathing hard, our bodies trembling from the intensity.

Slowly, he withdraws.

He turns me around gently, his hands steadying me when my legs threaten to give out. His expression is complicated—satisfaction and regret and something that might be tenderness.

“Kira—”

“Don’t.” I put my fingers over his lips. “Don’t ruin this with words. Not yet.”

He kisses my fingers instead. Then my palm. Then pulls me against his chest, holding me with tenderness instead of someone he wants to destroy.

My hand drops to his bare chest. His scars are everywhere—raised lines across his chest, his ribs, his back. A roadmap of torture written on skin I used to know by heart. I trace them with shaking fingers, each one a reminder of what he endured. What he thinks I caused.

The guilt threatens to choke me.

“Don’t.” He catches my hand. “Don’t look at them like that.”

“Like what?”

“Pity. Regret.” His voice is rough. “Like you feel guilty.”

“I do feel guilty.” The admission tears free. “Not because I caused them. But because I couldn’t prevent them. Couldn’t save you.”

“You didn’t want to save me.” His mouth finds my throat. “You wanted me gone.”

“That’s not true.” I arch as his teeth graze my skin. “That was never true.”

“Liar.”

“Maksim.” His name breaks on a sob. “God, I’ve missed you.”

“Don’t.” His hand tangles in my hair, forcing me to look into his eyes. “Don’t make this more than it is.”

But it already is more. Has always been more. This hatred can’t erase what we were.

What we still are, despite everything.

He steps away once again. I reach out. It’s a natural reaction. My hand lands on his hip. Another jagged, raised scar goes from his waist down his thigh.

“What did this?” My voice comes out strangled. It’s too wide. I know it should have been stitched closed. But it hadn’t been. The healing process would have been fraught with infection and pain.

“Broken glass.” He doesn’t look at me. “They liked to get creative when the regular methods stopped working.”

I trace another scar. And another. Each one a story of suffering I couldn’t prevent.

“This changes nothing,” he says finally, his voice rough.

He moves away from me, and the brief moment of intimacy is over.

We dress in silence.

“About Anya.”

The name makes me freeze. “What about her?”

“Roman’s serious. The marriage. It’s happening unless—” He stops.

“Unless what?” I whirl to face him. “Unless I’m a good little wife? Unless I don’t cause problems? That’s the leverage, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” At least he’s honest about it.

“And you’re going to let it happen.” The realization makes me sick. “You’re going to let him marry my nineteen-year-old sister to a sadist who will destroy her.”

“I’m not letting anything happen.” His voice hardens. “Roman makes the decisions. I’m just—”

“Participating.” The word comes out vicious. “You’re participating in the destruction of an innocent girl to hurt me.”

I shove his chest, and he barely moves. “How dare you. How fucking dare you. Anya never did anything to you. She loved you. And this is how you repay that?”

“It’s not my decision—”

“It is your decision!” I shove him again. “You could stop it. You have Roman’s ear. His trust. You could convince him to send her to Paris like we agreed. But you won’t. Because hurting me is more important than protecting an innocent girl.”

Guilt flashes across his face—quick but unmistakable. For just a second, I see my Maksim under all that rage and pain.

“Roman wants leverage over you,” he says coldly. “Anya provides that. It’s strategy. Don’t fuck up and she’ll be fine.”

“It’s evil.” I’m crying now, furious tears. “And you’re complicit in it.”

“Then I’m complicit. Add it to my list of sins.”

“Is there nothing good left in you?” The question comes out broken. “Nothing of the man you used to be? Because that man would never—”

“That man died in Georgia!” His shout echoes across the water. “They killed him piece by piece! What came back is what survived! And what survived doesn’t give a fuck about being good!”

We stare at each other.

“I’m marrying Roman to save her,” I say finally. “That was the deal. I give up everything, and Anya gets to go to France. You’re taking that away.”

“Roman’s taking it away. Not me.”

“You’re helping him!” I advance on him. “You’re destroying my network, so I have no leverage. No resources. No way to protect her if things go wrong. You’re making sure I’m completely powerless.”

He shrugs like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

That’s what he wants me to believe he feels.

“Somewhere under all that rage, you know it, I can see the guilt,” I whisper. “The part of you that knows Anya is innocent and doesn’t deserve this.”

The guilt flickers again. Stronger this time.

I press my advantage. “If you stopped destroying my network, I’d have a chance. A way to protect her. To get her out if things go wrong. I swear, I won’t go anywhere. I’ll marry Roman. Just help me get her out of here.”

For a moment, I think I’ve reached him. Think the man I loved is still there under the armor.

And then anger flashes through his eyes, wiping out the guilt. “You want to save your sister? Convince Roman to honor the original deal. But stop trying to manipulate me with guilt.”

“I’m not manipulating you!” I stand my ground even though he’s trying to intimidate me. “I’m trying to reach whatever humanity you have left! Trying to make you see that Anya is innocent!”

“Everyone’s innocent until they’re not.” His voice is dead. Cold. “Your father seemed innocent too.”

I roll my eyes. He’s fishing for information. Confirmation. I have my suspicions, but nothing solid.

And I’m certainly not telling him anything. He’ll just twist it back around to indict me.

“My father is weak and stupid.” I refuse to defend him. “But I’m not my father. And Anya definitely isn’t.”

“Doesn’t matter.” He starts walking away. “I warned you. The rest is up to you.”

“Maksim, please!”

He doesn’t stop walking.

I watch him go. I want to scream until my throat bleeds.

Ten minutes ago, we were tangled together, and I thought—hoped—that maybe we could find our way back to each other. That sex would crack his armor enough to reach the man underneath.

But I was wrong.

“Kira.” My name on his lips sends shivers running down my spine.

“Don’t talk.” I pull him closer. “Just—don’t.”

Because if we talk, we’ll remember all the reasons this is wrong. That he hates me. That I’m marrying another man. That we’re enemies in a war neither of us wanted.

But right now, I don’t care about any of it.

His hands slide under my sweater, finding bare skin.

I’m already pulling his jacket off, letting it fall to the ground.

He makes a sound—half groan, half growl—and then he’s walking me backward until my back hits a tree. The bark is rough through my sweater, grounding me in this moment. Making it real.

His mouth moves to my neck, finding the spot that always made me melt. Still does. My head falls back, giving him access. I feel his teeth graze my skin.

“I hate you,” he murmurs against my throat.

“I hate you too.” My hands are working his belt, desperate to feel him. “So much.”

“Good.” He yanks my sweater over my head, tossing it aside. His eyes rake over me, dark with need. “Because this doesn’t mean forgiveness.”

“I don’t want forgiveness.” I reach for his shirt, pulling it free. “I want you.”

He captures my wrists, pinning them above my head with one hand. The position leaves me vulnerable, exposed. At his mercy.

I should be afraid. Should remember that this man wants to destroy me.

Instead, I arch into him.

“Say it again,” he demands, his free hand tracing down my ribs to my waist. “Tell me you want me.”

“I want you.” The words come out desperate. Honest. “I’ve wanted you every single day for six years.”

Something breaks in his expression. The cold hatred cracks, revealing the raw need underneath. He releases my wrists to cup my face, his thumbs brushing away tears I didn’t realize were falling.

“Kira.” He sounds angry. Furious. “What are you doing to me?”

“The same thing you’re doing to me.” I pull him down for another kiss. “Destroying everything.”

This kiss is different. Slower. Deeper. Like we’re trying to memorize each other through touch alone.

His hands move to my jeans, working the button and zipper. This is different from the garden. Neither wants to admit we want this.

“Tell me to stop.” His fingers slip beneath my panties, finding me already wet. “Tell me this is wrong.”

“It is wrong.” I gasp as he strokes me. “Do it anyway.”

He makes that sound again—the one that’s pure frustrated need—and drops to his knees.

The sight of him like this—Maksim Barinov on his knees before me—would be powerful if I had any brain cells left. But he’s pulling my jeans and panties down, and I can’t think about power dynamics or who’s winning this war between us.

I can only feel.

His mouth finds me, and I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out. We’re outside. Anyone could stumble across this spot. But I can’t bring myself to care.

His tongue works my clit with devastating precision. He remembers exactly how I like it—the pressure, the rhythm, the way I need him to—

“Maksim.” My hands fist in his hair. “Please.”

He looks up at me, and the sight of him between my thighs, his eyes dark with desire and something that might be love, nearly undoes me.

“Please what?” His breath ghosts over sensitive flesh. “Tell me what you need.”

“You.” The word breaks. “I need you.”

He stands abruptly, leaving me teetering on the edge. I whimper at the loss. But then he’s turning me around, pressing my palms flat against the tree trunk.

“Don’t move.” His voice is rough. Commanding. “Keep your hands right there.”

I hear his zipper. Feel him behind me, hard and ready. His hand slides up my spine, into my hair, gripping just hard enough to send pleasure-pain shooting through me.

“Last chance to stop this.” He positions himself at my entrance. “Once I’m inside you, I won’t be gentle.”

“I don’t want gentle.” I push back against him. “I want you to make me feel something other than this emptiness.”

He enters me in one brutal thrust that steals my breath. I cry out, the sound swallowed by the evening air.

“Fuck.” His hand tightens in my hair. “You feel—”

He doesn’t finish. Just pulls back and drives into me again. Setting a punishing rhythm that has me seeing stars.

This isn’t making love. This is fury and grief being channeled into something physical. Something we can control.

His free arm wraps around my waist, holding me steady as he takes me. Each thrust drives me harder against the tree. The bark scrapes my palms but I don’t care. Can’t care about anything except the feeling of him inside me. He’s the only man I’ve ever been with. The only man I will ever want.

And that kills me.

“Is this what you wanted?” His voice is ragged. “Is this what you missed?”

“Yes.” I’m crying again, but I don’t know if it’s from pleasure or pain or the sheer relief of having him back. “God, yes.”

He releases my hair to grip my hips with both hands. The new angle lets him go deeper, hitting spots that make me moan.

“You’re mine.” The words come out possessive. Absolute. “No matter who you marry, no matter what happens, you’re mine.”

“I’m yours.” The admission costs me everything. “I’ve always been yours.”

He makes a sound like I’ve wounded him. His rhythm falters, becomes less controlled. More desperate.

His hand slides down my belly with his strong fingers reaching out to find my clit, circling with perfect pressure. Pressure builds low in my belly.

“Come for me.” It’s not a request. “Let me feel it.”

The orgasm hits like lightning. I cry out his name as my body clenches around him. He follows seconds later, his own release hot inside me as he buries himself deep.

We stay frozen like that—him buried inside me, both of us breathing hard, our bodies trembling from the intensity.

Slowly, he withdraws.

He turns me around gently, his hands steadying me when my legs threaten to give out. His expression is complicated—satisfaction and regret and something that might be tenderness.

“Kira—”

“Don’t.” I put my fingers over his lips. “Don’t ruin this with words. Not yet.”

He kisses my fingers instead. Then my palm. Then pulls me against his chest, holding me with tenderness instead of someone he wants to destroy.

My hand drops to his bare chest. His scars are everywhere—raised lines across his chest, his ribs, his back. A roadmap of torture written on skin I used to know by heart. I trace them with shaking fingers, each one a reminder of what he endured. What he thinks I caused.

The guilt threatens to choke me.

“Don’t.” He catches my hand. “Don’t look at them like that.”

“Like what?”

“Pity. Regret.” His voice is rough. “Like you feel guilty.”

“I do feel guilty.” The admission tears free. “Not because I caused them. But because I couldn’t prevent them. Couldn’t save you.”

“You didn’t want to save me.” His mouth finds my throat. “You wanted me gone.”

“That’s not true.” I arch as his teeth graze my skin. “That was never true.”

“Liar.”

“Maksim.” His name breaks on a sob. “God, I’ve missed you.”

“Don’t.” His hand tangles in my hair, forcing me to look into his eyes. “Don’t make this more than it is.”

But it already is more. Has always been more. This hatred can’t erase what we were.

What we still are, despite everything.

He steps away once again. I reach out. It’s a natural reaction. My hand lands on his hip. Another jagged, raised scar goes from his waist down his thigh.

“What did this?” My voice comes out strangled. It’s too wide. I know it should have been stitched closed. But it hadn’t been. The healing process would have been fraught with infection and pain.

“Broken glass.” He doesn’t look at me. “They liked to get creative when the regular methods stopped working.”

I trace another scar. And another. Each one a story of suffering I couldn’t prevent.

“This changes nothing,” he says finally, his voice rough.

He moves away from me, and the brief moment of intimacy is over.

We dress in silence.

“About Anya.”

The name makes me freeze. “What about her?”

“Roman’s serious. The marriage. It’s happening unless—” He stops.

“Unless what?” I whirl to face him. “Unless I’m a good little wife? Unless I don’t cause problems? That’s the leverage, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” At least he’s honest about it.

“And you’re going to let it happen.” The realization makes me sick. “You’re going to let him marry my nineteen-year-old sister to a sadist who will destroy her.”

“I’m not letting anything happen.” His voice hardens. “Roman makes the decisions. I’m just—”

“Participating.” The word comes out vicious. “You’re participating in the destruction of an innocent girl to hurt me.”

I shove his chest, and he barely moves. “How dare you. How fucking dare you. Anya never did anything to you. She loved you. And this is how you repay that?”

“It’s not my decision—”

“It is your decision!” I shove him again. “You could stop it. You have Roman’s ear. His trust. You could convince him to send her to Paris like we agreed. But you won’t. Because hurting me is more important than protecting an innocent girl.”

Guilt flashes across his face—quick but unmistakable. For just a second, I see my Maksim under all that rage and pain.

“Roman wants leverage over you,” he says coldly. “Anya provides that. It’s strategy. Don’t fuck up and she’ll be fine.”

“It’s evil.” I’m crying now, furious tears. “And you’re complicit in it.”

“Then I’m complicit. Add it to my list of sins.”

“Is there nothing good left in you?” The question comes out broken. “Nothing of the man you used to be? Because that man would never—”

“That man died in Georgia!” His shout echoes across the water. “They killed him piece by piece! What came back is what survived! And what survived doesn’t give a fuck about being good!”

We stare at each other.

“I’m marrying Roman to save her,” I say finally. “That was the deal. I give up everything, and Anya gets to go to France. You’re taking that away.”

“Roman’s taking it away. Not me.”

“You’re helping him!” I advance on him. “You’re destroying my network, so I have no leverage. No resources. No way to protect her if things go wrong. You’re making sure I’m completely powerless.”

He shrugs like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

That’s what he wants me to believe he feels.

“Somewhere under all that rage, you know it, I can see the guilt,” I whisper. “The part of you that knows Anya is innocent and doesn’t deserve this.”

The guilt flickers again. Stronger this time.

I press my advantage. “If you stopped destroying my network, I’d have a chance. A way to protect her. To get her out if things go wrong. I swear, I won’t go anywhere. I’ll marry Roman. Just help me get her out of here.”

For a moment, I think I’ve reached him. Think the man I loved is still there under the armor.

And then anger flashes through his eyes, wiping out the guilt. “You want to save your sister? Convince Roman to honor the original deal. But stop trying to manipulate me with guilt.”

“I’m not manipulating you!” I stand my ground even though he’s trying to intimidate me. “I’m trying to reach whatever humanity you have left! Trying to make you see that Anya is innocent!”

“Everyone’s innocent until they’re not.” His voice is dead. Cold. “Your father seemed innocent too.”

I roll my eyes. He’s fishing for information. Confirmation. I have my suspicions, but nothing solid.

And I’m certainly not telling him anything. He’ll just twist it back around to indict me.

“My father is weak and stupid.” I refuse to defend him. “But I’m not my father. And Anya definitely isn’t.”

“Doesn’t matter.” He starts walking away. “I warned you. The rest is up to you.”

“Maksim, please!”

He doesn’t stop walking.

I watch him go. I want to scream until my throat bleeds.

Ten minutes ago, we were tangled together, and I thought—hoped—that maybe we could find our way back to each other. That sex would crack his armor enough to reach the man underneath.

But I was wrong.

Maksim

Walking away from Kira feels like dying all over again.

Every step away from the creek, I can still taste her on my lips. I’m destroying an innocent girl to satisfy revenge that’s aimed at the wrong target.

I make it to my car before I have to stop and brace myself against the door.

What the fuck did I just do?

I had sex with her. Again. I can’t escape her. I can’t shake her. When I’m inside her, I feel human. All the feelings and emotions I buried deep in order to survive bubble to the surface when I’m with her.

I want to put my fist through the car window. Want to scream. Want to go back to that creek and either kill her or kiss her again. I’m not sure which impulse is stronger.

Instead, I force myself to get in the car and drive.

The taste of her won’t leave my mouth. The memory of her hands tracing my scars—gentle, heartbroken, like each one physically hurt her—won’t leave my mind.

The pain in her voice sounded real. Felt real.

The certainty I’ve held for six years is cracking, and I hate it. Hate the doubt creeping in. Hate that every time I see her, every time we touch, my conviction weakens.

I park my car in the garage of the estate and head inside, already planning to avoid everyone and lock myself in my room. Pretend tonight didn’t happen.

Except Roman is waiting in the main sitting room, two glasses of scotch poured, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Maksim.” He gestures to the empty chair. “Join me.”

It’s not a request.

I take the chair and accept the scotch, even though the last thing I need is alcohol. My control is already too fragile.

“You look…” Roman studies me with amusement. “Satisfied. Did you have a pleasant evening?”

The question is loaded. Does he know? Did he have me followed?

“Fine,” I say neutrally. “Just needed some air.”

“Of course.” His smile suggests he knows exactly what kind of air I needed. “A man has urges. Especially after six years. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

I force myself not to react. To sip the scotch and let him make whatever assumptions he wants.

“You know,” Roman continues, leaning back in his chair, “I meant to apologize. For Kira. I know you two were engaged before… everything. It must be difficult seeing her with me.”

The words are smooth. Concerned. Completely false.

“It’s fine,” I lie. “That was a lifetime ago.”

“Still.” He swirls his scotch. “I hope there are no hard feelings. I didn’t plan to fall in love with her. But you were dead—or so we thought—and she was… well. You know what she is. Beautiful. Brilliant. A challenge.”

Fall in love. The words make me want to laugh. Roman doesn’t love anyone but himself and power. No one believes Roman loves Kira. He loves the idea of her in his bed.

“No hard feelings,” I force out. “She’s yours now.”

“Exactly.” His satisfaction is palpable. “And speaking of which, I’ve been finalizing the wedding details. Thought you might want to hear them.”

I don’t. But refusing would be suspicious.

He pulls out his tablet and starts scrolling through what looks like military operation planning disguised as a wedding. Security details. Guest lists. Contingencies for various scenarios.

“Two hundred guests,” he says. “Every major family in Moscow. Show of unity and strength. Kira will wear white—I insisted. Something traditional.”

I imagine Kira in white, walking down an aisle toward Roman, and my hands tighten on the glass.

“She’ll be beautiful,” Roman continues, either not noticing my reaction or enjoying it. “Though I’ll need to break some of her more… independent habits. She’s been running her own operations too long. Forgotten how to be appropriately submissive.”

“She’s not the submissive type,” I hear myself say.

“Everyone is the submissive type with the right motivation.” His smile turns cruel. “Which brings me to her dear sister. Anya. Sweet girl. Choosing between them is like choosing between dark and milk chocolate.”

My jaw clenches.

I force myself to relax.

“Did you know I chose Anya, but Kira insisted I marry her?” Roman smiles, like he’s amused. Like he believes Kira actually wants his nasty ass.

“I understood there was an agreement of sorts,” I reply.

“Ah yes, Kira playing the part of the martyr. She wants everyone to believe she’s making some great sacrifice by marrying me. Everyone knows that one is power hungry. She wants to be my queen. She didn’t like the idea of her sister filling that role.”

He’s a dick.

I say nothing and sip my drink instead.

“But why can’t I have both?” he asks.

“You believe the sisters would both want to marry you?” I ask.

“No need to marry both. I’ll marry Kira. She gives me stability, but Anya…”

He trails off with a lascivious look in his eyes that makes me sick.

“She’s just a girl,” I find myself saying. “Nineteen years old. Innocent.”

“She’s leverage,” Roman corrects. “A tool. And tools are only valuable if they’re used properly.”

“Trotsky is a sadist,” I say carefully. “Everyone knows his reputation.”

“Precisely why I chose him.” Roman’s smile is satisfied. “Kira will know exactly what her sister is enduring. Every day. Every night. The guilt will eat at her. Make her more… manageable.”

“And if Kira cooperates from the start? Is perfect?”

“Then we’ll see.” He shrugs. “Perhaps after a year of model behavior, we can extract Anya and send her to Paris after all. Assuming her husband hasn’t broken her too badly.”

The casual cruelty makes me want to reach across the table and snap his neck.

But I force myself to nod.

“Smart,” I manage.

“I learned from the best.” Roman raises his glass. “Your father always said: control what people love, and you control them completely. Kira loves her sister more than anything. So we control the sister.”

We drink. The scotch burns going down, but not as hot as the rage building in my chest.

“You should get some rest,” Roman says, standing. “Wedding is in twelve days. I’ll need you sharp for the bachelor party. I’ve arranged some… entertainment. Very exclusive.”

I don’t want to know what kind of entertainment Roman considers exclusive.

“Looking forward to it,” I lie.

He claps my shoulder and leaves. I’m alone with my scotch and my thoughts.

I should feel satisfied. Everything is going according to plan.

So why do I feel sick?

I drain the scotch and pour another. Then another. Trying to drown the memory of Kira’s voice.

I finish the drink and head up to my room. There’s no way I’m going to be able to sleep with Kira’s essence still clinging to me. I step into the shower and feel the sting from the scratches that cover my shoulders and back.

And then I close my eyes.

I’m transported back to a memory.

It was six years ago right here on this very estate.

It’s a party for some holiday I can’t remember. Politics require attendance, so I’m here with my father, making rounds and playing nice.

Then I see them.

Kira and Anya in the garden, away from the crowd. Kira is trying to teach her little sister to dance—some formal ballroom thing Anya clearly doesn’t know.

They’re both laughing as they step on each other’s feet. Anya looks at Kira with such pure adoration, and Kira is patient and gentle.

“You’re doing great,” Kira encourages. “Just feel the rhythm. Don’t think so hard.”

“I’m going to break your toes,” Anya protests, but she’s laughing.

“Then we’ll both have matching casts. It’ll be a bonding experience.”

They spin, stumble, and nearly fall before catching each other. Both of them dissolving into giggles.

I watch from the doorway and picture Kira teaching our daughters to dance.

This is the woman I’m going to marry. She will be the mother of my children. The woman I grow old with.

Anya spots me first. “Maksim! Come help! Kira is a terrible teacher!”

“I’m an excellent teacher!” Kira protests. “You’re just a terrible student!”

I join them in the garden, and Kira’s smile when she sees me could light up Moscow.

“Rescue me,” Anya begs. “She’s going to cripple me before I can learn anything useful.”

“She’s exaggerating,” Kira says, but she’s already moving to my arms. “Show her how it’s done?”

We dance while Anya watches and tries to mimic our steps.

“You’re good with her,” I murmur against Kira’s ear.

“She’s my baby sister. I’d do anything for her.”

“I know.” I spin her gently. “It’s one of the things I love about you.”

The three of us spend an hour in the garden, laughing and dancing and pretending the brutal politics inside don’t exist.

I blink back to the present. The hot water is starting to cool. I turn off the water and step out, wrapping a towel around my waist. The scratches on my back sting. I welcome the pain. It’s clearer than the confusion in my head.

I have to at least consider the idea Kira isn’t responsible. At least not entirely.

And if that’s true, someone else was involved.

Who?

I know manipulation. I’ve seen it perfected in that Georgian prison. I’ve learned to read people, to see through lies.

And I don’t believe Kira is lying.

The truth crashes over me like ice water.

She really didn’t betray me.

Kira

The dining room feels like a trap the moment I walk into it. When Roman sent the text demanding I come to dinner, I should have known he was up to something.

I only agreed because I was hoping to persuade him to change his mind about Anya.

Persuade. Threaten. Beg.

Whatever I had to do.

But I wasn’t expecting to see Maksim.

“Kira.” Roman stands, all false charm. “You look lovely.”

I’m wearing black—the only color that matches my mood—and heels sharp enough to be weapons if necessary. And I am very much prepared to use them as such. I’m almost hoping I do get to use them.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

Maksim stands, nods and then flops back down in his chair.

Did he know I was coming to dinner? There was a third place setting.

I don’t look at him. Not directly.

“Please, sit.” Roman gestures to the place setting to his right, directly across from Maksim.

I sit because I don’t have a choice and immediately regret it.

Roman’s hand finds my knee under the table. Possessive. Claiming. I resist the urge to stab him with my fork.

Maksim won’t look at me. His eyes are fixed on his plate, jaw tight, radiating tension.

Two days ago, we had sex and then he reminded me again that he hated me.

Now we’re playing happy family over dinner.

The absurdity would be funny if it wasn’t so nightmarish.

“I thought it would be nice, to have a family dinner before the wedding,” Roman says. He puts up a finger, indicating the server to begin the dinner service. “Get everyone comfortable with the new arrangements.”

“How thoughtful,” I say, my voice perfectly pleasant. The Ice Queen in full effect.

I can shut off my emotions too. I can be just as cold and cruel.

Maksim wants to play this game, fine.

“I’ve been finalizing the guest list.” Roman pulls out his tablet—because of course he can’t have one meal without conducting business. “Two hundred confirmed. Every major family in Moscow. I have another fifty or so asking to come. I’m leaving them hanging. Make them feel like they need to work for it.”

He shows me the list, and I scan it with growing dread.

Every ally I had left is conspicuously absent. The families that might have supported me, that might have given me leverage—all excluded.

“I notice the Trotsky family isn’t invited,” I observe carefully. “Given the upcoming marriage to my sister, I assumed—”

“Artem will be there,” Roman corrects. “But his extended family presents security concerns. Better to keep the guest list tight.”

Translation: he doesn’t want anyone there who might interfere with his complete control.

“And the Petrov family?” I try. “They’ve been our allies for years.”

“Were your allies,” Roman corrects, his hand tightening on my knee. “Past tense. They’ve chosen to remain neutral during this transition. I don’t invite neutral parties to my wedding.”

Every name I recognize as potentially friendly is missing.

I’m being isolated. Systematically cut off from anyone who might provide support. Does he have something planned? Something bigger than just a wedding. My brain spits out various scenarios, but I keep coming back to Roman hurting me in some way. Or killing me. My family.

My thoughts are cut off when the server delivers the first course.

“The security arrangements are quite extensive,” Roman continues, swiping to another screen. The server practically runs out of the room. “Given the high-profile nature of the event, I’ve tripled the usual precautions.”

He shows me diagrams that look like prison blueprints.

“Very thorough,” I manage.

“I’m protecting my investment.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Can’t have anything happening to my beautiful bride.”

Maksim’s fork clatters against his plate. We both glance at him, but he’s already resuming eating like nothing happened.

“Are there threats?” I ask coolly.

I pick up my fork and poke at my Olivier salad. Am I hungry—no. But I will pretend I’m unbothered.

“There are always threats, my dear,” Roman replies. “And now that Maksim is here, we have to be careful.”

“Why? Does someone want him dead?” I ask the question with so much sweetness it almost makes me gag.

Roman chuckles. “Someone tried. They failed.”

I almost say pity but decide that might not be the smartest decision.

The second course, borscht it brought out.

Maksim is relatively quiet. He still won’t look at me. He talks to Roman, but not me.

That’s fine. When the main course is delivered, I tell myself I’m halfway through. Then I can leave. I can get away from these men. It’s strange to sit down to a civilized meal with two men that hate you in different ways. Roman might pretend he wants me, but that’s only to break me.

Maksim just hates me.

Ten days. I have ten days until this becomes permanent.

Ten days to find a way out that doesn’t end with Anya destroyed.

And how in the hell will Maksim and I co-exist under the same roof?

“I’ve also arranged your accommodations for after the wedding,” Roman says. “The east wing has been completely remodeled. New security systems. Private access.”

“Accommodations.” I repeat the word carefully. “You mean our rooms.”

“Your room,” he corrects. “I prefer to maintain my own space. For work purposes.”

Translation: he wants me accessible but contained. Close enough to control, isolated enough to break.

“Of course,” I say through gritted teeth.

I’m more than happy to not have to share his bed.

“The wedding night will be in my suite, naturally.” His hand moves higher on my leg. “I’ve made special arrangements.”

I want to vomit. Want to stab him with the steak knife. Want to run screaming from this room.

Instead, I smile. “I’m sure it will be memorable.”

Maksim’s knuckles go white around his fork.

I glance between the two men. Does Roman know about what happened between us? Did Maksim tell him? I almost want to laugh if Roman hopes to make Maksim jealous to further some kind of pissing match between them.

Maksim doesn’t care.

I would bet he wants me in Roman’s bed to be used and abused. It would only add to my misery which is what Maksim wants.

Maximum damage.

Roman’s phone buzzes. He glances at it, frowns. “Excuse me. I need to take this.”

He stands, his hand trailing across my shoulders as he leaves. A reminder that he can touch me whenever he wants.

The moment he’s gone, the air in the room shifts. Dangerous. Electric.

“You look uncomfortable,” Maksim observes, still not looking at me.

“Strange, given I’m planning my wedding to a monster.” I keep my voice low. “While the man I love watches and does nothing.”

“Don’t.” His jaw clenches. “Don’t make this about love.”

“What should I make it about? Revenge? Justice?” I lean slightly toward him. “Did the two of you talk about sharing me?”

He looks directly at me.

Finally.

Finally, I see a spark of rage and jealousy.

I cock one eyebrow and reach for my wineglass.

“Don’t fucking say that,” he hisses.

“Oh, I’m sorry, do you expect me to fuck you and then go to my husband’s bed? Or would you prefer I come to you after? I have a feeling Roman’s sloppy seconds will be rather unpleasant. I’ve heard he enjoys making his women bleed.”

Maksim’s hand comes down on the table, bouncing the silverware and nearly toppling Roman’s half-empty wineglass.

Good.

I want him pissed. I want him raging. I want him jealous.

All of those emotions will be nothing compared to the hell I endure.

“Don’t.” The one word is barely a growl.

Now that I’ve managed to crack through that anger just a little, I decide to throw a Hail Mary.

“I found something. In my father’s records. Payments. Big ones.”

“Stop.” His eyes are cold. “Stop trying to shift blame.”

“I’m not shifting blame. I’m showing you evidence—”

“Evidence you could have fabricated.” He cuts me off. “Convenient that you ‘find’ records right when you need them.”

The dismissal makes something snap inside me.

I pick up a piece of bread and throw it at his face.

It hits him square in the forehead, leaving a small butter mark. His expression is priceless—shock, confusion, and something that might be amusement fighting for dominance.

“You’re an idiot,” I hiss. “A stubborn, blind idiot who’s being used and can’t see it.”

“Careful,” he warns, wiping the butter away. “That’s assault.”

“You want to see assault?” I’m past caring about volume. “I have years of assault saved up. Assault from being blamed for your death. Assault from building everything I have just to watch you destroy it. Assault from begging you to help save an innocent girl while you lecture me about consequences.”

“Lower your voice—”

“No.” I lean closer, fury overriding fear. “You listen to me, Maksim Barinov. You think I set you up. Fine. Believe what you want. But you have a real enemy out there. One that’s not going to be happy you’re alive. He’s going to kill you for real this time.”

“Is that a threat?”

“It’s a warning. And just like last time, I will have nothing to do with it. But unlike last time, you’ll know it’s coming and still won’t see it because you’re too focused on destroying me to notice the knife at your own throat.”

He stares at me, and for just a second, I see doubt flicker in his eyes.

Then Roman’s voice cuts through the tension. “Is there a problem?”

He’s standing in the doorway, watching us with amusement. Like he was hoping to return to find us fucking or fighting.

I sit back. “No problem. Just discussing old times.”

“How nostalgic.” Roman retakes his seat. “I hope you’re both being civil.”

“Extremely civil,” Maksim says flatly.

We finish the meal in tense silence.

Dessert arrives—something chocolate and elaborate that I can’t eat. I move it around my plate while Roman discusses final wedding preparations.

“Oh, one more thing.” Roman sets down his fork. “For security reasons, you’ll be moving into the compound tomorrow.”

The words take a moment to register. “What?”

“Tomorrow. I’ll send people to collect your things.” He says it casually, like announcing the weather. “You’ll stay in the guest wing until the wedding, then move to your permanent quarters after.”

“No.” I set down my fork carefully. “I’m not moving in before the wedding. That wasn’t part of the agreement.”

“The agreement has changed.” His voice is laced with threat. “You’ll be here, under proper security, where I can ensure nothing happens to you before the ceremony.”

“Nothing will happen to me in my own apartment—”

“Your apartment is a security risk.” He cuts me off. “This isn’t a negotiation, Kira. It’s done.”

“You can’t just—”

“I can.” He leans forward. “I’m your fiancé. Soon to be your husband. Your safety is my responsibility. And I’ve determined that you’re safest here, under my protection.”

In his prison.

“I have work to complete. Arrangements to finalize—”

“Which you can do from here.” His smile is sharp. “We have excellent internet. You’ll want for nothing.”

“Except freedom,” I mutter.

“Freedom is overrated.” He reaches for my hand, and I let him take it because fighting will only make this worse. “You’ll see. Once you’re here, you’ll realize how much easier everything is.”

“Easier.” The word tastes like poison.

His thumb strokes my hand. “I’ll handle all of it. You just need to focus on being my wife.”

Being his wife. Being his property. Being his prisoner.

“This is happening very fast,” I try. “Perhaps after the wedding—”

“Tomorrow,” he repeats. “I’ll send a car at noon. Pack what you need for comfort. Everything else will be provided.”

I want to argue. Want to fight. Want to refuse and storm out.

But I can see it in his eyes: this isn’t optional. If I refuse, he’ll have me brought here by force. And that would be worse.

At least this way, I walk in under my own power.

“Fine.” The word costs me. “Tomorrow.”

“Excellent.” He lifts my hand to his lips. “You’ll be much happier here. You’ll see.”

I won’t be happier. I’ll be fucking trapped.

Maksim

I’m heading back to my room after another sleepless night when I literally walk into her.

Kira stumbles back, and I catch her arm on reflex. We both freeze.

She’s wearing pajamas with a robe hastily thrown over them. Her hair is loose, no makeup, and she looks younger like this. Like the girl I fell in love with.

I drop her arm like it burned me.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I demand, glancing down the hallway to make sure we’re alone.

“Being held prisoner, obviously.” Her voice drips sarcasm. “Did you already forget?”

“Why aren’t you in the guest quarters? They’re on the other side of the estate.”

“Newsflash asshole, I don’t really have much of a say about where I’m put,” she snaps.

This is my wing. Where I’m staying. My room that has always been my room. Roman’s master bedroom, my father’s old room, is down another hallway in this wing.

Where all the guest rooms definitely are not.

He specifically said she’d be in the guest quarters.

“This doesn’t make sense,” I say, more to myself than her. “This is—”

“A message?” Kira finishes. “A power play? I don’t know, Maksim. You tell me. You’re the one allied with him.”

There’s an edge to her voice that makes me look closer. She’s scared. Trying to hide it, but it’s there in the tension of her shoulders, the way her fingers grip her robe. She’s holding on to that attitude with a white-knuckle grip. It’s her shield. I recognize the tactic. I did the same during my captivity. Attack first. Put your captors on the defensive.

“I’ve been out,” I tell her.

And just like that, I realize her tactic worked. I’m explaining myself.

“What room did he put you in?” I ask.

She gestures at the door directly beside mine. “Right there.”

“That’s my room,” I hiss, pointing to the door just ten feet down the hall.

She smirks. “Isn’t that cozy? I guess he wants to keep me close to my captors.”

Next to mine. Not across the hall. Not down the corridor. Directly adjacent, with just a wall between us.

Roman did this deliberately. But why?

“You knew,” I say.

“Knew what?”

“Where my room is. Don’t tell me you forgot.”

She sighs. “Maksim, I didn’t manipulate this. Do you honestly think I would beg to sleep next door to the man that wants to kill me?”

“I never said I wanted to kill you.”

“I’m sorry…destroy me. Same difference.”

I’m not going to deny it.

I nod and step around her to go to my door. I need to get away from her. She looks too good. Too…tempting.

And that’s exactly what Roman wants. I know what he’s doing. I will not play his fucked-up games. If he thinks I’m going to get into some sharing thing, it’s never going to happen.

I don’t share.

Once he has her, she’s his.

Just as I’m about to step inside, I feel her.

I close my eyes and fight back the urge to grab her. She’s moved closer. Her breath brushes over the back of my arm.

“Can I talk to you?” Her voice is barely above a whisper. The snark is gone replaced with desperation. “Please. Just five minutes.”

I should say no. Should go to my room and lock the door and pretend I never saw her.

I turn to look at her over my shoulder, ready to say just that, but the fear in her eyes stops me.

“Fine. Five minutes.” I glance down the hallway again. “But not out here.”

“Your room or mine?” The question has an edge of hysteria.

“Neither.” I head for a small sitting room at the end of the hall—one of many scattered throughout the estate. “There.”

I’m not going to let myself be alone with her. I don’t have the self-control not to take advantage of a bed.

She follows me without making a sound. I close the door behind us. The room is dark except for moonlight through the windows. Safer this way. Less chance of being seen.

“Talk,” I say. “Quickly.”

“I found something. In my father’s financial records.” She’s speaking fast, urgent. “Payments from six years ago. Large amounts, coming from accounts I couldn’t trace. And notes in his handwriting about meetings. I took pictures of the papers but just now got the chance to start reading through them.

I shrug. “Yes and? You already told me this. This isn’t breaking news.”

“My father was broke, Maksim. Had driven the family into the ground with gambling and terrible investments. These payments started right before your kidnapping and continued for months after.”

“You mentioned this at dinner. I told you—”

“That I was trying to shift blame. I know.” Her hands clench into fists. “But I’m telling you the truth. My father took money from someone around the exact time you disappeared. That’s not a coincidence.”

It’s not. But it also doesn’t prove what she thinks it proves.

“Why would someone pay your father to kidnap me?”

She groans. “I don’t know. But it just feels like strange timing.”

“Someone paid your father for you to set me up?” I question.

She sighs. “I didn’t set you up.”

“Why did you tell me to be careful that night?”

She frowns. “What?”

I step closer to her. “That night. When Dmitri texted me about the meeting. You told me to be careful. Why?”

She blinks at me, confusion crossing her face. “I always told you to be careful when you had meetings. Especially late-night ones. It was dangerous—”

“But that night specifically. You said it with urgency. Like you knew something.”

“I didn’t know anything.” Her voice rises slightly. “I just… I had a bad feeling. You were leaving in the middle of the night for an emergency meeting that made no sense. Of course I told you to be careful.”

I search her face, looking for deception. But all I see is frustration and confusion.

“You didn’t know about the meeting beforehand?” I press.

“How could I? Dmitri texted you while you were in my bed. I saw you check your phone, saw your expression change. That’s when I knew something was wrong.”

The timeline fits.

“You looked worried,” I say.

“Because it felt wrong!” She throws her hands up. “A last-minute meeting in the middle of the night. Of course, it felt wrong! But you said you had to go, that Dmitri wouldn’t call unless it was important.”

“What’s your endgame here?” I ask. “Are you throwing your father under the bus or someone else?”

“My endgame?” She laughs, sharp and bitter. “I don’t have an endgame! I’m trying to survive! I’m trying to save my sister! I’m trying to make you see that we’re both being manipulated!”

“Or you’re hoping get me on your side. Maybe convince me to marry you instead of letting Roman have you.” The words come out harsh. “Is that it? Trade one for another?”

Her eyes flash with rage. “I wouldn’t marry you if my life depended on it.”

“Ironic,” I laugh without humor. “Because your life does depend on it.”She shoves at my chest. “I tried. I’m giving you information. I guess when you’re killed for real this time, I’ll know I tried.”

“Have you told Roman?” I ask abruptly. “About us. The party. The creek.”

Her face goes pale. “Are you insane? No!”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t have a death wish!” She’s shouting now, past caring about volume. “You think Roman would let me live if he knew I slept with you? He’d kill me. Or worse—he’d kill Anya. Or you. Or all of us.”

“Why would he kill me?”

She slaps a hand to her forehead. “You insufferable asshole. You are competition. You are the rightful heir to his throne. A throne he all but stole. And me. Pull your head out of your ass and think about it, Maksim.”

I’m not going to pretend I haven’t considered Roman’s role in my disappearance. He did take my seat, but my father was still alive. He was healthy. Roman couldn’t have known he would die and there would be no one to lead the bratva.

And Roman is like family to me. Or he was. I’m not so blind I can’t see the games he’s playing now, but that’s just a man marking his territory. He wants to ensure I know he’s king. Daring me to challenge him.

“Help me escape,” she says desperately. “Please.”

“Escape,” I scoff. “And go where? Roman’s people are everywhere. You wouldn’t make it past the gates.”

“Then help me get past the gates!” She’s begging now, pride abandoned. “You have access. Clearance. You could—”

“Could commit treason against my pakhan?” I step back.

“Prove your humanity by saving an innocent girl!” She follows me. “Maksim, please. Not for me. For Anya. She doesn’t deserve what’s coming.”

“I need to think,” I say finally.

“There’s no time to think! The wedding is in nine days!”

“Then you have nine days.” I head for the door. “Use them wisely.”

“Maksim—”

“Go to bed, Kira.” I don’t look back. “And stay away from me.”

I leave her there and head straight out of the estate. I need answers. Real ones.

And I know exactly where to start.

Kira’s father lives in a house he can’t afford, maintained by money his daughter provides. It’s after midnight when I arrive, but I don’t care.

I pound on the door until he answers, looking disheveled and terrified.

“Maksim. This is… unexpected.”

“We need to talk.” I push past him into the house. “Now.”

He closes the door. “About what?”

“About six years ago. About your debts. About the payments you took.” I turn to face him. “Who paid you and why?”

His face goes from white to gray. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do.” I step closer.

“Nothing!” But sweat beads on his forehead. “Those were business investments. I was, I, we, it was bad investments.”

“Investments.” I crowd him against the wall. “That started right before I was kidnapped and continued for months after? Coincidence?”

“That was a difficult time.” He’s practically whimpering. “I was grasping at anything. I may have made up some investment opportunities to cover other debts.”

I grab him by the collar and slam him harder against the wall. “I was going to marry your daughter. You know you would have been okay. I would have taken care of the family.”

“It would have positioned her!” He’s practically squealing now. “Positioned her to one day be the Bratva queen when you took over from your father! Your father was young. Healthy. It would have taken years for you to inherit.”

And then it clicks.

“You needed money then, not in some distant future,” I say.

His eyes dart away. Guilty.

“Did you have something to do with my imprisonment?” I ask directly, my voice deadly calm. “Did you sell me out?”

“No!” The denial comes fast. Too fast. “I swear, I didn’t—I wouldn’t—”

“Then who did?” I tighten my grip on his collar. “Someone paid you. Who?”

“It was for an investment. A business.”

“What business?”

He blinks. “Start up. Importing.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not!” He’s lying and afraid. Two things I know how to identify. “Look closer to home, Maksim. There are other people who benefited from your death. People much closer than me.”

The implication makes my blood run cold. “Who?”

“Think about it. Who took over after you disappeared? Who consolidated power? Who had the most to gain?”

“What did Kira know?” I demand. “Was she part of it?”

“Nothing!” He shakes his head violently. “She knew nothing. My daughter loved you. Was destroyed when you died.”

I release him. He slides down the wall like a puppet with cut strings.

“She didn’t know,” he repeats, softer now. “Whatever happened, whatever I did or didn’t do, Kira was innocent. She’s always been innocent.”

I stand there, staring at this broken man, and feel my certainty crumbling completely.

If Kira’s father is saying she didn’t know, then maybe she really didn’t.

Maybe I’ve been destroying an innocent woman while the real enemy watches and smiles.

Roman.

The pieces start falling into place. Roman identifying my body. Roman investigating my disappearance. Roman taking over the Bratva. Roman arranging to marry Kira.

Roman controlling everything.

But Roman was never meant to inherit. It was a series of circumstances that led him to become in power. Circumstances he couldn’t have controlled.

I leave without another word.

The drive back to the estate is a blur. My mind races, re-examining every piece of evidence through this new lens.

Roman was like family.

He loved my father like a brother. We were close in age, and I always thought of him as a young, fun uncle or an older brother.

There’s just no way.

But I know I’m missing something.

It’s time to talk to Kira.

Kira

Day three in Roman’s compound, and I’m learning what it means to be property.

Chattel.

I have no autonomy.

I’m given a schedule and expected to follow it.

The room they’ve given me is beautiful with views of the garden that might be peaceful if I wasn’t a prisoner. But beautiful prisons are still prisons.

My phone is gone. “Security purposes,” Roman said with that smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Can’t have any breaches before the wedding.”

He’s cut off my ability to communicate with anyone he doesn’t control.

And Anya. I’m certain that is who he is really trying to cut off. He wants to control me through access to her.

Asshole.

Guards are stationed outside my door. They follow me everywhere—to meals, to fittings, to the bathroom if I let them. I’ve gotten used to the constant surveillance, the eyes always watching, cataloging my every move.

Roman has scheduled every minute of my day. Wedding preparations, he calls it. Torture, I call it.

My schedule is pretty consistent. In the morning, I meet with the event coordinator about flowers I don’t care about.

Afternoons are fittings for a dress I’ll never want to wear.

Evenings are dinners with Roman where he discusses our future like he’s planning a hostile takeover.

Which, I suppose, he is.

The worst part is knowing Maksim is right next door. I can hear him sometimes through the wall—pacing, talking on the phone, existing just feet away while I slowly suffocate.

We haven’t spoken since that night in the sitting room. Since I begged him to help me escape and he walked away.

I lie awake listening to him move around and wonder if he’s figured it out yet. If he’s started to see the trap Roman built for both of us.

Or if he’s still too committed to my destruction to realize I’m not the danger. I can’t prove it, but I suspect Roman was somehow connected. I don’t know how and I’ll never be allowed out of my gilded cage to investigate.

Which means Maksim is exposed. And quite frankly, good. He’s made his feelings clear. I tried to help him, but he won’t see what’s right in front of his damn face.

On the morning of day four, I sit in my chair, drinking the tea that’s been delivered and stare out the window. I try not to think about my future. I know it’s short. I know I will not live to be old and gray. Will I have a year? Five years? It’s hard to stare down my own mortality. Roman will insist I have at least two of his children, preferably boys, and then he’ll be done with me. I will have children and never see them become adults.

The sigh escapes me before I can stop it.

Suddenly, there’s a knock at my door.

And then it’s thrown open.

Two guards escort my sister inside.

She looks terrified.

“Kira!” She runs to me. I catch her in a hug that feels like drowning.

“Are you okay?” I pull back to look at her. “Did they hurt you?”

“No.” But her eyes are red. She’s been crying. “They just said Roman wanted me to visit. To discuss wedding arrangements. They snatched me and dragged me here.”

The guards remain by the door, watching. Listening.

We’re not alone. We’ll never be alone here.

“How thoughtful,” I say loudly enough for them to hear. “Come sit. Tell me about your art classes.”

We move to the couch, and I keep one arm around her. Protection I can’t actually provide.

“I’m scared,” she whispers.

“I know.” I smooth her hair like when she was little. “But it’s going to be okay.”

“Is it?” Her voice drops even lower. “Kira, they’re talking about my wedding. To Artem. It’s real. It’s actually happening.”

The guards are watching. I smile like we’re discussing pleasant things.

“You need to leave,” I whisper against her hair. “Get out of the country. Now.”

“I can’t leave you—”

“You have to.” I pull back, keeping my expression neutral for the watchers. “Anya, listen to me. The money I set aside—it’s in the account we discussed. Enough for a ticket to Paris and six months living expenses.”

“But you’ll be punished if I run—”

“I’ll be fine.” The lie tastes bitter. “I’m marrying Roman. That protects me. But you—you need to be gone before they can stop you.”

“When?” Her hands grip mine.

“As soon as possible. Tomorrow if you can.” I keep my voice low, casual, like we’re discussing art school applications. “Pack light. Take only what you need. And don’t tell anyone—not Father, not friends. Just go.”

“Kira—”

“Please.” I squeeze her hands. “Please, Anya. For me. Get out while you still can.”

One of the guards shifts, and we both glance over. He’s watching us with narrow eyes, like he knows we’re planning something but can’t quite hear what.

“Tell me about your latest painting,” I say louder. “The one with the sunset.”

Anya understands. We spend the next thirty minutes talking about art while the guards listen.

“Can we have some tea please?” I ask politely.

They hate when I do that. Hate when I act like they are my servants rather than my guards.

They speak in low voices before one walks away.

Anya grins at me. “You know they hate you, right?”

I flash a smile that is all about trying to prove to her I’m okay—even when we both know I’m not. “I do.”

The guard returns with tea service, setting it on the table between us with more force than necessary. Water sloshes over the rim of the pot. I don’t react, just pour for both of us with steady hands.

“Thank you,” I say sweetly. “That will be all.”

He glares but returns to his post by the door.

Anya lifts her cup, and I notice her hands are shaking. I cover one of them with mine, steadying it.

“Remember that summer we spent at Grandmother’s dacha?” I ask, keeping my voice light and nostalgic. “You were what, ten?”

“Eleven,” she corrects, catching on. “You taught me to swim in the lake.”

“You were terrified of the water.” I smile at the memory, genuine despite everything. “Cried for an hour before you’d even put your feet in.”

“Because you kept telling me there were monsters.” She kicks my foot gently under the table. “You were mean.”

“I was preparing you.” I take a sip of tea, watching the guards from the corner of my eye. They’re still listening but seem less interested in childhood stories. “Teaching you that sometimes you have to face scary things.”

Anya’s eyes meet mine. She understands what I’m really saying.

“You made me jump off the dock,” she murmurs. “Said I had to trust you to catch me.”

“And did I catch you?”

“Every time.” Her voice breaks slightly. “Even when I thought I’d drown, you were always there.”

“I’m here now too. Even when you can’t see me. Even when it feels like you’re alone. I’m catching you.”

She blinks rapidly, fighting tears. “I don’t want to leave you.”

“I know.” I set down my cup and lean closer, lowering my voice to barely above a breath. “But you have to. Tomorrow. Early. The account number is in your jewelry box, hidden in the lining of the bottom drawer. Memorize it and destroy the paper.”

“Kira—”

“Promise me.” I grip her hand. “Swear you’ll go.”

One of the guards shifts, and I immediately raise my voice. “And then you dumped that entire bucket of lake water on my head! I was furious!”

Anya catches the shift, laughing though it sounds forced. “You deserved it. You pushed me in first.”

“Fair point.” I pour more tea, the picture of sisterly bonding. “You always were good at revenge.”

“Learned from the best.” She takes a shaky sip. “When you taught me to be strong. To fight back.”

“You’ve always been strong enough to do what needs to be done. Even when it’s hard.”

“Even when it means leaving the people I love?” Her eyes fill with tears.

“Especially then.” I brush my hand across her cheek.

This is goodbye. I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again. I force down the lump in my throat.

“Time to go.” One of the guards appears beside us and grabs Anya’s arm.

“Don’t touch her!”

Anya gets to her feet. “I love you.”

“I love you.”

I stand and follow them across the room, but I’m not allowed to leave the confines of my space. I watch the guard practically drag her own the hall.

She looks back at me with tears in her eyes.

“Go,” I mouth.

She nods and then she’s gone.

I don’t know if she’ll do it.

But I pray she does.

Because one of us needs to survive this.

Two days before the wedding…

The wedding dress is beautiful—I have to admit that. Cream silk, gorgeous lace overlays, a train that goes on forever. The kind of dress every girl dreams about.

Except I’m not dreaming. I’m living a nightmare in expensive fabric.

“Turn,” the seamstress orders, pins in her mouth.

I turn mechanically, staring at myself in the mirror. The woman looking back is a stranger. The Ice Queen in bridal white.

The irony would be funny if it wasn’t so tragic.

I haven’t heard from Anya. I have no way to know if she managed to escape, but I pray she did. I heard Roman yelling yesterday. I hope it’s because she got away, and he can’t find her. I don’t dare ask.

“Perfect,” the seamstress declares. “You’ll be the most beautiful bride in Moscow.”

The most trapped, more like.

“Can I have a moment?” I ask. “Alone?”

The seamstress glances at the guards. They nod once.

“I’m alone,” I say when the guards look like they plan on staying in the room. “I’m not going anywhere.”

When they don’t budge, I roll my eyes. “I’m going to take off this dress and get very naked. Do you think your boss is going to appreciate the fact you saw his wife naked?”

To make my point, I start to unzip the gown, letting it fall forward.

Suddenly, they’re scrambling to leave the room.

I smile as I pull the zipper the rest of the way. I step out of the dress and leave it in a heap on the floor. I’m wearing nothing but the white bustier and lacy panties when I hear voices in the hall.

Curious, I walk to the door, open it just a little and poke my head out.

Down the hall, I can hear men talking. They’re trying to be quiet but failing miserably.

“She’s asking too many questions,” someone says. Viktor. I’d recognize his voice anywhere.

What’s Viktor doing here? He was my father’s associate, not Roman’s. Why is he in the compound?

“Maksim’s getting suspicious,” another voice. One of Roman’s lieutenants. The man that grabbed Anya. “He’s been digging into the financial records.”

My heart stops. Maksim is investigating. He’s finally seeing the truth.

“We need to handle it,” Viktor says. “Before he finds evidence.”

“Roman says wait. Maksim’s useful for now. Once the wedding is done—”

I step halfway out of the room trying to hear more. Trying to understand what they’re planning. No one is in the hall and I’m too curious to care about my state of undress. This is the information I’ve been desperate to get my hands on.

“We’ll have to eliminate the problem. Make it look like—”

A hand clamps over my mouth from behind.

I’m jerked backward into a hard chest, with one arm wrapping around me like a vise. I try to scream but the hand muffles everything.

I kick backward, connecting with a shin. My attacker grunts but doesn’t release me. He’s too strong, too big.

Panic floods through me.

I fight harder, desperate, using every dirty trick I know. But it’s useless against someone this much larger and stronger.

He drags me backward, away from the door, away from the voices I was trying to hear.

Then I smell my captor. I’d know that smell anywhere.

Maksim.

The realization makes me stop fighting.

He drags me into his room. His hand is still over my mouth, his body pressed against my back, holding me immobile.

“Stop fighting,” he breathes against my ear. Too quiet for anyone else to hear. “It’s me.”

I nod, and slowly he lowers his hand from my mouth.

I spin around, fury overriding fear. “What the hell—”

He covers my mouth again. “Quiet. They’re right outside.”

He’s right. I can hear footsteps in the hallway.

“Just stay here,” one of my guards says. “I’m going to get something to eat. She’s not going anywhere.”

Thank God. They believe I’m still in the room.

I relax just a little.

Until I remember I’m nearly naked.

In Maksim’s room.

Maksim

I pull her into my room with every intention of interrogating her.

What was she thinking, eavesdropping on Roman’s men? Getting that close to dangerous conversations? She could have been caught. Killed. Disappeared like so many others who’ve crossed Roman.

But the moment I have her body pressed against mine, her back to my chest, my hand over her mouth to keep her quiet—everything changes.

The fear in her body. The way she fights until she recognizes me. The smell of her hair, her skin, familiar, despite all the reasons it shouldn’t be.

My body remembers what my mind has been trying to forget.

I should step back. Should put distance between us.

“What were you thinking?” My voice comes out a harsh whisper. “You could have been caught—”

“I was trying to hear—”

“You were being reckless.” I’m still pressed against her. I can feel her heart racing. Or maybe that’s mine. “Do you have any idea what Roman would do if he found you listening to private conversations?”

“I wasn’t afraid—”

“You should be.” My hand finds the wall beside her head, caging her in. “He’s killed for less.”

Her chin lifts defiantly. “Don’t act like you’re worried about my safety. Not now.”

She’s right. I should have let her get caught. Should have let Roman’s men handle her.

Except the thought of anyone else touching her makes me want to commit murder.

“This is a mistake,” I say, even as I lean closer.

“Everything between us is a mistake.” Her breathing picks up. “Hasn’t stopped us yet.”

I should walk away.

Instead, I kiss her.

It’s not gentle. Not tender. It’s the familiar rage and grief and need compressed into something that feels like violence and salvation tangled together. It happens whenever I’m near her.

I hate her.

I love her.

I need her.

Her hands pull me closer instead of pushing me away. She’s just as desperate for me. Her mouth devours mine. She whimpers and moans, clawing at me.

We’re past caring about anything except this connection. This need that won’t die no matter how much we try to kill it.

She pulls at my clothes with shaking hands, both of us fighting fabric until there’s nothing between us but skin and scars and the truth we keep trying to deny.

“Tell me to stop,” I say against her throat. “Tell me you don’t want this.”

“I can’t.” Her nails dig into my shoulders. “God help me, I can’t.”

I lift her against the wall, her legs wrapping around my waist automatically.

“Maksim.”

“I hate you,” I say against her mouth.

“I hate you too.” Her hands tangle in my hair, pulling hard enough to hurt. “So much.”

I position myself at her entrance, feeling how ready she is for me. How her body betrays every protest she might make.

Her nails rake down my back, leaving marks I’ll feel tomorrow.

I thrust into her in one brutal stroke. The sound she makes—half gasp, half moan—nearly undoes me.

She’s tight and wet and perfect. Just like I remember. Just like every night in that cell when I’d close my eyes and pretend I was anywhere but there.

“Look at me,” I demand, gripping her jaw. “I want to see your face.”

Her eyes open. Love and hatred and desperate need all tangled together.

I start to move, each thrust harder than the last. Punishing us both for this weakness. For needing each other despite everything between us.

“Is this what you wanted?” I’m breathing hard, my control slipping. “Is this what you’ve been missing?”

“Yes.” Her head falls back against the wall. “God, yes.”

I capture her throat with one hand—not squeezing, just holding. Possessive. Claiming.

“You’re mine,” I say through gritted teeth. “No matter what happens. No matter who you marry. You’re mine.”

“I’m yours.” The admission breaks something in both of us. “I’ve always been yours.”

I change the angle, hitting deeper. She cries out. I cover her mouth with mine, swallowing the sound before anyone can hear.

We can’t be quiet. Can’t be careful. This is too raw, too desperate.

My hand slides between us, finding her clit. She’s close—I can feel it in the way she’s clenching around me, the way her breathing changes.

“Come for me,” I order against her lips. “Let me feel it.”

“Maksim—” Her body starts to shake.

“Now.” I circle her clit with more pressure, driving into her harder. “Give it to me.”

She shatters. I feel her orgasm ripple through her entire body, her inner walls clamping down on me so tight I can barely move.

The sight of her coming undone destroys what little control I have left.

I bury myself deep and follow her over the edge, my release hot and violent.

We stay frozen like that, both of us trembling, breathing hard against each other.

Slowly, I lower her legs until her feet touch the floor. But I don’t step back. Can’t step back. Not yet.

She’s looking at me with those eyes that see too much. That see the man I used to be underneath all the rage and pain.

“This changes everything,” she whispers.

“It changes nothing.” But the words lack conviction.

“You’re lying.” Her hand comes up to cup my face, thumb tracing the scar through my eyebrow. “We’ll never be finished, Maksim. You are my soul. And I am yours.”

I step back finally, retrieving my shirt from the floor.

“Get dressed. You need to get back to your room before they notice you’re gone.”

She pulls on her panties and the bra that is far too sexy. “What are we going to do?”

We. Not I. We.

I have some weak protest I should offer up. We can’t do it again. We need to stop.

All bullshit.

Because I will never stop wanting her. She could drive a knife into my heart while fucking me and I would die a happy man. The woman has cast a spell over me. I can’t escape. It’s different than the prison I spent all that time in. There is no way out.

I’m forever bound to her.

And it will kill me.

“Viktor and Roman’s people were talking about you asking questions. About ‘eliminating the problem’ after the wedding.”

“I know.” I finally look at her. “I’ve been expecting it.”

“Then why—” She stops, studying my face. “You’re investigating Roman. That’s why you believe me now. You found proof.”

“I found enough.” I lean against the wall, suddenly exhausted. “I spoke with your father. He admitted to nothing, but something felt wrong.

“My father is weak. Not evil. He wouldn’t be able to plan anything.”

I push off the wall. “He swore you didn’t know.”

“So, you finally believe me.” She doesn’t sound triumphant. Just tired. “Only took you destroying everything I built first.”

The accusation lands like it should. “I didn’t say I believe you. I said I spoke with your father. He would of course lie to protect you.”

She groans and shakes her head. “You are a stubborn, stupid, obstinate man, Maksim. Your stupidity will get you killed. But I’ll meet you in hell because we both know I will be sent there very soon at the hands of my husband.”

“I’m cautious,” I reply. “Last time I trusted someone, it nearly got me killed.”

Her shoulders slump and she wraps her arms around her middle like she’s just remembered she’s basically naked.

“Why do you keep doing this?” she asks quietly. “Having sex with me. If you hate me—if you want to destroy me—why can’t you stay away?”

The question I’ve been avoiding.

Because I don’t hate her. Haven’t hated her for days now, maybe longer.

Because every time I touch her, it feels like coming home.

Because six years of torture didn’t kill what I feel for her, and neither did weeks of trying to destroy her.

But saying any of that out loud makes it real. Makes me vulnerable.

“I don’t know,” I lie.

“Yes, you do.” She sees through me like always. “You just won’t admit it.”

“What do you want me to say?” I turn away. “That I don’t hate you? That I might have been wrong about everything? That being with you feels right even though it shouldn’t?”

“I want you to say the truth.” Her voice breaks. “Just once. Instead of walking away. Instead of pretending this is just sex or revenge or anything but what it actually is. I’m marrying Roman, Maksim. You know I will be killed. I will be tortured. You will never touch me again. Just let me have this one thing before I go to my death.”

I know what she wants to hear. That I love her. That I never stopped loving her. That every moment of hating her was just love twisted into something ugly.

But I can’t.

“Get out of my room,” I say instead.

She flinches like I slapped her. Her eyes are filled with tears. I wait for her to cry and beg.

But she doesn’t.

She blinks away the tears and her lips press into a thin line.

The Ice Queen is back.

She starts to leave, then pauses with her back to me.

“When you’re ready to stop being a coward,” she says without looking back, “you know where to find me. I’ll be the one in the wedding dress marrying your pakhan while you watch and pretend you don’t care.”

Then she’s gone, leaving me standing in the wreckage of what we just did.

I sink onto the edge of my bed and put my head in my hands.

She’s right. I am a coward.

I’m not brave enough to admit I love the woman I keep destroying.

I finally admit the truth to myself, even if I can’t say it to her:

I don’t hate Kira Markov.

I never did.

I just hate that loving her might get us both killed.

Kira

I step out of his room and close my eyes. My heart hurts. I know I’ve lost him. He will never believe me.

I take a deep breath and open my eyes and walk directly into Roman.

He’s standing in the hallway like he’s been waiting.

Like he knew.

Panic floods through me, ice-cold and absolute.

I try to cover myself suddenly very aware I’m undressed.

“Kira.” His voice is pleasant. Too pleasant. “How was the fitting?”

“Fine.” I keep my voice steady even as my heart tries to kick through my ribs.

He steps closer, studying me with eyes that see too much. “You’re flushed.”

I glance down at my feet and can’t miss the expanse of skin on display. My mind races for explanations.

His hand shoots out, gripping my chin, forcing me to look at him. “Where is he?”

“Who—”

The slap comes out of nowhere.

His palm connects with my cheek hard enough to snap my head sideways. Hard enough that I taste blood. I stumble backward into the wall. When he hits me again, my head hits the wall. My legs go out from under me. I slide down the wall with my legs stretched out in front of me.

Stars explode across my vision. My ear rings. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth.

“Where. Is. He?” Roman looms over me, his face twisted with rage I’ve never seen before.

He knows.

“I don’t—”

Maksim’s bedroom door jerks open.

Maksim stands there, taking in the scene—me on the floor, blood on my lips, Roman standing over me with his hand still raised.

Something in Maksim’s face goes dead. Then murderous.

“Get away from her.” His voice could freeze blood.

Roman turns, and now he’s smiling. “How convenient. Saves me the trouble of finding you.”

“I said get away from her.” Maksim moves forward, positioning himself between us.

“Or what?” Roman’s laugh is ugly. “You’ll defend her honor? After you just fucked her in my house days before our marriage?”

The crude words hit like bullets. He knows. He knows everything.

“How did you—” I start.

“Cameras.” Roman gestures around the hall. “You think I don’t monitor every inch of my compound? I watched the whole sordid display. Very touching. The dead heir and his former fiancée, rutting like animals.”

Horror crashes over me. He watched. He saw everything.

That’s when it dawns on me—there are cameras in our rooms.

I’m going to be sick.

“You’re sick,” Maksim snarls.

“I’m thorough.” Roman’s smile sharpens. “And you’re predictable. I knew you’d go to her eventually. Knew you couldn’t resist. That’s why I put her room next to yours. That’s why I arranged all those private moments. I wanted to see if you’d betray me.”

“You set us up,” I realize. “All of it.”

“Testing loyalty.” Roman shrugs. “Maksim failed spectacularly. Repeatedly, from what I saw. The creek was particularly entertaining.”

He watched us at the creek too. The violation makes me want to vomit.

“You’re insane,” Maksim says.

“I’m pragmatic.” Roman straightens his cuffs. “I needed to know if you were truly with me or if you were weak enough to be swayed by a pretty face and old feelings. Now I know.”

“Know what?” Maksim’s hands curl into fists.

“That you’re useless to me.” Roman signals, and suddenly guards appear from nowhere. Six of them, all armed. “I kept you alive because I thought you’d help destroy her organization. You did that beautifully. But now that job’s done, and you’ve proven you can’t be trusted.”

“Roman—” I try to stand, but my head is still spinning from the blows.

“Stay down.” Roman doesn’t even look at me. “This is between men.”

Maksim lunges.

He’s fast—faster than Roman expects. His fist connects with Roman’s jaw, snapping his head back. Roman stumbles, and for a second, I think Maksim might actually win this. Logic doesn’t factor in. Even if Maksim overpowers Roman, we’re in his compound. We can’t escape.

The guards intervene.

Three of them grab Maksim, hauling him back. He fights—God, he fights—landing blows that would drop normal men. But there are too many of them.

“Maksim!” I’m on my feet now, trying to reach him.

One of the guards backhands me casually, sending me sprawling again.

“Don’t touch her!” Maksim roars, fighting harder.

“She’s mine to touch.” Roman wipes blood from his lip. “Or she was. Now she’s just a problem to solve.”

He pulls a gun from his jacket. Points it at Maksim.

Time slows down.

“No!” I scream. “Roman, please—”

The shot is deafening in the enclosed hallway.

Maksim jerks, then goes still. Blood blooms across his shoulder, spreading dark and wet across his shirt.

“Maksim!” I’m crawling toward him, uncaring of my state of undress.

The guards holding him let him drop. He hits the floor hard, blood pooling beneath him.

“Take her to her room.” Roman holsters the gun like he didn’t just shoot someone. “Post guards. She doesn’t leave. She doesn’t see anyone.”

“No!” I fight as hands grab me. “Let me go! He’ll die!”

“Probably.” Roman sounds bored. “That’s rather the point.”

“You can’t! He’s your family!”

“Family means nothing.” Roman finally looks at me, and his eyes are empty. “You should know that by now. Take her.”

They drag me away. I fight every step, screaming Maksim’s name, watching his still form get smaller as they haul me into my bedroom.

Blood. So much blood.

Is he breathing? I can’t tell.

They throw me into my room and slam the door. I hear locks engaging—multiple locks—and then footsteps as guards take position outside.

I run to the door and pound on it. “Let me out! He needs help! Please!”

Nothing. No response.

I’m trapped while Maksim bleeds to death in the hallway.

The realization makes my legs give out. I slide down the door sobbing with my heart shattering.

This is my fault. If I’d been smarter, more careful—

But it was a trap. All of it. Roman planned this from the beginning.

And we walked right into it.

Hours pass. Or maybe minutes. Time has lost meaning.

I pace the room like a caged animal. Try the door again. The windows. Search for anything I could use as a weapon or a way out.

Nothing.

I’m completely helpless.

Is Maksim alive? Dead? Dying alone while I’m locked away?

The not knowing is torture worse than anything else.

Finally, I hear someone unlock the door.

I’m on my feet immediately.

Roman steps inside, closing the door behind him.

He’s changed clothes. The ones Maksim bled on are gone, replaced by a fresh suit. Like nothing happened.

“Where is he?” I demand. “Is he alive?”

“That’s your first question?” Roman’s smile is cruel. “Not whether the wedding is still on? Not begging for mercy?”

“I don’t care about the wedding. Where is Maksim?”

“Touching.” He circles me slowly. “The whore actually cares about her lover.”

The word hits like a slap. “Don’t—”

“Don’t what? Call you what you are?” His voice rises. “I was going to marry you. Make you the queen of Moscow. And you repaid me by fucking him! In my house!”

“You set us up!” I shout back. “You arranged everything—”

“I tested you!” He’s in my face now, fury radiating from him. “And you failed! Just like he failed! Both of you weak and predictable!”

“If we’re so predictable, why are you so angry?”

Wrong thing to say. His hand wraps around my throat, slamming me back against the wall.

“Angry?” His grip tightens. “I’m not angry. I’m disappointed. I actually thought you might be worth the trouble. That you had discipline. Control. But you’re just like every other woman—ruled by emotion and sentiment.”

Spots dance across my vision. I claw at his hand, but he’s too strong.

“The wedding is off,” he says conversationally, like he’s not strangling me. “I don’t want a whore in my bed. I have standards.”

He releases me suddenly, and I collapse, gasping.

“Instead,” he continues, straightening his suit, “I’ll marry your sister. Sweet, innocent Anya. At least she hasn’t been tainted by my Maksim’s touch.”

“No.” I’m still choking, voice raspy. “Not Anya. The deal was—”

“The deal is whatever I say it is.” He looks down at me with contempt. “You broke our agreement when you spread your legs for Maksim. So now your sister pays the price.”

“Please.” I’m begging now, pride abandoned. “Please, Roman. Punish me. Kill me. But leave Anya alone. She’s innocent—”

“Innocent.” He laughs. “Like you were innocent? Like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing when you seduced him?”

“I didn’t seduce him—”

“You think I care?” His shoe connects with my ribs, and pain explodes through my chest. “You think the details matter? All I know is you betrayed me. And betrayal has consequences.”

Another kick. I curl into a ball, trying to protect myself.

“The wedding will be next week,” he says, like discussing business. “Anya will wear your dress—we’ll have it altered to fit. She’ll stand where you were supposed to stand. Marry me instead of you.”

“She’ll refuse,” I gasp out. “She’ll run—”

“She’ll do exactly what I tell her.” His voice hardens. “Because if she doesn’t, I’ll kill you. Slowly. And make her watch. Do you think your sweet sister could live with that guilt?”

He’s right. Anya would never let me be tortured to save herself.

“What about me?” I force the words out through bruised ribs and terror.

“You’ll be dealt with after the wedding.” He straightens his jacket. “Can’t have loose ends. But first, I need to secure the alliance through your sister. Then you become… expendable.”

He heads for the door, then pauses.

“Oh, and Maksim?” He glances back. “Still alive. For now. Thought you’d want to know. He’s in a cell in the basement. We’re keeping him breathing just in case I need additional leverage over you or your sister.”

Relief and horror war in my chest. Alive. Maksim is alive.

But trapped. A prisoner like me.

And we will both die soon.

“Don’t try anything stupid,” Roman warns. “You’re not leaving until I decide what to do with you.”

He opens the door, revealing the guards stationed outside.

“Oh, and Kira?” He smiles. “If you do somehow manage to escape? If you try to run or interfere? I’ll have Maksim killed immediately. Then your sister. Then your father. Everyone you’ve ever cared about, dead because you couldn’t stay put. Understand?”

I nod because what choice do I have?

He leaves, and the locks engage again.

The Ice Queen has finally, completely shattered.

And I don’t know how to put the pieces back together.

Maksim

Consciousness returns in waves of pain.

My shoulder is on fire—a deep, burning agony that pulses with every heartbeat. My ribs scream with each breath. My head throbs where someone hit me after I went down.

I force my eyes open and immediately wish I hadn’t.

Concrete walls. No windows. A single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, flickering like it might die at any moment. The smell hits me next—mold, dampness, human waste, despair.

I know this smell. Lived with it for six years.

I’m in a cell again.

The realization makes my chest tighten with something between rage and panic. Not again. I can’t do this again.

I won’t survive.

I try to sit up and immediately regret it. Pain explodes through my shoulder, and I look down to see rough bandaging—someone wrapped the gunshot wound, but not well. Blood is already seeping through the makeshift dressing.

They’re keeping me alive.

It’s part of the torture.

My ribs protest as I force myself upright, leaning against the cold concrete wall. Every movement sends fresh waves of agony through my body, but I catalog the damage anyway.

Gunshot wound to the left shoulder, through and through, based on the exit wound I can feel. Could be worse. Could have hit bone or an artery.

Broken or cracked ribs on my right side—at least two, maybe three. From the beating Roman’s men gave me before they dumped me here.

Head wound from where they knocked me out. Dried blood in my hair.

Various cuts and bruises.

Nothing immediately fatal. Which means Roman wants me alive for something.

The question is: for how long?

I look around the cell more carefully. Small—maybe six by eight feet. Smaller than the ones in Georgia, and that’s saying something. No bed, just a thin mat on the floor. A bucket in the corner that I don’t want to examine too closely. A single door, solid metal, with a small slot near the bottom for food.

I think I’m downstairs. I’m still on the property.

Kira.

What happened to her?

Did he kill her?

Footsteps are coming close.

I force myself to stand, ignoring the way my vision grays at the edges. I won’t meet my captors from the floor. Won’t give them that satisfaction.

The door opens, and two guards step inside. I recognize them. Roman’s men.

“Where’s Kira?” I demand.

They laugh. Actually laugh.

“Worried about your girlfriend?” The taller one grins. “That’s sweet.”

“Where is she?” I take a step forward, and pain shoots through my ribs. “Is she alive?”

“For now.” The shorter guard leans against the doorframe. “Boss is deciding what to do with her. Might keep her around for entertainment. Might kill her. Depends on his mood.”

The casual way he says it makes me want to tear out his throat.

The other grins. “No, didn’t you hear, she’s marrying Volkov. Original plan for the sister, but maybe the whore gets that honor instead.”

“What?” The word comes out strangled.

“Boss decided the younger sister was more… manageable.” He’s enjoying this. “Anya’s going to be the new bride. Roman likes them young and innocent.”

No. No, this can’t be happening.

Roman is going to destroy her just to spite Kira.

“You can’t—” I start forward, and both guards draw weapons.

“Can’t what? Stop it?” The tall one laughs again. “You’re in a cell, bleeding. What exactly are you going to do?”

He’s right, and that makes it worse.

“Boss says to keep you alive,” the shorter guard adds. “Might need you for leverage later. But he didn’t say you had to be comfortable.”

They leave, the door slamming shut with a finality that echoes in my bones.

I sink back down onto the mat, my mind racing.

Kira is alive but a prisoner.

I should have seen this coming. Should have known Roman was testing us, watching us, waiting for us to betray ourselves.

But I was too focused on Kira. Too caught up in desire and doubt and the desperate need to touch her to think strategically.

And now we’re all paying the price.

Hours pass. Or maybe days. Time loses meaning in a windowless cell.

No one brings food. No one brings water. Just darkness and pain and the knowledge that I’ve failed everyone who mattered.

I drift in and out of consciousness, fever building from the untreated gunshot wound. Memories mix with hallucinations—Georgia and Moscow blurring together. Kira’s face at eighteen and twenty-four. The creek where we made love. The hallway where Roman shot me.

All of it spinning together into a nightmare I can’t wake from.

Then footsteps again. Different this time. Slower. Heavier.

The door opens, and Viktor stands there.

“Viktor.” I force the name out through cracked lips.

“You should have stayed dead, boy.” His voice is quiet. Sad. “This didn’t have to happen.”

“You sold me out.” It’s not a question anymore. I know the truth now. “You helped Roman kidnap me.”

“I did.” He doesn’t try to deny it. “Six years ago, Roman came to me with an offer. Good money. Better position. All I had to do was provide some information and look the other way.”

“So, you did.” The betrayal cuts deeper coming from him. Viktor was my father’s most trusted man. Someone I grew up with.

“I did.” He steps into the cell, and I notice he’s not armed. “And I’ve regretted it every day since.”

“Not enough to confess.” I lean against the wall, too weak to stand. “Not enough to stop it from happening again.”

“What could I do?” His laugh is bitter. “Roman owns everything now. Everyone. Cross him and you die. Simple as that.”

“Then why are you here?” I ask. “To gloat? To finish what you started?”

“To tell you the truth.” He pulls out a flask and takes a long drink. “Before Roman kills us both.”

“Both?”

“You think I’m safe?” Viktor’s smile is grim. “I’m a loose end, Maksim. I know too much. Once he’s done using me, I’m dead. Just like you. Just like anyone who knows what really happened.”

“Then talk.” I force myself to focus through the fever. “Tell me everything.”

He settles onto the floor across from me, like we’re having a conversation instead of a confession.

“Roman planned it for over a year,” he begins. “Your father was grooming you to take over. Everyone knew it. You were brilliant, charismatic, progressive. Going to change how the Bratva operated.”

“And Roman didn’t want that.”

“Roman wanted power. Pure and simple.” Viktor takes another drink. “But he couldn’t just kill you. Your father would never forgive that. The other families would ask questions. So, he needed you to disappear. Needed someone else to blame.”

“Kira’s family.”

“Her father was perfect.” Viktor’s voice is heavy. “In debt, desperate, stupid enough to take money without asking questions. Roman paid him to provide information—said it was for security purposes, protecting you during the engagement negotiations. The old fool believed it.”

“And Kira?”

“Never knew a thing.” Viktor meets my eyes. “Your precious Kira never lifted a finger against you. But her father… he had debts. Gambling debts that Roman was happy to forgive in exchange for information.”

The words hit like a sledgehammer.

All this time. All my rage and revenge—aimed at the wrong target.

“She was innocent,” I whisper.

“Completely.” Viktor nods.

Regret and guilt run through me. I should have listened.

And now it’s too late.

“Roman sent the text,” Viktor continues. “We had it planned.”

“We.” I force the word out.

“Me and Roman’s people.” He won’t meet my eyes now. “I helped coordinate the grab. Made sure your security was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Provided the getaway vehicles.”

“And then you helped frame Kira’s family.”

“Roman did that.” Viktor sounds almost defensive. “He manufactured the evidence. Created the trail. I just… didn’t contradict it.”

“You let an innocent woman be blamed for six years.”

“Yes.” His voice breaks. “And I’ll carry that guilt to my grave. Which will probably be soon.”

We sit in silence for a moment. The weight of his confession hanging between us.

“Why tell me now?” I ask finally.

“Because Roman is going to kill you.” Viktor looks at me directly. “After the wedding. Once he’s secured his position through Anya, you become expendable. He’ll stage your death—probably as a suicide from guilt over seducing his fiancée. Clean. Tragic. Believable.”

“And Kira?”

“Will die too.” His voice is flat. “Can’t leave her alive knowing what she knows. Roman will probably arrange an accident. Make it look like grief drove her to something reckless.”

“Anya?”

“Will be broken.” Viktor’s face twists. “Roman’s specialty. He’ll destroy that girl piece by piece until there’s nothing left but obedience.”

The future he’s describing is a nightmare. But also, entirely plausible.

“So, we’re all dead,” I say. “You came here to tell me we’re all dead.”

“I came here to tell you the truth.” Viktor stands, joints cracking. “You deserved that much. Deserved to know your Kira never betrayed you. That she loved you.”

He heads for the door, then pauses.

“For what it’s worth,” he says quietly, “I’m sorry. I’m going to hell for it.”

“Fuck you. You don’t get to absolve yourself now. I don’t forgive you. I will meet you in hell and I will kill you over and over.”

He nods and leaves.

The door closes, and I’m alone again with the truth.

Kira was innocent.

The guilt is worse than the physical pain. Worse than the fever burning through me.

I let rage blind me to the truth. I close my eyes and force myself to think.

There has to be a way. There’s always a way.

I just have to find it before it’s too late.

Kira

I’m dreaming of the creek—Maksim’s hands on my skin, his mouth on mine, the feeling that maybe we could find our way back to each other—when rough hands grab me.

I jerk awake, trying to scream, but a hand clamps over my mouth before sound can escape. Multiple hands pin my arms, my legs, lifting me from the bed.

Panic floods through me. This is it. Roman’s decided I’m more trouble than I’m worth.

I fight anyway. Kick and thrash and try to bite the hand over my mouth. But there are too many of them, and they’re too strong.

Something—a bag, rough fabric—goes over my head, plunging me into darkness.

Terror spikes. I can’t see. Can’t breathe properly through the fabric. Can’t tell how many of them there are or where they’re taking me.

I try to scream through the hand, try to fight, but it’s useless. They carry me like I weigh nothing, through corridors that echo with footsteps.

“Stop fighting,” one of them mutters. “You’re just making this harder on yourself.”

I fight harder.

They laugh. Actually laugh at my desperate struggling.

“Feisty one,” another voice. “Boss is gonna enjoy breaking her.”

No. No, I’m not going to be broken. Not by Roman. Not by anyone.

I buck and twist, managing to land a solid kick to someone’s stomach. They grunt, and their grip loosens fractionally.

“Bitch!” The word is followed by a sharp pain in my ribs—someone hit me.

I cry out. They use my momentary weakness to secure me more firmly.

More walking. Descending stairs—I can feel the change in angle, the way gravity shifts. Going down.

To the basement. To wherever Roman keeps his prisoners.

To where Maksim is.

The thought gives me strength. If they’re taking me to him, at least I’ll see him one more time before…

Before what? Before they kill us both? Before Roman decides how we die? What if they torture him in front of me? I would rather die. I can’t watch that.

We stop. I hear metal scraping—a door opening. Then I’m thrown forward, hands releasing me all at once.

I hit the ground hard, the bag still over my head, disoriented and terrified.

“Enjoy your last night together,” one of them says. “Boss says you’ve got until morning. Then it’s over.”

The door slams. Locks engage.

I’m scrambling to remove the bag, my hands shaking so badly I can barely grip the fabric.

Then other hands are on me. Gentle. Familiar.

“Kira. Kira, stop. It’s me. You’re okay.”

That voice. I know that voice.

The bag comes off, and I’m looking up at Maksim.

He’s alive.

He’s alive.

The sob that tears out of me is ugly and desperate. I throw myself at him. He catches me despite the obvious pain it causes him. His shoulder is bandaged—poorly. There is blood seeping through. He moves like his ribs hurt.

“You’re alive.” I can’t stop saying it. “You’re alive. Roman said—he told me he killed you. That you were dead. I didn’t believe it. I felt you.”

“I know. I know.” His arms tighten around me, and I feel him shaking too. “I’m okay. I’m here.”

I pull back to look at him properly. He’s pale, fever-bright eyes, moving carefully like everything hurts. There’s dried blood in his hair and bruises blooming across his face.

“You’re not okay.” I touch his bandaged shoulder gently. “You need medical attention. This is infected—”

“Probably.” His smile is grim. “But there’s not much we can do about that right now. And if I’m being practical, it doesn’t matter.”

I look around for the first time, taking in our surroundings. A cell. Small, concrete, with a single dim bulb. One thin mat on the floor. A bucket in the corner. I know what he’s saying. Why fight an infection when we were going to be killed anyway.

“How long have you been here?”

“Since he shot me. Maybe a day? Two? Hard to tell without windows.” He leans back against the wall, wincing. “They’re keeping me alive for leverage. In case he needs to threaten you or Anya with my death.”

“Anya.” The name makes my throat tight. “Roman said—he said he’s marrying her instead of me. Next week.”

“I know.” Maksim’s jaw clenches. “The guards made sure to tell me. Said she’s more ‘manageable’ than you.”

“We have to stop it.” I’m desperate now. “Maksim, we have to get out of here. Warn her. Get her away before—”

“Before what?” His voice is gentle but firm. “Kira, look around. We’re locked in a cell. Guarded. You heard them—we’ve got until morning. Then it’s over.”

“Over meaning what?”

“Meaning Roman’s going to kill us.” He says it flatly. “Can’t have loose ends. Once he’s secured his position through Anya, we become too dangerous to keep alive.”

The words should terrify me. Instead, I feel oddly calm. Maybe I’ve moved past fear into acceptance.

“I’m sorry.” Maksim’s voice breaks through my thoughts. “For everything. For not believing you. For destroying your organization. For participating in the arrangements that put Anya in danger.”

“You believe me now.” It’s not a question. I can see it in his eyes. “About not betraying you.”

“Yes.” He looks at me directly. “Viktor came to see me. Told me everything. Your father took money from Roman—gave him information about my schedule, security. But you didn’t know. Never knew.”

The confirmation of my innocence should feel like victory. Instead, it just feels sad. It all feels so pointless. So much sadness.

If only he would have trusted me enough to believe what I said.

“Roman orchestrated all of it,” I say quietly. “Didn’t he? Not just the kidnapping. Everything.”

“Everything.” Maksim nods. “He paid your father. Manufactured the evidence. Used me as a weapon to destroy you. Played us both.”

“And we let him.” I lean my head on his good shoulder, careful of his injury.

“I was certain it was you.” His voice is raw with guilt. “Six years, Kira. I spent six years in hell, and the only thing that kept me alive was the promise of making you pay. And you were innocent the whole time.”

“I know.” I thread my fingers through his.

“We were both victims.” He squeezes my hand. “Roman used your father’s desperation and my rage. Manipulated us into destroying each other while he consolidated power.”

We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of it all settling between us.

“What can we do?” I ask finally. “There has to be something. Some way to warn Anya. To stop the wedding. To expose Roman.”

“I don’t know.” The admission costs him. “I’ve been trying to think of something. Anything. But we’re locked in a cell. Wounded. Watched. They’ve made sure we can’t escape.”

“There has to be a way.” I refuse to accept helplessness. “Maksim, we can’t just sit here and wait to die. Not with Anya’s life at stake.”

“I know.” His arm goes around me, pulling me closer despite the pain it obviously causes. “I know. But I don’t have answers. Not this time.”

The despair in his voice mirrors what I’m feeling. For the first time since this nightmare started, we’re truly helpless.

“Tell me what happened,” I say, needing to focus on something other than our fate. “After he shot you. What did they do?”

“Dragged me down here. Beat me until I passed out. When I woke up, I was in this cell.” He touches his bandaged shoulder. “They wrapped this—barely. Just enough to keep me from bleeding out. Then left me.”

“No food? Water?”

“Some.” He gestures to a mostly empty bottle in the corner. “Not much. They’re not trying to keep me comfortable. Just alive enough to be useful.”

I examine his shoulder as best I can in the dim light. The bandaging is crude, and blood has soaked through. I can see infection setting in—red streaks radiating from the wound. And it smells.

“This is bad,” I say.

“But it doesn’t matter. If Roman’s planning to kill us tomorrow, infection won’t have time to do the job.”

The casual acceptance in his voice breaks something in me.

“Don’t.” I grab his face, forcing him to look at me. “Don’t give up.”

“Kira, we’re locked in a cell! There’s no way out! No cavalry coming! It’s over!”

“It’s not over until we’re dead!” I’m shouting now too. “And even then, we go down fighting! We don’t just accept—”

“What choice do we have?” He grabs my hands. “Tell me. What’s the plan? How do we escape a locked cell when we’re wounded and outnumbered?”

I don’t have an answer.

The realization makes me deflate. He’s right. We’re truly trapped.

“I’m sorry.” He pulls me close again, and I let him. “I shouldn’t have yelled. I just… I can’t see a way out this time. And that terrifies me more than dying.”

“What terrifies you?” I ask against his chest.

“That Anya will marry Roman. That he’ll destroy her. That you and I will die without stopping him.” His voice breaks. “That after everything—after all the hate and rage and wasted time—we finally understand each other and it’s too late.”

Tears stream down my face. Because he’s right.

We finally believe each other. Finally see the truth. Finally stop fighting long enough to realize we never stopped loving each other.

And it’s too late.

“I love you,” I whisper. “I never stopped. Even when you hated me. Even when you were destroying everything I built. I still loved you.”

“I know.” His arms tighten. “I love you too. Always have. I just forgot for a while. Let rage blind me to what was real.”

We hold each other in that terrible cell, and for just a moment, it feels like we’re kids again. Planning a future that seemed golden and certain.

Except now we know the truth: the future is neither golden nor certain.

It’s dark and uncertain and probably ending tomorrow.

“If we’re going to die,” I say finally, “I’m glad it’s together. I’m glad I get to spend my last hours with you instead of alone.”

“We’re not dead yet.” But even as he says it, I can hear the resignation in his voice.

We settle onto the thin mat, his good arm around me, my head on his chest. Listening to his heartbeat—proof he’s alive, for now.

Tomorrow, Roman will come. Will end this.

But tonight, we have each other.

Maksim

I wake to Kira being ripped from my arms.

One second, she’s curled against me, both of us finally at peace despite the nightmare surrounding us. The next, rough hands are dragging her away.

“No!” I’m on my feet before my body remembers it’s injured. Pain explodes through my shoulder and ribs, but I don’t care. “Let her go!”

“Wedding time.” One of the guards—the tall one from before—grins as Kira fights him. “Boss wants the bride looking presentable.”

“Maksim!” Kira’s screaming, clawing at the guard’s arms. “Don’t let them—”

I lunge forward, and two more guards appear, blocking my path. My fist connects with someone’s jaw, but then someone hits me from behind.

My vision blurs. I can feel blackness creeping in, but I refuse to be knocked out. I stumble but stay upright, throwing another punch. My bad arm is limp and useless, but it doesn’t stop me from trying to use it. I need to reach her. I have to stop this.

“Maksim, no!” Kira’s voice is desperate. “Don’t—they’ll kill you!”

“I don’t care!” I’m fighting like a madman now, wounded and fevered but fueled by pure desperation.

Then something hard connects with the back of my skull.

There’s no fighting the blackness. I’m falling, reaching for Kira even as darkness swallows me.

The last thing I hear is her screaming my name.

Consciousness returns slowly, painfully.

My head throbs. Everything hurts. It takes several seconds for me to remember what happened.

I force my eyes open and immediately wish I hadn’t. The cell spins, nausea rising in my throat. Concussion, probably. Just another condition to add to my collection of injuries. Another hindrance to overcome.

They are becoming too many. I close my eyes and take stock.

I’m alone. Kira is gone.

The realization makes me want to scream. Or vomit. Or both.

How much more can I take?

Not much.

I’m half-dead already. And is there really any point in fighting? Giving up would end my pain. I can go to sleep and wait for the bullet that will end things for good.

My mind drifts as I fight to stay conscious. It’s an internal war. I so want to give up, but there is a fire burning low in my gut that refuses to quit.

It’s that survival instinct that kept me alive through six years of torture. Even when I knew things were bleak, I couldn’t make myself quit.

Then I see Kira. It’s a kaleidoscope flashing through my mind. Memories of her.

And her scream just before I lost consciousness.

I open my eyes again.

I will die. I know that, but I can save her from a brutal death. Could I kill her to save her?

I have to. I will not let her be tortured. I know what that feels like. For her, it would be far worse.

I drag myself upright, using the wall for support. My legs barely hold me, but I force them to work. I move to test the cell door.

Still locked. Still solid. Still impossible.

Viktor’s words echo in my head: “Your precious Kira never lifted a finger against you.”

The familiar feeling of powerlessness threatens to drown me. This is Georgia all over again—locked away while terrible things happen, unable to stop any of it.

Except this time, the woman I love is the one suffering because of my failures.

Then I hear them.

Chapel bells.

The sound drifts down from somewhere above, clear and mocking. Beautiful bells announcing a wedding. Or two.

My blood runs cold.

It’s happening. Right now. Roman is marrying Anya while forcing Kira to watch. Destroying both sisters in one calculated move.

And I’m locked in a cell, bleeding and useless.

I slam my fist against the wall, ignoring the fresh pain. Scream until my throat is raw. Pull at the bars until I have no more strength.

Until I hear

footsteps in the hallway.

This is it. This is when I die.

I turn as the cell door opens. I will look my executioner in the eye.

Viktor stands there, looking older than death itself. He’s holding a gun—small caliber, suppressor attached.

“You?” My voice is raw. I thought Roman would want the satisfaction of ending me.

“I’m here to finish it.” He steps inside. “This is my wedding gift to Roman. You, permanently silenced.”

“He’s going to kill you too.” I lean against the wall, too weak to fight properly. “You know that, right?”

“I know.” He raises the gun. “But this buys me time.”

“Time to do more evil.”

Viktor’s smile is bitter. “You were the perfect weapon. Aimed at exactly the wrong target.”

“And you helped aim me.” The fury rises despite my exhaustion. “Congratulations.”

He smirks. “One of us will live to see tomorrow. One of us will have a woman in our bed again. I think I made the right choice.”

“His loyal dog, finishing the job.”

“This time, you’ll definitely be dying. No miraculous survivals. No returns from the dead. Just gone.”

The gun points at my chest. Center mass.

I close my eyes, and Kira’s face fills my vision. Her smile. Her tears yesterday. Her voice saying she loved me.

At least I’ll die knowing the truth. She never betrayed me. That she loved me through everything.

Small comfort, but comfort, nonetheless.

The cell door creaks.

I open my eyes to see it swinging inward. Viktor spins, confused.

Semyon stands in the doorway, his own weapon raised.

“Step away from him, Viktor.” Semyon’s voice is deadly calm.

“Semyon?” Viktor’s gun wavers. “What are you—how did you—”

“I’ve been working with resistance inside Roman’s organization for weeks.” Semyon moves into the cell. “Waiting for the right moment. This is it.”

“You can’t stop this.” Viktor’s desperation bleeds through. “Roman has won. The wedding is happening right now—”

“Then we’d better hurry.” Semyon’s gun doesn’t waver. “Put yours down. Step aside. Or I put you down. Your choice.”

For a long moment, Viktor doesn’t move. Weighing options. Calculating odds.

Then he sighs and lowers his weapon. “I’m dead either way. At least this way, maybe I die with some honor.”

“You lost honor six years ago.” I force myself forward, legs unsteady. “When you sold me out.”

“I know.” Viktor sets the gun on the floor. “For what it’s worth—I’m sorry. To you. To Kira. To your father’s memory. I’m sorry for all of it.”

Semyon shoots him.

The suppressed shot is quiet—barely louder than a cough. Viktor’s expression shifts from resignation to surprise to nothing as he crumples.

I stare at his body, feeling nothing. No satisfaction. No rage. Just emptiness.

“Can you walk?” Semyon is at my side, supporting my good arm.

“I’ll crawl if I have to.” I look at him. “Kira—”

“Is upstairs at the wedding.” He hands me Viktor’s gun. “Along with her sister and about two hundred witnesses. We need to move fast.”

“How did you—”

“Later.” He pulls me toward the door. “Right now, we stop a wedding. Or two. Then we deal with Roman.”

“Deal with him how?”

Semyon’s smile is grim. “However necessary. The real war starts now, brother. And this time, we’re fighting the right enemy.”

We move into the hallway. I feel a second wave of energy. Well, energy might have been a strong word, but I was moving. I could fire a gun.

There was still time. I could save her.

If we’re fast enough.

If I can stay conscious.

My shoulder screams with every movement. My vision blurs. My legs threaten to give out.

But I keep moving. It’s

time to finally get something right.

“Come on.” Semyon pulls me forward. “Your woman needs saving. Let’s go be heroes.”

Despite everything, I almost smile.

Then we’re running—as much as my broken body allows—toward the chapel.

I will die trying to save her.

I know she would rather be dead than live through the fate he has planned for her. And I will gladly take my last breath if I know she’s at peace.

Kira

Roman’s smile is the cruelest thing I’ve ever seen.

“You get front row seats to watch me marry your precious little sister,” he says, and there’s savage satisfaction in every word. “And then you’ll take her place with Volkov.”

The words take a moment to register. Then horror crashes over me.

“You sick bastard.” I lunge toward him, but the guards holding my arms jerk me back. “She’s nineteen years old!”

“Old enough to learn obedience.” His smile is pure evil. “And you’re going to watch every moment of it, knowing this is what your betrayal cost her.”

“It wasn’t betrayal!” I’m screaming now, past caring about dignity. “You set us up! You orchestrated everything!”

“Details.” He waves a dismissive hand. “What matters is that you’ll spend your last hours watching your sister marry me. Watching her realize what her life will become. And knowing that afterward, you’ll be handed to Volkov like the whore you are.”

He turns to leave. I thrash against the guards. “I’ll kill you! I swear to God, Roman, I’ll—”

“You’ll do nothing.” He doesn’t even look back. “You’re powerless. Finally. Completely. Just like I planned.”

The door slams shut with a finality that echoes in my bones.

The guards release me, and I collapse to my knees on the cold floor. A holding room somewhere in the compound. Plain walls. One window too high to reach. A door that’s now locked from the outside.

My prison until the wedding.

I force myself to breathe. There has to be a way out of this. Has to be something I can do.

But what? I’m unarmed. Locked in. Guarded. And in less than an hour, Anya will be walking down an aisle toward a monster.

The door opens again, and I’m on my feet, ready to fight whoever comes through.

But it’s Anya.

She stumbles inside, pushed by a guard who closes the door behind her without a word. She’s wearing a wedding dress—my wedding dress, hastily altered to fit her smaller frame. White silk and lace that should symbolize joy.

Instead, it looks like a shroud.

Mascara streaks down her cheeks. Her eyes are red and swollen. Her hands shake as she stares at me.

“Kira!” She throws herself into my arms. We both collapse to the floor, holding each other as she sobs.

“I can’t do this.” The words come out broken. “Please, I can’t marry him. He’s old and he scares me and I don’t—I can’t—”

“Shh, baby, I know.” I hold her tight, stroking her hair like when she was little and had nightmares. “Listen to me. We’re going to get out of this.”

“How?” She pulls back to look at me. The terror in her eyes breaks my heart. “There are guards everywhere. And what about you? Roman said you’re going to—that Volkov will—” She can’t finish the sentence.

I can’t either. Can’t think about what Volkov will do without wanting to vomit.

“We fight.” I stand, pulling her up with me. “We find a way to fight.”

I look around the room desperately. Plain furniture. The window is too high and probably reinforced. The door is solid, locked from outside.

But there has to be something.

I start searching—pulling open drawers, checking under furniture, looking for anything we could use as a weapon.

“What are you doing?” Anya watches me, hope and fear warring in her expression.

“Looking for options.”

There is a single wooden chair in the room. I grab it and smash it against the floor several times.

I smash the chair against the floor until one of the legs breaks free. The wood splinters, leaving a jagged edge that could do damage if I get close enough.

“Here.” I hand the makeshift weapon to Anya. “When they come for you, you go for the eyes or the throat. Don’t hesitate.”

“Kira, I can’t—”

“You can.” I grip her shoulders. “You’re my sister. You have steel in you, even if you don’t know it yet.”

She takes the wooden leg with shaking hands. “What about you?”

I grab another piece of the broken chair—shorter, but with a sharp edge. “I’ll manage.”

The odds are laughable.

But we’re not going down without a fight.

“What’s the plan?” Anya asks.

“When they come to take you to the chapel, we fight. Hit them fast, hit them hard, and run. Poke them in the eyes. Jab that stick into their balls. Make them bleed, Anya. Do you hear me? Don’t play nice. Be violent.”

“Run where?” Her voice is small. “The compound is huge. There are guards everywhere.”

“I don’t know yet. But anywhere is better than that chapel.”

She nods, trying to be brave.

I’ve failed her.

But I can still fight beside her.

We position ourselves on either side of the door. Waiting. Weapons ready.

Minutes tick by. Or hours. Time has lost meaning.

Then—gunfire.

The sound is distant but unmistakable. Automatic weapons. Multiple shooters.

Anya grabs my arm, her eyes wide with terror. “What’s happening?”

“I don’t know.” But hope flickers in my chest for the first time since they dragged me from Maksim’s arms.

The chaos outside means someone is fighting back. Someone with enough firepower to challenge Roman’s security. I have zero hope it’s Maksim, but maybe someone is still loyal to me.

Or maybe it’s one of Roman’s enemies and they’re coming to kill me and Anya. A wife means heirs and none of the rival families want Roman to have an heir.

More gunfire. Closer now. Shouting. Running footsteps in the hallway outside.

“Get ready,” I whisper to Anya. “When that door opens—”

“Kira!”

My heart stops.

That voice. I know that voice.

“Maksim,” I breathe. I look at Anya. “Did you hear him?”

Anya nods. “I hear him.”

“We’re in here!” I call out. “Maksim! Here!”

“Get back!” I hear someone shout.

I grab Anya and pull her away, wrapping my arms around her from behind and do my best to shield her body.

There’s a pause. Then the door explodes inward—literally explodes, the lock shattering as someone kicks it with brutal force.

Maksim stands in the doorway.

He’s bloodied and battered, his shoulder bleeding but he’s alive.

I don’t know how he’s here, but he is. I can’t breathe. He’s here. And alive.

“Are you hurt?” He’s already moving toward me, his hands framing my face, checking for injuries with desperate gentleness.

“We’re okay.” I can barely speak through the relief flooding through me. “But Roman—”

“I know.” His thumb brushes my cheek. “We need to go. Now. His men are regrouping and this place is about to become a slaughter.”

Semyon steps into the room, his weapon drawn. His eyes find Anya, still frozen by the wall in her wedding dress.

“Can you run, little one?” His voice is surprisingly gentle.

Anya nods mutely. Semyon moves to help her, his hand steady on her arm.

Maksim wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me close.

“Stay close,” he commands, his eyes meeting mine. “No matter what happens, stay with me.”

“Always,” I promise.

He’s leaning on me. I can tell it’s taking every ounce of his strength to stay upright. I don’t know how to help him, but I will do all that I can to fight. I understand what we’re fighting for—our lives. There is no one coming to save us. It’s the four of us against an army.

We move into the hallway, and chaos erupts around us. Gunfire echoes from multiple directions. Smoke drifts through the air. Roman’s men are everywhere, but so are others. It’s not just the four of us. I recognize one of Roman’s guards take down another guard.

Mutiny.

Revolt.

Fucking finally.

“Kitchen exit,” Maksim says, pulling me forward. “Go. We’ll find you.”

I don’t want to leave him. But it’s him or Anya and he has a gun.

I grab Anya’s hand and start pulling her.

Maksim and Semyon lay down covering fire while Anya and I sprint ahead. The wedding dress tangles around Anya’s legs, and she stumbles. I catch her, both of us fighting fabric and fear.

“Almost there!” Semyon shouts.

More gunmen appear from a side corridor. Bullets chew chunks from the walls around us. Maksim returns fire, his shots precise despite his obvious pain.

I see him wince with each recoil, his shoulder bleeding fresh, but he doesn’t slow down.

“Go!” He pushes me forward. “Don’t stop!”

Anya trips on her dress, and I haul her up. We’re so close—the kitchen door is just ahead…

An explosion behind us. The concussion wave throws us forward. I hit the ground hard, Anya beneath me. My ears ring. Smoke and debris fill the air.

I feel paralyzed. Nothing moves. It’s like a video game and we’ve all been paused. I don’t know how long I lie there. Seconds? Minutes?

And then I feel someone touching me.

Strong hands pull me up. Maksim, his face set in determined lines.

I try to focus on his face, but my vision is blurry.

“Are you hurt?”

I feel like he’s talking to me from a hundred miles away.

I blink.

“Kira!”

I nod, letting him know I hear him.

“Can you run?” he asks.

“Yes.”

I lean down and grab at Anya. “Anya!”

She groans and gets to her hands and knees.

“Let’s go!” I tell her. “Get up.”

It’s harsh, but it’s necessary.

I grab Anya’s arm and haul her to her feet. The white dress is gray with dust and torn at the hem, but she’s moving. That’s all that matters.

“Kitchen!” Semyon points. We stumble forward through the smoke.

My lungs burn. Every breath tastes like ash and cordite. Behind us, more shouting. More gunfire. The compound is tearing itself apart.

We burst through the kitchen door. The staff scattered long ago—abandoned pots still bubble on stoves, food burning. The acrid smell mixes with the smoke, making my eyes water.

“Back exit!” Maksim moves ahead, checking corners despite the way he’s swaying on his feet.

He shouldn’t even be standing. The blood soaking through his shoulder bandage has spread down his entire left side. His face is gray beneath the dirt and blood. But he keeps moving, keeps fighting.

For me. For Anya.

We reach the back door, and Semyon kicks it open. Cold air hits my face. We all inhale the fresh air. Our lungs desperate for clean oxygen.

The compound’s rear gardens spread before us. Beyond that, the outer wall. Freedom.

“Go!” Maksim pushes us through. “Don’t stop until you’re over that wall!”

I pull Anya forward. A guard steps in front of us, his gun aimed directly at Anya. I throw myself in front of her, knocking her to the ground as a shot rings out. I wait for the pain.

We hit the ground, knocking the air from our lungs.

And then I’m looking into the dead eyes of the man who tried to kill me. There’s a black hole directly in the center of his head.

More gunfire erupts behind us. I roll over to see Maksim and Semyon returning fire at pursuers I can’t see.

“Maksim!” I scream his name, terror clawing at my throat.

“Keep going!” He doesn’t look at me, focused on the threat. “Get her out!”

I want to go back. Want to fight beside him. But Anya’s hand is in mine, and she needs me more. We scramble to our feet once again. I pull her along, trying to make it to the wall but it feels impossible. There are so many guards. So many guns.

But I would rather die trying than die at Roman’s hands.

Maksim

Each heartbeat sends fresh waves of agony through my body.

I ignore it. I have to ignore it.

I fire at the guards emerging from the compound, each shot sending lightning through my shoulder. My vision blurs at the edges, but I force myself to stay focused.

Semyon moves beside me, his weapon barking in controlled bursts. “We need to fall back!” he shouts over the chaos.

“Not until they’re over that wall!” I squeeze off another round, dropping a guard who was getting too close to Kira and Anya.

More of Roman’s men pour through the kitchen door. Too many. We’re being overwhelmed.

“Maksim, we’re out of time!” Semyon’s voice cuts through the gunfire.

I glance back. Kira and Anya are halfway to the wall, but it’s still too far. They need more time.

“Go!” I order Semyon. “Get them over. I’ll hold here.”

“You’ll die!”

“Then I die!” I fire again, the recoil nearly dropping me. “But they live. Go!”

I pick up the gun from the man I dropped earlier.

For a second, I think he’ll argue. Then he nods once and sprints toward the women.

I’m alone now, one man against Roman’s entire security force. The math doesn’t work in my favor.

But I don’t need to win. Just need to buy time.

I retreat toward a stone planter, using it for cover. My left arm hangs useless, blood dripping steadily onto the ground. I brace my arm against the stone. The blood loss has left me weak. Pulling the trigger takes as much effort as rolling a boulder uphill.

A guard rounds the corner. I fire. He drops.

Another appears. Same result.

But there are too many. For every one I drop, two more take his place.

My magazine clicks empty. I fumble for the spare Viktor had, my fingers slippery with blood. My fingers don’t want to cooperate. I realize I’m losing too much blood. Shock is setting in.

I slam the magazine home and chamber a round. My hand shake so badly I can barely aim.

“Maksim!” Kira’s scream cuts through everything.

I look up to see her at the wall. Semyon has Anya halfway over, but Kira is fighting to come back. For me.

“Go!” I roar at her. “Get out of here!”

“Not without you!”

Stubborn woman. Beautiful, infuriating, stubborn woman.

I force myself upright and start running toward them. Each step feels like dying, but I keep moving. Guards pursue, their shots kicking up dirt around my feet.

Semyon gets Anya over the wall and reaches for Kira. She resists, her eyes locked on me.

“Kira, climb!” I’m twenty feet away. Fifteen.

She finally turns and starts scaling the wall. Semyon helps pull her up.

Ten feet. Five.

A bullet slams into my side.

The impact drives me forward, momentum carrying me the last few steps. I hit the wall hard, my legs giving out.

Semyon grabs me. “Go!” He shouts in my face; his lips close enough we could kiss.

I’m so dizzy.

He’s behind me, his hands on my ass as he pushes me up. I managed to reach up with my good arm and it’s Kira hand on my wrist pulling me up.

“Don’t you die on me!”

I feel my stomach scrape across the stone as I make it over and then I’m falling. I hit the ground and decide now would be a good time to die.

But then Kira is there.

“Maksim, run!” Kira’s voice cuts through the fog in my brain. Her hands are on me, pulling, desperate.

I can’t. My legs won’t work. Everything is going gray at the edges.

“I can’t—” The words come out slurred.

Then Semyon is there, his arm hooking under my good shoulder. Between him and Kira, they drag me forward. My feet drag uselessly across the ground. Each movement sends fresh agony through my side where the bullet hit.

“There!” Semyon grunts.

Through my blurred vision, I see a car.

They haul me toward it. My body is dead weight, but they don’t stop. Don’t let go. I don’t know where my girl gets the strength. I know I’m twice her size. Twice her bodyweight but she’s a fucking animal.

“In!” Semyon shoves me into the backseat.

I collapse across the seat, unable to sit upright. Kira scrambles in after me, lifting my head into her lap. Her hands are immediately on my wounds, pressing down hard.

I groan. The pressure is agony.

“I know, I know.” Her voice breaks. “But I have to stop the bleeding.”

Anya throws herself into the front passenger seat. Semyon slides behind the wheel, and we’re moving before the doors are even closed.

The car lurches forward. Every bump sends lightning through my body. I try to focus on Kira’s face above me, but she keeps splitting into two, then three.

“Stay with me.” Her hand cups my cheek, leaving blood smears. “Maksim, look at me. Stay awake.”

“Trying.” But my eyelids are so heavy.

“No!” She taps my face, harder than necessary. “Open your eyes. Talk to me.”

“About what?” The words are thick, wrong.

“Anything. Everything. Tell me about—tell me what you want to do when this is over.”

When this is over. Like there’s an after. Like I’m going to survive long enough to see it.

“Want to…” I force the words out. “Take you somewhere. Somewhere he never touched.”

“Where?” She’s crying now, tears dripping onto my face.

“Don’t know. Anywhere. Everywhere.” My vision darkens again. “Just… with you.”

“You’ll take me.” Her hand presses harder on my side. I can’t suppress the scream. “You’re going to live, and we’re going to go everywhere. Do you hear me?”

I try to nod. Not sure if I succeed.

The car swerves violently. Semyon curses from the front seat.

“They’re following!” Anya’s voice is high with panic.

“I know!” Semyon takes another sharp turn.

I’m sliding across the seat despite Kira’s attempts to brace me. The movement tears at my wounds. Fresh blood soaks through her hands.

“Where are we going?” Anya asks, her voice shaking.

“Safe house.” Semyon’s voice is tight with concentration. “Twenty minutes if I can lose these bastards.”

Twenty minutes. Might as well be twenty years.

“Maksim!” Kira’s voice pulls me back from the edge. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare leave me now. Not after everything.”

“Not… trying to leave.” But the darkness is so tempting. So peaceful compared to this agony.

“Then fight!” She’s shouting now, her hands never stopping their pressure on my wounds. “You survived six years in hell! You can survive twenty minutes in a car!”

Six years. Yeah, I survived that. Barely. But I was fueled by rage then. Had something to keep me going.

What do I have now?

I force my eyes open and look at her.

Blood on her face. Tears streaming down her cheeks. Hair wild around her shoulders.

Beautiful. She’s so beautiful.

“There you are.” Her smile is watery. Desperate. Terrified. “Stay with me. Please.”

“Okay.” The word costs me everything. “Okay.”

The car swerves again. Gunfire erupts behind us—the distinct crack of weapons being discharged.

“Shit!” Semyon floors it.

The acceleration presses me deeper into the seat. Into Kira’s lap. Her hands slip on my blood-slicked skin, and she has to reposition.

“How much further?” Kira’s voice is steady despite the terror I can see in her eyes.

“Fifteen minutes.” Semyon takes another turn so sharp we go up on two wheels for a second. “Maybe less if I—”

More gunfire. The rear window explodes.

Anya screams. Kira throws herself over me, shielding my body with hers.

“Get down!” Semyon barks.

The car fishtails. Regains control. Accelerates harder.

I can hear the pursuing vehicles. Multiple engines. They’re not giving up.

“Maksim.” Kira’s lips are against my ear. “I love you. Whatever happens, I love you.”

“Love you too.” The words come easier this time. “Always did.”

Even when I hated her. The love was always there, twisted into something ugly but never truly gone.

“We’re going to make it.” She’s saying it like a prayer. Like if she says it enough, it’ll become true. “All of us. We’re going to survive this.”

I want to believe her. Want to have that faith.

But I can feel my life draining away with each pump of my heart. The darkness at the edges of my vision is spreading, consuming more with each passing second.

“Ten minutes!” Semyon’s voice sounds distant now. “Hold on!”

My eyes drift closed despite Kira’s pleas to keep them open.

Just for a second. Just need to rest for one second.

“Maksim! No!” Her voice is fading, like she’s moving away from me.

Or I’m moving away from her.

Into the dark.

Into the quiet.

Into…

A sharp slap across my face jerks me back.

“Wake up!” Kira’s face swims into focus above me. “You don’t get to give up! Do you hear me? You don’t get to die after finally admitting you love me!”

“Not fair.” The words barely form.

“I’ll use whatever works.” Another slap, lighter this time. “Stay awake. Talk to me.”

“Don’t want to.” Speaking is getting harder. Each word requires monumental effort.

“Too bad.” Her hand is on my face now, gentle despite the desperation. “Tell me about where we will live after this is over.”

The car swerves again, but I barely feel it anymore. Everything is distant, muffled.

“Five minutes!” Semyon shouts. “Kira, how is he?”

“Losing too much blood.” Her hands press harder, but I can feel the warmth pooling beneath me. Too much. Way too much. “I can’t—I can’t stop it.”

“Just get us there!” Anya’s voice, high and frightened.

The car accelerates even more.

“Maksim, look at me.” Kira’s face fills my world. “Remember the creek? Remember what we said?”

The creek. Making love. Her body against mine. The feeling that maybe, just maybe, we could fix this.

“Remember.” Barely a whisper now.

“You said I was yours. That I’d always be yours.” Her tears fall faster. “Well, you’re mine too. You don’t get to leave me. Not now. Not ever.”

“Not… leaving.” But even as I say it, I know it’s a lie.

My body is shutting down. Systems failing one by one. I can feel it happening, powerless to stop it.

“We’re here!” The car screeches to a halt.

Doors opening. Voices shouting. Hands on me, lifting.

Kira’s face above me as Semyon carries me inside. Her lips moving, saying something I can’t quite hear anymore.

I’m sorry. I want to tell her I’m sorry for everything. For wasting so much time. For dying just when we found each other again.

But the darkness is winning.

And I’m too tired to fight it anymore.

Kira

The apartment is tiny and there is no real furniture. The only option is to place Maksim on the floor.

“Scissors,” I murmur. “I need to see.”

When scissors don’t magically appear in my hand, I tear the fabric of his shirt.

Semyon produces a first aid kit from somewhere—a massive thing that looks like it came straight off an ambulance.

He kneels on the other side of Maksim.

“Pressure here,” he says. “Hold this. Don’t let go.”

I follow his instructions robotically. I trust him to know what to do. Anyone with that kind of medical kit has to have some medical training. In his life, I imagine gunshot wounds are pretty common. My hands are covered in Maksim’s blood. It’s under my fingernails, soaking into my skin, staining everything it touches.

“Is he—” Anya starts, her voice breaking.

“He’s alive,” Semyon cuts her off. “Barely. But alive.”

We work in silence after that. Cleaning the wounds—God, there are so many. The gunshot in his shoulder that looks and smells awful. The new one in his side. Cuts and bruises covering every inch of him.

The antibiotics go in via IV. Semyon’s hands are steady as he finds a vein, gets the line in, starts the drip.

“Where did you learn this?” I ask, my voice hoarse.

“A friend.” He’s already moving to the next task. “Someone had to know field medicine.”

I suppose it doesn’t matter. I’m just so grateful he knows how to help Maksim.

The stitches come next. I hold Maksim still while Semyon sews him back together. Each pierce of the needle makes me flinch, but Maksim doesn’t react. He’s too far gone; consciousness lost somewhere between the car and this safe house.

“Will he make it?” The question tears out of me.

Semyon doesn’t answer right away. He finishes the last stitch, ties it off and cuts the thread.

“I don’t know,” he finally says. “He’s lost a lot of blood. The infection in his shoulder was already bad before the new wound. And his body—” He stops, jaw clenching. “Six years of torture doesn’t leave you with much reserve.”

The words are a punch to the gut.

Maksim survived hell only to die now, when we finally have a chance at something real.

“We need to get him on a bed,” Semyon says. “Carefully.”

Between the three of us, we manage to lift him. He’s dead weight, his skin burning with fever. We carry him to a small bedroom at the back of the safe house and lay him on the mattress.

I immediately climb in beside him, unable to stand being separated by even a few feet.

“Kira—” Semyon starts.

“Don’t.” I cut him off. “I’m staying here.”

He studies me for a long moment, then nods. “I’ll bring you clean clothes. Water. Food if you’ll eat it.”

“I won’t.”

“I’ll bring it anyway.”

He leaves, Anya trailing behind him. I hear them talking in low voices in the other room, but I can’t make out the words.

All I care about is the man lying beside me, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.

I take his hand and hold it between both of mine. His skin is hot, too hot, the fever raging through him.

“You can’t die.” The words come out broken. “Maksim, you can’t. Not after everything. Not now.”

He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even twitch.

I press my forehead to his hand, tears streaming down my face.

“I need you to fight,” I whisper. “Please. Fight like you fought in Georgia. Fight like you fought to get us out of that compound. Just—don’t give up. Don’t leave me alone.”

The only answer is the steady breathing.

Time passes. I don’t know how much. Minutes or hours or days—it all blurs together in this small room.

Semyon brings clothes like he promised. I change without leaving the room.

Anya brings water. “Any change?” she asks.

I shake my head. “No.”

I notice she’s wearing a pair of sweats that are way too big for her. She looks awful, but at least she’s out of the awful dress.

“How are you?” I ask.

I noticed the bandage on her upper arm. She looks at it and smiles. “I’m fine. Semyon says shrapnel. Cleaned and stitched. What about you?”

“I’m okay.”

“I don’t know about that,” she says. “You protected me with your body. I bet you have injuries you can’t even feel because you’re in shock.”

“I’m okay.”

She nods. “I’ll let you get away with that for now. Semyon is making some dinner.”

I stare down at Maksim. If I didn’t know better, I would think he was dead.

I need to clean him up.

I go into the bathroom and soak a couple of towels with cold water and return to the room. I’m hoping the cool towels will help bring down his temperature.

I sing to him as I clean away the blood.

“Kira, you need to eat,” Anya urges. “And you need to clean up.”

“I can’t.”

“Kira, now.” Her voice is firm. “I’ll stay with him. Go. Wash up.”

“I’m okay,” I repeat, but I do go to the bathroom to clean away the dried blood. I do find a couple of cuts and my body is one large bruise, but nothing that requires Semyon’s attention.

I return to the room and see Anya sitting on the bed next to Maksim.

Anya looks at Maksim with tears in her eyes. “He saved us,” she says quietly. “Both of us.”

“I know.”

“He loves you so much.” Her voice cracks. “I could see it. Even when he was pretending to hate you, I could see it.”

I can’t respond. The words are stuck behind the lump in my throat.

“You should rest,” she tries.

I shake my head. “Can’t.”

“Kira—”

“If I sleep, he might—” I can’t finish. Can’t say it out loud.

She doesn’t push. Just sits there with me, both of us keeping vigil over the man who threw himself between us and death.

More time passes. The fever doesn’t break. If anything, it gets worse.

I change the cold compress on his forehead over and over, trying to bring the temperature down. Nothing works.

“Come on,” I beg him. “Come back to me. Please.”

I lean close, my lips against his ear.

“Listen to me,” I say fiercely. “You don’t get to give up. You survived everything Roman threw at you. And you’re going to survive this.”

No response.

“We have plans, remember? You’re going to take me somewhere. Anywhere. Everywhere.” My voice breaks. “You promised.”

Still nothing.

“I love you.” The words pour out, desperate and raw. “I’m not going to lose you now. Do you hear me? I’m not losing you.”

Semyon comes into the room. “I’d like a minute with him,” he says.

I consider arguing, but I understand the need to have a few minutes alone with his best friend.

Anya takes my hand and leads me out of the room. We sit down on the old, lumpy couch.

“Tell me it’s really over,” Anya whispers. “Tell me I don’t have to marry him.”

“You don’t have to marry anyone. Roman can’t force you anymore. We’re free.”

“Are we?” Her voice is small. “Because it doesn’t feel free. It feels like we’re hiding.”

“It’s temporary,” I promise. “Just until we figure out what to do next. As soon as Maksim is better, we’ll know what to do.”

I slip back into the room after Semyon finishes whatever he needed to say to Maksim. His face is unreadable as he passes me in the doorway, but he squeezes my shoulder briefly before leaving.

I climb back onto the bed, careful not to jostle Maksim’s wounds. His fever still rages, his skin hot enough to burn. I press myself against his good side and close my eyes.

Just for a minute. Just to rest them.

The exhaustion crashes over me like a wave, and I’m pulled under before I can fight it.

I wake to whispered words.

“I love you so much.”

The voice is rough, barely audible, but achingly familiar.

My eyes fly open. Maksim is looking at me. Actually looking at me, his eyes open and focused.

“Maksim?” His name comes out choked. “You’re—you’re awake.”

“Hey.” His smile is weak but real. “Told you… not leaving.”

A sob tears from my throat. I’m crying and laughing at the same time, my hands framing his face like I need to confirm he’s real.

“You’re awake. Oh God, you’re awake.”

“Don’t cry.” His hand comes up to brush at my tears. “I hate when you cry.”

“Semyon!” I’m shouting before I can stop myself. “Semyon, get in here!”

The door practically explodes inward. Semyon bursts through, weapon drawn, ready for a threat.

Then he sees Maksim awake, and his entire face transforms.

“You stubborn bastard.” The grin that spreads across his face is brilliant. “I knew it. I knew you wouldn’t give up.”

“Takes more than a couple gunshots to kill me.”

“Clearly.” Semyon holsters his weapon and moves to the bed, checking Maksim’s pupils, his pulse. “How do you feel?”

“Like I got shot. Twice.” Maksim’s attempt at humor makes my heart squeeze. “And beaten. And—”

“Yeah, we know.” Semyon cuts him off gently. “You look like hell.”

“Feel worse.”

“I bet.” Semyon finishes his examination and steps back. “You need to sleep. Real sleep, not fever-induced unconsciousness. We’ll talk strategy in the morning.”

“Roman—” Maksim tries to sit up and immediately regrets it, his face going gray.

“Is still out there,” Semyon confirms, pushing him back down. “But he’s not our problem tonight. Tonight, you heal. Tomorrow, we plan. Understood?”

Maksim looks like he wants to argue. Then his eyes find mine, and something in his expression softens.

“Tomorrow,” he agrees quietly.

“Good.” Semyon heads for the door. “Kira, make sure he actually sleeps.”

“I will.”

The door closes, leaving us alone again.

Maksim’s hand finds mine, our fingers tangling together. “I thought I lost you,” he whispers.

“Never.” I press my forehead to his. “You’re stuck with me now.”

“Good.” His eyes are already drifting closed, exhaustion pulling him back under. “Love you.”

“I love you too.” I settle against him carefully. “Sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

His breathing evens out, falling into the deeper rhythm of real sleep. The fever is still there, but lower now. Manageable.

He’s going to survive this.

We both are.

Tomorrow we’ll figure out how to end Roman once and for all.

But tonight, I just hold the man I love and let myself believe that maybe we’ll actually get our happy ending.

Maksim

I wake to dim morning light filtering through a grimy window. Every nerve ending in my body screams at me, reminding me exactly where each bullet entered, where each fist connected, where each wound festers.

But I’m alive.

And Kira is pressed against my good side, her breathing deep and even. Her hand rests on my chest, like even in sleep she needs to confirm I’m still here.

I study her face in the gray light. The bruises are darker today—purple and yellow staining her jaw where Roman hit her. There are cuts I don’t remember seeing before, probably from the explosion. Her hair is a tangled mess, still crusted with blood and debris.

She’s never looked more beautiful.

Carefully, moving like an old man, I extract myself from her grip. She stirs but doesn’t wake, just curls into the warm spot I left behind.

I pull the IV needle from my arm and leave it hanging.

The bathroom is the next door. The journey feels like climbing Everest. I have to stop twice, leaning against the wall while my vision clears, and my body remembers how to function.

The mirror shows me a monster. Bruises. Cuts. The bandages on my shoulder and side are already seeping red. My face is gaunt, eyes sunken and haunted.

I splash cold water on my face in an attempt to wake myself up.

When I finally make it to the main room, Semyon is already awake, sitting at a tiny table with two chairs. Coffee steams from a chipped mug in front of him.

“You look like death,” he says without preamble.

“Feel worse.” I lower myself into the other chair with a grunt that might be a scream if I let it be. “But I’m vertical. That’s something.”

“That’s stubbornness.” He pushes the coffee toward me. “Drink. You need fluids.”

I take the mug with shaking hands and sip. It’s bitter and strong and exactly what I need.

“You could have let me pull that IV out the right way,” he said with disgust.

“Bag was empty.”

“I got some antibiotics,” he says. “You need to take them. Don’t think you’re going to tough this out.”

“I’m surprised I’m alive,” I admit.

He snorts. “No shit. You certainly gave dying your best effort. I have no doubt that woman would have chased you into hell and dragged your ass back.”

I smile. “I think you’re right. Where are we?”

“This place is secure—one of my personal safe houses. No one knows about it except me.”

I trust him. I know he’s careful. And it’s not like I have options.

“And Roman?”

Semyon’s expression darkens. “Regrouping. The mutiny cost him—he lost about forty percent of his men. Those of us who were loyal to your father, who never believed the lies about Kira’s family, we finally had a chance to act.”

“So, he’s wounded.”

“But not dead.” Semyon takes a long drink of his own coffee. “Which means he’s dangerous. Wounded animals always are.”

I nod, then regret it when my head pounds. “We need a plan.”

“We need you to heal first.” His tone is firm. “You’re no good to anyone if you’re dead. You’re up now, but that’s only because I pumped you full of meds and painkillers.”

“Trust me, I feel the pain.”

“Oh no, you’d be feeling a lot more pain if you didn’t have my magic juice running through your veins. You have to heal. When I tell you death was close, I’m not joking. I honestly thought you were gone.”

“I’m no good to anyone if Roman gets to Kira or Anya while I’m lying in bed either.”

We stare at each other, both stubborn, both unwilling to back down.

“I’ve got a lot to tell you,” Semyon says finally. “But I need to know—are you ready to hear it? All of it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean there are things I’ve learned. Things I’ve suspected for years but couldn’t prove. Things about Roman. About what really happened.”

“Tell me.”

He takes a breath, and I see something in his eyes I’ve never seen before. Fear. Semyon’s not afraid of anything, but he’s afraid now.

“I don’t have proof,” he starts. “Not hard evidence. But I’ve pieced things together over the years, and I believe—” He stops, jaw clenching. “I believe Roman killed your father.”

I want to be surprised, but I think part of me already knew.

“My father died of a heart attack.”

“Did he?” Semyon leans forward. “A healthy man, fifty-three years old, no history of heart problems. Dies suddenly in his sleep six months after you disappeared. Convenient timing, don’t you think?”

“People have heart attacks—”

“He was poisoned.” Semyon’s voice is flat. Certain. “I can’t prove it, but I know it. Roman needed you gone, but he also needed your father gone. With both of you out of the way, there was no one to challenge his claim to leadership.”

My mind races, trying to process this. My father. Murdered.

“Why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you investigate?”

“With what evidence?” Semyon’s frustration bleeds through. “I had suspicions. Gut feelings. But Roman controlled everything by then—the doctors, the autopsy, the funeral arrangements. Any investigation would have led back to him, and he would have known I was suspicious.”

“So, you stayed quiet.”

“I stayed alive.” His eyes meet mine. “I had to wait for the right moment. If I had moved against Roman then, I’d be dead, and you’d have no one.”

He’s right. I hate that he’s right, but he is.

“Tell me everything,” I say. “Every suspicion. Every theory. All of it.”

He does.

It takes twenty minutes, and with each revelation, my rage builds. The careful manipulation. The strategic eliminations. The way Roman positioned himself perfectly to inherit everything.

All stolen by someone I trusted like family.

“I’ll kill him.” The words come out cold. “I’m going to put a bullet in his head and watch him take his last breath.”

Semyon’s smile is grim. “But first, you heal. We plan. We do this right.”

“How long?”

“A week. Maybe two. Your body needs time.”

“We don’t have two weeks. Every day we wait, Roman consolidates power. Hunts for us. Plans his revenge.”

“And every day you push too hard, you risk dying for real this time.” Semyon’s voice hardens. “I didn’t drag your ass out of that compound just to watch you kill yourself with stubbornness.”

Before I can argue, I hear movement from the bedroom. Soft footsteps. Then Kira appears in the doorway.

She’s wearing borrowed clothes—sweatpants and a t-shirt that are too big. Her hair is still tangled. The bruises on her face look worse in daylight.

But her eyes light up when she sees me sitting at the table.

“You’re up.” She crosses to me quickly, her hands immediately going to my face, checking my temperature. “You shouldn’t be up. You should be resting.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re a terrible liar.” Her fingers trace the edge of the bandage on my shoulder. “You’re bleeding through again.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.” She looks at Semyon. “Tell him it’s not fine.”

“It’s not fine,” Semyon says dutifully. “But he’s stubborn.”

“I’m aware.” She moves behind me, her hands gentle on my good shoulder. “Come back to bed. Let me change your bandages at least.”

I want to argue.

But her touch is so gentle, and I’m so tired.

“You two were planning,” she says.

I nod. “We were.”

“Maksim heals,” Semyon says. “That’s the only plan for now.”

“Are you sure we’re safe?” Kira asks.

“For now,” Semyon agrees. “Maksim needs to heal. When Roman does find us—and he will eventually—we’re ready.”

I know he’s right. I know I need time to recover if I’m going to be any use in the fight ahead.

But every instinct screams at me to move now, strike while Roman’s vulnerable.

“One week,” I say. “I’ll give it one week. Then we end this.”

Semyon looks like he wants to argue but finally nods. “One week. But you actually rest. No pushing. No testing your limits. You heal properly.”

“Deal.”

Kira’s hands tighten on my shoulder. “Come on. Back to bed. Let me take care of you.”

I let her pull me to my feet, leaning on her more than I want to admit. The walk back to the bedroom is slower than the walk out, my body finally admitting defeat.

She helps me back into bed. Then she disappears and returns with fresh bandages and supplies.

“This is going to hurt,” she warns.

“Everything hurts.”

“Fair point.” She starts peeling away the old bandage on my shoulder.

I hiss through my teeth as the fabric pulls at the wound. She murmurs apologies but doesn’t stop. She’s gentle as she assesses the injury.

She applies fresh bandaging, her fingers gentle despite the clinical efficiency.

I watch her. “Are you hurt?” I ask softly. “Beyond the bruises. Did he—”

“No,” she replies. “I was tossed in a room. You found us before anything could happen.”

“Good.”

“I’m mad at you,” she murmurs.

“I know.”

“You threw yourself between me and bullets.”

“Always will.”

She pauses, her eyes meeting mine. “I know. And that terrifies me.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ll get yourself killed protecting me.” Her voice cracks slightly. “And I can’t lose you again, Maksim. I can’t survive that twice.”

I catch her hand, pulling her down until she’s sitting beside me on the bed. “You’re not going to lose me.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“I just did.” I bring her hand to my lips. “We’re going to end Roman. Together. And then we’re going to have the life we should have had.”

“Does that life include you taking your place as the rightful Barinov heir?”

I sigh. “I don’t know. Even if Roman is killed, I don’t know.”

“You’re legitimate. Your father’s son. Roman is a usurper who murdered his way to power. People will follow you, Maksim. If you’re willing to lead.”

The question I’ve been avoiding.

Am I willing to take power? To become what my father wanted? To lead the Barinov bratva?

A week ago, the answer would have been no. I wanted revenge, not responsibility.

But now, looking at this evidence of Roman’s systematic evil, I realize someone has to stop him. Someone has to build something better.

And that someone might have to be me.

“I don’t want to perpetuate the same systems,” I say finally. “The same violence. I’m tired of the brutality.”

“Then don’t,” she says. “Take power. Then change how it works. All those progressive ideas Roman killed you for? Implement them.”

“That’s assuming I survive to take power.”

“We’ll survive.”

“I need to make this right,” I say quietly.

“You will. But first, you need to rest. Heal.”

I nod, settling back against the pillows. “One week. Then we plan.”

“One week,” she agrees.

She finishes with my bandages and climbs into bed beside me, careful of my injuries. Her body fits against mine like it was designed to be there.

“Tell me something,” I murmur. “Something good. Something that has nothing to do with Roman or revenge or any of this.”

She’s quiet for a moment, thinking. “When I was ten, before everything got complicated, I wanted to be a dancer. Ballet. I used to practice in our ballroom when no one was watching.”

“Why did you stop?”

“My father said it wasn’t appropriate for a Markov daughter. That I needed to focus on things that would make me a good wife to a bratva heir.” Her voice is soft and wistful. “I still remember the routines though. Sometimes, when I’m alone, I practice the positions.”

I try to imagine her dancing—graceful and beautiful, free from all the weight she carries.

“When this is over,” I say, “I want to see you dance.”

“I’m rusty.”

“I don’t care.” I press my lips to her temple. “I want to see you do something just because it makes you happy. Not because it’s strategic or necessary. Just because.”

She makes a sound that might be a laugh or a sob. “That sounds like a fantasy.”

“It’s a plan.” I pull her closer. “We’re going to do things that make us happy. And no one will tell us we can’t.”

She lets out a soft sigh. “I like the sound of that.”

Kira

Day seven in the safehouse, and I’m learning what it means to live in limbo.

We can’t leave—too dangerous, Roman’s men are still hunting us. But we can’t stay forever either. The walls press in closer every day, the small space feeling smaller with each hour.

Maksim and Semyon spend their days planning. Semyon has allies he trusts, but not enough to make Maksim comfortable enough to bring them to the safehouse.

Apparently, they are going to try and do this without violence. They want to expose Roman and let things take their natural course. That means the bratva handles the punishment. Betrayal means death. Roman deserves to die.

Semyon is an absolute saint. He’s used his connections to get Anya art supplies. It keeps her busy, but I hate how quiet she’s been. She’s scared. I get it. Roman wants me dead, but he wants her for far more sinister reasons.

I pace. I think. I try not to go crazy from the inactivity after years of constant motion. It’s strange to not be in control. But also, good. I’m happy to leave things to Maksim. I trust him. I trust Semyon. They know this world. It’s a change for me, but…

It comes with relief.

The adrenaline from our escape has long since faded, leaving behind exhaustion that settles into my bones. I’m tired all the time. Bone-deep weariness that sleep doesn’t fix. I feel like we sleep a lot. I sleep because I’m trying to make Maksim rest. He seems to be more inclined to do so when I lay next to him.

And the nausea. God, the nausea.

At first, I blamed stress. We’re hiding from a murderous crime lord who wants us dead. Of course, my stomach is upset.

But it’s been a week now, and instead of improving, it’s getting worse. And if I think back, I wasn’t feeling great before Roman decided to throw me in a dungeon. The smell of the meat from the butcher shop below makes me gag. Coffee—which I used to love—turns my stomach.

And then this morning, I realized I had missed my period.

The thought hits me in the tiny bathroom, staring at my reflection in the cracked mirror. When was the last time? Before the engagement party? Before Roman moved me into the compound?

I count backward, and ice floods my veins.

Six weeks. Maybe seven.

The timing coincides perfectly with the first time we were together at the engagement party.

No. No, this can’t be happening.

Except my body is telling me it is. The exhaustion. The nausea. The missed period. The way my breasts are tender, and my emotions are all over the place.

I’m pregnant.

The realization makes my legs weak. I sink onto the toilet lid, head in my hands, trying to process this.

Pregnant. With Maksim’s child. In the middle of a war that could get us all killed.

“Kira?” Anya’s voice outside the door. “You okay? You’ve been in there a while.”

“Fine.” My voice sounds strangled. “Just—give me a minute.”

I need to be sure. Need confirmation before I tell anyone. Before this becomes real.

Now, I have to figure out a way to leave the apartment.

I open the bathroom door and find Anya sketching at the small table. She looks up, her eyes immediately narrowing.

“You look pale.”

“I’m fine.” I move past her toward the bedroom where I left my borrowed clothes. “Just tired.”

“You’re always tired lately.” She sets down her pencil. “Maybe you should ask Semyon to check you out. Make sure nothing’s infected or—”

“I’m fine,” I repeat, pulling on jeans and a hoodie. “I just need some air.”

“We can’t go outside.”

“I know.” I find a baseball cap in the closet and tuck my hair up under it. “But I need to run to the pharmacy. Just down the block. Ten minutes, tops.”

Anya stands, alarm crossing her face. “Kira, no. That’s too dangerous. Roman’s men could be anywhere.”

“They’re looking for a woman with long dark hair, not someone in a hoodie and cap.” I’m already moving, checking my reflection in the small mirror by the door. I look different enough. Masculine enough with my hair hidden. “I’ll be careful.”

“What do you need from a pharmacy that badly?” She’s following me now, her voice rising. “Kira, this is crazy. If Maksim knew—”

“Maksim is downstairs with Semyon meeting with people. He won’t know unless you tell him.” I turn to face her, keeping my voice low. “Anya, please. I need to do this. I need… I just need something from the pharmacy, okay?”

Her eyes search mine, and I see the moment understanding dawns. Her face goes soft with shock.

“Oh,” she breathes. “Oh, Kira.”

“Don’t.” I hold up a hand. “Not yet. Not until I’m sure.”

“You think you’re—”

“I don’t know what I think.” I pull the cap lower. “That’s why I need to go to the pharmacy. To know for certain.”

She stares at me with indecision. Then she crosses to the kitchen drawer and pulls out a small handgun.

“Take this.”

“Anya—”

“If you’re going out there, you’re taking protection.” Her jaw sets in a way that reminds me she’s not the scared young woman Roman tried to marry. She’s stronger than that now. “And if you’re not back in ten minutes, I’m coming after you. And I’m telling Maksim.”

I take the gun, checking the safety before tucking it into my waistband. “Ten minutes. I promise.”

“Kira.” She grabs my arm. “Be careful. Please.”

“Always am.” I press a quick kiss to her forehead. “Ten minutes.”

I slip out the door before she can argue further. The hallway is empty, the building quiet except for muffled voices from the apartment below where Maksim and Semyon are meeting.

I take the back stairs, avoiding the main entrance. The alley behind the building smells like garbage and stale beer, but it’s empty. I pull the cap lower and start walking.

The pharmacy is two blocks away according to the sign I saw from the window. Two blocks there, grab what I need, two blocks back. Easy.

Except nothing has been easy since Maksim came back from the dead.

The street is busy enough—people going about their normal lives, unaware that a few blocks away, men are planning a war. I keep my head down, hands in my pockets, trying to blend in.

A man passes too close. My hand automatically goes to the gun. But he’s just checking his phone, oblivious to my existence.

I force myself to breathe. To act normal. I’m just another person running errands. Nothing suspicious.

I push through the door of the pharmacy.

The store is nearly empty. An elderly woman browsing vitamins. A bored cashier scrolling on her phone. No one who looks like Roman’s men.

I head straight for the family planning section, scanning the shelves. There—pregnancy tests. Multiple brands, multiple options.

I grab two different ones, not caring about price or features. Just need answers.

At the counter, the cashier barely glances at me as she rings them up. I pay in cash—Semyon gave us emergency money—and shove the tests into my hoodie pocket.

“Have a nice day,” the cashier says automatically.

I’m already heading for the door.

The walk back feels longer. Every shadow could hide danger. Every person could be watching.

My hand stays on the gun in my waistband, finger near the trigger.

Two blocks. Almost there.

I turn into the alley, and my heart stops.

A man is standing near the back door. Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing the kind of expensive suit that screams bratva.

He turns as I approach, and I see his face. He frowns. I recognize him. He’s one of Semyon’s guys.

“You’re not supposed to be out,” he says.

“I went for a walk. I’m back.”

“Boss know?”

“Nope, but I guess we know you’re going to tell him.”

I walk past him and jog up the stairs. Maksim will be pissed, but I’ll deal with him later.

Anya hops up. “Did you get it?”

“Yes. Tell me if they come back.”

I head straight for the bathroom, lock the door, and pull out the first test.

The instructions blur together. My hands shake as I follow them. Then I wait.

Three minutes. The longest three minutes of my life.

The timer on my phone goes off.

I look at the test.

Two pink lines.

Positive.

My legs give out, and I sink to the bathroom floor, staring at the plastic stick that just changed everything.

Maybe it’s a false positive. Maybe I did it wrong.

I take the second test. Different brand. Same result.

I’m pregnant. With Maksim’s child. No doubt about it.

The mixture of emotions is overwhelming. Terror—how can I bring a child into this world, this danger? Wonder at the thought there’s a life growing inside me, created from love even if the timing is terrible. But the crushing, absolute responsibility for this tiny potential person is what makes me feel nauseous.

A knock on the door. “Kira?”

“Just a minute,” I manage.

I reach over and unlock the door.

Anya steps inside, and her eyes immediately go to the tests.

“Oh my God,” she breathes.

“Yeah.” I’m still sitting on the floor. I can’t seem to make myself stand.

She closes the door quickly and sinks down beside me on the cold tile.

“You’re pregnant.”

“Apparently.” My laugh sounds hysterical. “Fantastic timing, right? In the middle of a war, hiding from people who want to kill us, and I’m pregnant.”

“Does Maksim know?”

“No. And I don’t know how to tell him. We’ve barely figured out how to trust each other again. We’re still working through six years of damage. And now I’m supposed to tell him we’re having a baby?”

“He’ll be happy,” Anya says quietly.

“Will he?” I look at her. “How is a baby supposed to fit into this mess?”

“Life doesn’t wait for convenient timing.”

“Clearly. God, what am I going to do?”

The responsibility feels overwhelming. Not just for my own life anymore—I’ve been risking that for years. But for the innocent life growing inside me. A child who didn’t ask to be conceived in the middle of chaos.

“What are you going to do?” Anya asks softly.

The question hangs in the air. Because there are choices here. Options that maybe I should consider given the circumstances.

But even as I think it, I know the answer.

“Survive,” I say firmly. My hand moves to my still-flat stomach. “Whatever it takes, we’re going to survive this.”

“Does that mean—”

“It means I’m keeping it.” The decision feels right the moment I say it out loud.

“You’ll be bringing a child into a war.”

“I know.” The fear is real, visceral.

“Then you have to tell him.”

“I know.” The thought terrifies me almost as much as Roman’s hunters. “But not yet. Not until we’re safer. The last thing he needs is to be worried about this.”

“Kira, you’ll be showing in a few months. You can’t hide this forever.”

“Soon,” I promise. “I’ll tell him soon. Just let me figure out how first.”

“For what it’s worth, I think you’ll be a good mother.”

“You do?”

“You’ve been mothering me for years. You’re fierce and protective and willing to do anything for the people you love. That’s exactly what a child needs.”

Tears prick my eyes. Damn hormones. “I’m terrified.”

“That’s probably a good sign.” She helps me stand. “Come on. You need to eat something. For the baby.”

I follow Anya out of the bathroom just as Maksim walks in. I see the concern. And maybe a little anger.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yes. It was just a quick five-minute walk. I was careful.”

His gaze lingers, like he knows I’m not telling him everything. But he doesn’t push.

Not yet, anyway.

Maksim

The intelligence gathering takes three days.

But by the end of it, I have a picture of what we’re facing.

And it’s worse than I thought.

I hate having to trust others. The men are all strangers to me, but Semyon has vouched for them. I considered brining in some of Kira’s people, but I couldn’t be sure they would be loyal to her or me. If I was able to pull them from her as easily as I did, I didn’t like the odds they wouldn’t move to Roman’s side.

That meant we were working with a very small crew. I knew the odds weren’t in our favor. But we were fighting for survival. That gave us a little more motivation.

“He’s consolidating power,” Semyon explains as we sit in a parked car overlooking one of Roman’s warehouses. “Using our escape as an excuse to crack down on anyone who might have helped us. Three families have been hit already.”

I watch through binoculars as Roman’s men load trucks. Heavy crates. Weapons, probably. Preparing for something big.

“He’s planning a sweep,” I realize. “Going to flush us out by hitting everyone who might be harboring us.”

“That’s my assessment too.” Semyon checks his phone—another update from his network. “We’ve got maybe a week before he’s organized enough to execute. After that, every safe house in Moscow becomes a target.”

“Then we can’t keep hiding.” The conclusion is obvious. “We have to go on offense. Hit him before he hits us.”

“With what army?” Semyon’s voice is practical. “We’ve got maybe thirty people willing to move against him. He’s got three hundred. Better weapons. Better positions.”

“But we’ve got something he doesn’t.” I lower the binoculars. “Legitimacy. Evidence of his crimes. And desperation.”

“Desperation isn’t an advantage.”

“It is when the alternative is death.” I meet his eyes. “We can’t win a conventional war. So, we don’t fight one. We do what he did to me—we play dirty. We expose him to the families. Turn his allies against him. Make him the target instead of us.”

“That’s a long shot.”

“Got a better idea?”

Semyon doesn’t. Because there isn’t one. We’re outgunned, outmanned, and running out of time.

Which means our only option is to be smarter. Faster. More ruthless than Roman expects.

“The heads of the families meet in five days,” Semyon says after a moment. “Annual gathering. All the major families will be there.”

“Perfect.” The pieces start clicking together in my mind. “We crash the meeting. Present the evidence publicly. Force them to choose sides.”

“That’s insane. The security will be—”

“Tight. I know.” I start the car. “Which is why we need the next few days to plan this perfectly. One shot. We either expose Roman and turn the families against him, or we die trying.”

“Those are terrible odds.”

“Better than hiding until he finds us.” I pull out onto the street. “And better than spending the rest of our lives running.”

“We could still try and get out of the country,” he offers. “I’ve got a guy.”

“You and I both know that even if we manage to cross the border, we won’t survive long. I’m not thinking about us.”

“The girls,” he murmurs.

“Sorry, you’re my friend, but if it comes between you and Kira, I’m going to save her.”

He smirks. “Asshole.”

“Just being honest.”

I’m three blocks from the safe house when I notice the car.

Black sedan. Tinted windows. Two cars back, matching my speed perfectly. When I slow, it slows. When I turn, it turns.

“We’ve got company,” I say quietly.

Semyon’s hand moves to his weapon. “How many?”

“One car that I can see. Could be more.” I take another turn, watching the mirror. The sedan follows. “They’re not being subtle about it.”

“Roman’s men?”

“Who else?” I scan the street ahead, looking for options. “They’re herding us. Away from the safe house.”

Semyon pulls out his phone. “I’m calling the girls. Warning them.”

“No.” I grab his wrist. “If they’ve tapped our phones, that tells them exactly where to find Kira and Anya. Radio silence until we lose these bastards.”

He curses but puts the phone away.

The sedan accelerates suddenly, pulling up alongside us. The rear window rolls down, and I see the gun barrel before I see the man holding it.

“Down!” I shout, jerking the wheel hard right.

Gunfire erupts. The rear window explodes inward, safety glass raining down on us. I floor the accelerator, the car lurching forward as bullets punch through the trunk.

“Return fire!” I’m weaving through traffic now, one hand on the wheel, the other reaching for my weapon.

Semyon leans out his window, firing at the pursuing sedan. His shots hit the windshield, spider-webbing the glass, but the car doesn’t slow.

More gunfire. This time from ahead of us.

A second car pulls out of an alley, blocking the street. Two men lean out the windows, assault rifles raised.

“Hold on!” I crank the wheel left, jumping the curb. Someone screams. The car bounces violently, my wounded shoulder screaming in protest.

We’re back on the street, but now both sedans are pursuing. And I hear sirens in the distance—Moscow police responding to the gunfire.

“This is bad,” Semyon says unnecessarily, reloading.

“I’m aware.” I take another sharp turn, tires squealing. “We need to lose them before they force us into a kill box.”

“Any brilliant ideas?”

“Working on it.” I’m scanning the area. We’re in the industrial district—warehouses, factories, narrow streets. Plenty of places to lose pursuers.

There’s an alley between two warehouses. Barely wide enough for a car.

I don’t hesitate. I jerk the wheel hard, aiming for the gap.

“Are you insane?” Semyon braces himself against the dashboard.

“Probably.”

We shoot into the alley. The side mirrors scrape against brick walls on both sides. Sparks fly. Metal screams. But we fit—barely.

Behind us, the first sedan tries to follow. I hear the crunch of metal as it wedges itself between the walls, stuck.

“One down,” I mutter, accelerating through the narrow passage.

We burst out the other side into a loading area. I take a hard right, then left, weaving through the maze of industrial buildings.

“Did we lose them?” Semyon twists in his seat, checking behind us.

“Maybe. But they know this area as well as we do.” I’m already planning three moves ahead.

“So what’s the play?”

“We ditch the car. Go on foot. Circle back to the safe house a different way.”

I pull into an underground parking garage. I park between two delivery vans and shut off the engine.

Silence. Just our breathing and the tick of cooling metal.

“Give it two minutes,” I whisper. “Make sure they didn’t follow us in.”

We sit in the dark, weapons ready. My heart pounds against my ribs. My shoulder throbs where the stitches pulled during the chase.

Footsteps echo from somewhere above us. Multiple sets. Searching.

Semyon and I lock eyes. He nods. We ease the doors open as quietly as possible and slip out.

The parking garage is a concrete maze. We move through shadows, weapons up, checking corners. The footsteps are getting closer.

I spot an exit sign—stairs leading to street level. We move toward it.

“There!” A shout from behind us.

Gunfire erupts. Bullets spark off concrete pillars. Semyon and I return fire as we run for the stairs.

We hit the stairwell at full speed, taking steps three at a time despite my injuries screaming in protest. Behind us, our pursuers crash through the door.

Up. We need to go up, not down. Get to street level where there are witnesses, cameras, reasons for them not to shoot openly.

We burst through the door onto the street. Afternoon crowds. People shopping. Normal life.

Our pursuers can’t risk a public shootout. Not with this many witnesses. The bratva doesn’t have that much power. The police would love a reason to take us all in.

“Walk,” I tell Semyon quietly. “Don’t run. Blend in.”

We merge into foot traffic, moving at a normal pace despite every instinct screaming to sprint. I glance back once and see three of Roman’s men at the garage entrance, scanning the crowd.

“This way.” Semyon leads us through a maze of back streets he apparently knows better than I do.

I hate being on foot. I feel exposed.

We walk for an hour with no one trying to kill us. Along our walk, we’ve pulled on different coats, added sunglasses and hats.

“We need to get back,” I say.

We cut through another alley and make our way back to the building. A few of the men Semyon trusts are standing outside.

“Good?” Semyon asks.

“Where’s the car?” One asks as he looks around.

Idiot. It’s not like it’s hiding in my back pocket.

“Had some trouble,” Semyon replies. “How are things here?”

“Quiet.”

We head inside and up to the apartment.

Kira is waiting when we return. She’s been pacing. Today was our first real venture out and she was not happy about it.

“Well?” she asks immediately. “What did you find?”

“Roman’s planning a sweep. We’ve got maybe a week before he starts hitting every possible hiding place.” I shrug off my jacket. “Which means we need to move first.”

“Move how?”

“The meeting. Five days. We present the evidence, force them to choose.” I meet her eyes. “It’s risky. Probably stupid. But it’s the only play we have.”

She processes this, and I can see her mind working. The Ice Queen evaluating strategy, calculating odds.

“What do you need from me?” she asks finally.

“Your testimony. About what Roman did. What he planned for you and Anya.” I move closer. “Your voice carries weight. You’re not just the woman he tried to force into marriage—you’re a leader in your own right. People will listen.”

“Will they?” Her smile is bitter. “Maksim, my organization is gone. My reputation is—”

“Still intact.” I cut her off. “You’re not weak. And the families know it.”

She studies my face, looking for lies. Finding only truth.

“Okay,” she says quietly. “I’ll testify. Tell them everything.”

“Thank you.” I reach for her hand. “This is going to work. It has to work.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“It will. It has to.”

Semyon clears his throat. “I’m going to make some calls. Start coordinating for the meeting.”

Anya is as the table painting as usual.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” Kira says. “Come with me.”

She leads me down the hall to the small bedroom we’ve been sharing. She closes the door and gestures for me to sit down.

I can see by the look on her face something is wrong. I don’t want to sit.

Her tone makes my stomach drop. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. Exactly.” She takes a breath. “Maksim, I’m pregnant.”

The words don’t register at first. I hear them, but they don’t make sense.

“You’re… what?”

“Pregnant.” She’s watching me carefully. “About six weeks, based on timing. From that first night at the engagement party I assume. I’m pregnant. With your child.”

I stare at her and realize I’m trying to do the math but I don’t need to. I was there. We had sex. No condom. I just assumed she would be on birth control.

Pregnant. She’s pregnant. With my baby.

Joy hits first—pure, unexpected joy. A child. Our child. The family we were supposed to have six years ago, finally possible.

Then terror crashes over it. A child. In the middle of this nightmare.

“Maksim?” Her voice is uncertain. “Say something.”

“I’m going to be a father.” The words feel surreal. “We’re having a baby.”

“Yes.” She touches her stomach. “I know the timing is terrible. That this complicates everything. But I—”

I kiss her. Cut off whatever she was about to say with my mouth on hers. I’m terrified and joyful and overwhelmed all at once.

“This is—” I pull back, my hands framing her face. “This changes everything.”

“I know.” Her eyes search mine. “Is that good or bad?”

“It’s—” I struggle for words. “It’s terrifying. Bringing a child into this world, this danger. But it’s also—God, Kira. A baby. Our baby.”

“You’re happy?” She sounds surprised.

“I’m terrified,” I correct. “But yes. Happy.” My hand moves to her stomach. “How are you feeling? Are you okay? Do you need—”

“I’m fine.” She covers my hand with hers. “Morning sickness. Exhaustion. But fine. The baby is fine.”

“The baby.” I say it out loud, testing how it feels.

I sink onto the bed, pulling her down beside me. My hand stays on her stomach, like I can feel the life growing there even though I know it’s too small yet. I want to protect that child. My hand over her stomach isn’t enough.

“If Roman finds out you’re pregnant—”

“I know,” she whispers. “I was thinking we should run. We take Anya and we disappear. Leave Russia entirely.”

I understand her desire to get away. It’s crossed my mind, but I know it will never be over until Roman is dead and his network is crushed.

“I need to end this,” I say. “Not just for us anymore. For our child. They can’t grow up in this world. Can’t be born into this danger.”

“I know.” She leans against me.

“It will work.” I make it a promise. “Because the alternative is unacceptable. I won’t let our child grow up without a father. Won’t let Roman destroy another generation.”

“We,” she corrects softly. “We won’t let that happen. We’re in this together now.”

“Have you told Anya?”

“She was there when I found out. But no one else knows.” She looks up at me. “Maksim, we need to keep this quiet. If Roman learns I’m pregnant—”

“He’ll use it against us.” I understand immediately. “Another piece of leverage. Another way to hurt you.”

We should be celebrating. Telling everyone. Planning a nursery and picking names and doing all the normal things expectant parents do.

Instead, we’re hiding it like it’s shameful instead of miraculous.

“I mean it, Kira. Whatever it takes. However ruthless I need to be. I’m ending this.”

“Don’t get yourself killed trying to protect us,” she says.

“I won’t.” I kiss her forehead. “I’ve survived six years in hell. I’m not dying now when I finally have something to live for.”

“I love you,” I say quietly. “I should have said it sooner. But I’m saying it now. I love you, Kira Markov.”

“I love you too.” She tilts her face up to kiss me. “Always have. I will never not love you.”

I decide not to tell her about the incident in the street. She doesn’t need the stress.

I will protect this woman and our child.

Kira

I pull back slightly, my eyes searching his face. The fear is still there—we both know the danger we’re in. But something else shines through now. Hope. Determination. Love.

“Show me,” I whisper. “Show me this matters. That we matter.”

His answer is in his eyes before his lips find mine again. This kiss is different from all the others. No desperation. No anger. No ghosts of the past haunting us.

Just us. Finally, purely us.

He stands, pulling me with him, his hands gentle as they frame my face. “I need you,” he murmurs against my mouth. “Not to forget. Not to escape. Just because you’re you.”

My heart clenches. This is what I’ve wanted since he came back from the dead—for him to want me for the right reasons. Not revenge. Not rage. Just love.

I reach for the hem of his shirt, careful of his bandaged shoulder. He helps me ease it over his head, revealing the patchwork of injuries covering his torso. The healing gunshot wounds. The bruises fading from purple to yellow. The scars from Georgia that will never fully disappear.

Each of those scars are a testament to his will to live. His strength.

“You’re beautiful,” I tell him.

He laughs, the sound rough but genuine. “I’m a mess.”

“You’re mine.” I press my lips to his shoulder, just above the bandage. “Every scar. Every wound. Every broken piece. Mine.”

His hands move to my clothes, undressing me slowly. When I’m bare before him, his eyes travel over my body.

“You’re not showing yet,” he says softly, his palm settling over my stomach.

“Not for a few more weeks probably.” I cover his hand with mine. “But they’re in there. Growing. Our baby.”

“Our baby.” He says it like a prayer. Like a promise.

He leads me to the bed, and we sink onto it together. The mattress is thin, the sheets rough, but none of that matters. All that matters is the man beside me, his body warm against mine.

His kisses are slow. Thorough. He takes his time exploring my mouth, my throat, the curve of my shoulder. There’s no rush, no frantic need to possess. Just tenderness.

This is the man I fell in love with when I was just a girl.

He’s come back to me.

The violence and anger are gone.

My Maksim is back.

I arch into him as his lips find my breast, his tongue circling my nipple. They’re more sensitive than usual. The sensation sends heat pooling low in my belly.

“Maksim,” I breathe.

“I know.” His hand trails down my side, over my hip, between my thighs. “Let me take care of you.”

His fingers find me wet and ready. He strokes slowly, building pleasure in gradual waves instead of the usual storm. I rock against his hand, my breathing quickening.

But when I reach for him, try to return the attention, he catches my wrist.

“Tonight is about you,” he says. “Let me worship you. I owe you so much. An apology. I’m an asshole. I’ve treated you so badly. You should have killed me for doing what I did.”

I smile up at him. “Maksim, if I didn’t like it, I would have killed you.”

He flashes a cocky grin. “It was good.”

I laugh softly, the sound turning into a gasp as his fingers press deeper, finding that spot inside me that makes my vision blur. “It was very good.”

“And it’s going to be even better now.” He lowers his head, trailing kisses down my stomach. His lips pause over where our child grows, so gentle it makes my throat tight. “Both of you are precious to me.”

The tenderness in his voice undoes something in my chest. This is what I’ve been missing—not just the physical connection, but this emotional intimacy. Being cherished instead of conquered. It’s the intimacy that has my heart racing and my body quivering.

“Easy,” he murmurs against my skin. “We have all night.”

But my body doesn’t want to go slow. It’s been starving for this kind of love for too long. Every nerve ending is hypersensitive, pleasure building faster than I can control.

His fingers work magic on my clit while his teeth and tongue attack my nipples. The dual sensation is overwhelming. I grip the sheets, my thighs trembling around his head.

“Maksim,” I groan.

“I’ve got you.”

The orgasm crashes over me, stealing my breath and my sanity. I cry out his name, my back arching as waves of pleasure roll through me. He doesn’t stop, drawing it out until I’m shaking and oversensitive.

He stares down at me with wonderment and hunger in his eyes. I love this man. Not a simple love. I love him with every cell in my body. I will love him forever. I will find him in my next life and the one after. He’s mine.

“I could do that all night,” he says, crawling up my body to capture my mouth in a deep kiss.

He settles between my thighs, his weight supported on his good arm. I feel him hard against my entrance, and suddenly I need him inside me with an urgency that borders on desperation.

“Please,” I breathe. “Maksim, I need you

When he enters me, it’s so slow I feel every inch. The stretch. The fullness. The perfect fit of our bodies.

I gasp, my hands moving to grab his firm ass with my nails digging into his flesh. He stills, giving me time to adjust, his forehead pressed to mine.

“Okay?” he whispers.

“Perfect.” I lift my hips slightly.

The pace is unhurried. Each thrust is deliberate and measured. It’s designed to draw out the pleasure rather than race toward release. His good hand tangles with mine, fingers interlacing as he makes love to me.

Because that’s what this is. Not sex. Not fucking. Making love.

The distinction brings tears to my eyes. After everything we’ve been through, we’ve found our way back to this. To tenderness. To trust.

“I love you,” I whisper against his lips. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too.” He kisses me deeply as he moves inside me. “Always. Even when I pretended I didn’t. Always.”

The pleasure builds slowly, a tide rising instead of crashing. I feel it in every nerve ending, every cell. His body moving with mine. Our hearts beating in sync. The life we created together nestled safely between us.

When my orgasm hits, it’s gentle. A wave of warmth spreading through me rather than the usual explosion. I cry out softly, my body tightening around him.

He follows seconds later, his own release shuddering through him as he buries his face in my neck. I feel him pulse inside me. I hold him close; my legs wrapped around his hips.

We stay like that. Connected. Complete. One heart. One soul.

Finally, he shifts, careful not to crush me as he settles beside me on the narrow bed. His arm wraps around my waist, pulling me against his chest.

“Thank you,” he murmurs into my hair.

“For what?”

“For not giving up on us. For loving me even when I didn’t deserve it. For carrying our child.” His hand moves to my stomach again, protective and possessive. “For everything.”

I turn in his arms to face him. He looks vulnerable in a way I’ve never seen before. Even when he was at death’s door, he looked like he was ready to storm into Valhalla. But this version of him is the boy I fell in love with so long ago.

“We’re going to make it through this,” I tell him. “All of us. You, me, Anya, the baby. We’re going to survive, and we’re going to have the life we should have had.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” I seal it with a kiss.

We lie together, simply enjoying being in this moment with one another.

“What do you think it’ll be?” he asks suddenly. “Boy or girl?”

The question makes me smile. Such a normal thing to wonder about. Such a stark contrast to the danger surrounding us.

“I don’t know. Does it matter?”

“No.” His hand stills on my stomach. “As long as they’re healthy. As long as they’re safe.”

“They will be. We’ll make sure of it.”

“Tell me what you want,” he says. “For the baby. For us. For after.”

I consider the question. What do I want?

“Peace,” I say finally. “I want to wake up without wondering if today is the day Roman finds us. I want to go to sleep knowing our child is safe. I want normal things—nursery furniture and baby names and midnight feedings.”

“What else?”

“I want to see you hold our baby for the first time. Want to watch you be a father without the weight of this world on your shoulders.” I trace the line of his jaw. “I want us to have boring days where the biggest problem is what to make for dinner.”

“Boring sounds perfect.” He kisses my forehead. “When Roman is dead and we’re safe. I’m going to marry you properly.”

My throat tightens. “You’re proposing?”

“I’m stating a fact.” His thumb brushes my cheek. “You’re mine, Kira. You’ve always been mine. And when this nightmare ends, I’m making it official.”

“What if I say no?”

“You won’t.” The confidence in his voice makes me smile despite myself.

“Arrogant.”

“Certain.” He pulls me closer. “Because you love me as much as I love you. We’ve already survived hell, and we’re not letting anything keep us apart again.”

He’s right. Of course he’s right.

“Then yes,” I whisper. “When this is over. When we’re safe. Yes, I’ll marry you.”

“I’m going to give you everything,” he promises.

“I just want you.” I kiss him softly. “The rest is just details.”

We drift in comfortable silence. I feel safe for the first time in a very, very long time even though I know the wolves are circling.

“Kira?” His voice is drowsy now.

“Hmm?”

“If something happens to me—”

“Don’t.” I press my fingers to his lips. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

“I have to.” He moves my hand gently. “If something happens, I need you to promise me you’ll run. Take Anya and the baby and disappear. Don’t try to fight. Don’t try to avenge me. Just survive. If Semyon survives, trust him.”

“Maksim—”

“Promise me.” His eyes are fierce now. “Our child needs a mother. I need to know that if I die, you’ll live. That something good comes from all this.”

The tears I’ve been holding back finally spill over. “I can’t promise that.”

“You have to.”

“No.” I shake my head. “I can’t live in a world without you. I tried it for six years, and I barely survived. I’m not doing it again.”

“You have to. For the baby.”

“For the baby, I need their father alive.” I grip his face in my hands. “So you don’t get to die. You don’t get to sacrifice yourself. We survive together or not at all.”

“That’s not—”

“I mean it.” My voice is fierce. “You want me to promise something? I promise I’ll fight. I promise I’ll protect our child with everything I have. But I won’t promise to give up on you. Ever.”

“Stubborn woman,” he murmurs.

“Stubborn man.”

“We’re going to survive this,” he says, and it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself as much as me.

Maksim

The photographs spread across the kitchen table look like something from a horror film.

Three crime scenes. Three families. Three leaders who made the mistake of being even remotely sympathetic to my return.

All dead now. And not quickly.

Semyon points to the first set of photos. “Found in his warehouse three days ago. They took their time with him.”

I force myself to look. To catalog the brutality. The dead man was sixty-three years old, a veteran of the bratva who’d survived four decades of violence. He was loyal to my father. And that loyalty would have transferred to me, assuming I even wanted the job.

I didn’t think I did.

Not anymore.

“Did he make a move against Roman?” I ask.

“No. No one has but there are rumblings. People are talking about ousting Roman and installing you.”

I wince when Semyon moves to the next set of photos. “Found yesterday.”

More photographs. More brutality. The man had a wife and three children. I know how this game goes. He’ll start with the head of the family, but the families will suffer next.

The third set is the worst. The man was an old friend. Someone who’d known me since childhood.

They tortured him for hours before finally ending it.

“They’re sending a message,” Semyon says, stating the obvious. “Submit to Roman’s rule or this is what happens.”

I study the photos, my jaw clenching so hard my teeth ache. These weren’t quick executions to eliminate threats. These were torture sessions designed to break spirits before ending lives.

Performances. Warnings. Terror tactics.

If Roman wins this war, this is what waits for anyone who opposed him.

Including Kira. Including our child.

The thought makes my blood run cold.

“How many families are still with us?” I ask, forcing myself to think strategically instead of emotionally.

“Maybe ten, if we’re lucky. And even they’re wavering.” Semyon pulls out a list. “Roman’s message is effective. People are scared.”

“How many men does that translate to?”

“Thirty. Maybe thirty-five if everyone shows.” He doesn’t sugarcoat it.

The odds are terrible. Worse than terrible.

But I’ve fought worse battles. The difference now is I’m not just fighting for revenge. I’m fighting for a future I never dared to imagine.

I start gathering the photos and putting them back in the envelope. I don’t want to leave them out where Kira might see them. The brutality would terrify her, and stress isn’t good for the pregnancy. She’s already struggling with morning sickness. It kills me that I can’t take away that misery.

My burner phone buzzes, which is odd because only Semyon and a few of his guys have the number. And he’s standing right in front of me.

It’s a text message from an unknown number.

My stomach drops. I know it’s not going to be good.

The message is simple:

Then a photo loads.

My blood turns to ice.

Kira’s father. Beaten, bloodied and tied to a chair. His face is swollen, one eye completely shut. Blood stains his shirt.

The timestamp shows it was taken an hour ago.

“Fuck.” I show the image to Semyon. “They have him.”

Semyon looks at the photo and shakes his head. “They’re baiting you. Want you to come rushing in to save him.”

“I know it’s a trap.” My mind is already racing through scenarios. “But we can’t just leave him there. They’ll torture him.”

Semyon doesn’t look all that concerned. “You’re upset about that?”

I’m not. Not really. The guy set me up to be killed. I only survived because some sick bastard enjoyed the idea of torturing me.

“He’s Kira’s father,” I say quietly. “And our child’s grandfather. Whatever his crimes, he doesn’t deserve to be tortured to death.”

“Sentimental.”

“Maybe.” I pocket my phone. “But Kira will never forgive us if we don’t at least try to save him. And I can’t—I won’t—start our family by letting her father die when we could have helped.”

He sighs. “Maksim. It’s. A. Trap. Period.”

I know it. I know it’s meant to draw me out. Kira and her father have a complicated relationship, but I know she wouldn’t want this.

“Is there a way to do this that doesn’t get us all killed?” I ask quietly.

Kira and Anya are in the back room watching TV. Kira is resting after a particularly rough morning.

“Probably not. But we can try to stack the odds slightly less terribly in our favor.”

I find Kira curled up in the bed, a thin blanket draped over her legs. The TV flickers with some Russian drama she’s not really watching. Her hand rests on her stomach—a habit she’s developed in the last few days.

“Hey, Semyon and I need to head out for a bit.”

Her eyes sharpen immediately. “Out where?”

“Just picking something up. Supplies.” I keep my voice casual. “Won’t be long. Couple hours at most.”

“Maksim.” She sits up, the blanket falling away. “What kind of supplies?”

I hate lying to her. But the truth will only terrify her. The stress could hurt the baby.

“Weapons,” I say, which isn’t exactly a lie. “We’re meeting with some people who can help us. Need to make sure we’re properly equipped just in case.”

She studies my face, looking for deception. I meet her gaze steadily.

“You’re being careful?” she asks finally.

“Always.” I lean in to kiss her forehead. “I’ll be back before you know it. Just rest. Take care of yourself and the baby.”

“I don’t like this.” Her hand catches mine. “Something feels wrong.”

“It’s fine.” I squeeze her fingers. “I promise. Just a quick pick up and we’re back.”

Anya appears in the doorway; paint smudged on her cheek. “Everything okay?”

“Fine,” I assure her. “Just running an errand. Keep an eye on your sister for me?”

“Always do.” Anya moves to sit beside Kira.

I kiss Kira one more time—longer than necessary, like I’m trying to memorize the taste of her lips—then force myself to pull away.

“Be safe,” Kira whispers.

“Always.”

Semyon is waiting by the door, weapons already concealed under his jacket. We head down to the street where a different car waits. It’s stolen and untraceable.

“She buy it?” he asks as we climb in.

“Not entirely.” I buckle up. “But she didn’t push.”

“Smart woman.”

“Too smart sometimes.”

The drive takes us to the industrial district again. I’m starting to hate this part of Moscow—too many bad memories accumulating in these gray streets.

The warehouse Semyon directs me to looks abandoned. Broken windows. Graffiti covering the walls. Exactly the kind of place you’d conduct illegal business.

Three cars are already parked outside. Men lean against them, smoking, weapons visible but not drawn. They watch our approach with wary eyes.

I recognize two of them—loyalists to my father who survived Roman’s purge. The others are unfamiliar.

“Barinov.” The older of the two I know steps forward. His name is Leo. He’s been in the bratva longer than I’ve been alive. “Heard you came back from the dead.”

“Rumors of my death were greatly exaggerated.” I shake his offered hand. “Good to see you, Leo.”

“Wish it was under better circumstances.” He gestures to the warehouse. “Come on. Let’s get this done quick. Too exposed out here.”

Inside, crates are stacked against the walls. Leo’s men pry one open, revealing assault rifles packed in foam.

“Quality merchandise,” he says. “Everything you asked for. Rifles, handguns, ammunition. Even grabbed some body armor.”

“Appreciated.” I inspect one of the rifles.

“Question is, what are you planning to do with all this firepower?” One of the other men asks.

It’s obvious what we’re planning, but I understand they want to hear it.

“Take down Roman.” I set the rifle back in its crate. “Expose him to the rest of the bratva and the other families for what he did to me and my father. I will end his reign.”

Rumors spread through the Russian underground faster than old women sitting around a knitting circle. Semyon made sure of that. It’s psychological warfare against Roman. He doesn’t know who he can trust. Yeah, he’s using brute force right now, but he knows it only takes one man to turn on him. Semyon already proved he can get access.

Everyone knows Roman orchestrated my kidnapping and imprisonment. They know he killed my father. While it’s not a total shock to have a pakhan taken out in a coup, it pisses people off. My father was loved and respected.

Roman will pay.

“You planning to take over? Claim your father’s seat?”

The question hangs in the air. Everyone is watching me now, waiting for my answer.

And I don’t have one.

A week ago, I would have said yes without hesitation. I wanted revenge. I wanted to destroy Roman and take back what he took from me.

But now there’s Kira. There’s our child. There’s a future I need to protect. And I’m not sure I want to live a life full of violence. I don’t want my children to be forced to constantly look over their shoulders.

“That’s not up to me,” I say finally. “That’s up to the families. I’m not here to seize power. I’m here to get revenge.”

“But if they offer it?” the young man presses. “If the families want you to lead?”

“Then I’ll consider it.” I meet his eyes. “But my priority is ending Roman. Everything else comes after.”

Leo nods slowly. “Fair enough. Though I’ll tell you now—people are ready for new leadership. Roman’s methods are brutal even by our standards. The torture, the terror tactics. It’s bad for business.”

“I’ve seen the photos,” I say quietly.

“Found another one this morning. Same pattern. Same message.”

My jaw clenches. Four families. Four leaders tortured to death for the crime of not immediately submitting to Roman’s rule.

“All the more reason to move fast,” I say. “The meeting is in four days. We need to be ready.”

“What’s the plan?” another man asks.

“We crash the meeting. Present evidence of Roman’s crimes. Force the families to choose sides.” I look around at the assembled men. “It’s risky. Probably stupid. But it’s the only shot we have.”

“You’ll need backup,” Leo says. “Security at those meetings is tight. You won’t get in without a fight.”

“That’s what I’m counting on.” I gesture to the weapons. “We come in strong. Make it clear we’re not asking permission.”

“That could start a war,” the young man points out.

“We’re already in a war,” Semyon interjects. “Has been since Roman murdered Maksim’s father and framed Kira’s family. We’re just finally fighting back.”

Silence falls as everyone processes this.

“I’m in,” Leo says finally. “My loyalty was to your father, Maksim. That loyalty extends to you. Whatever you need.”

“Same,” another voice. Then another.

One by one, the men declare their allegiance.

“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it. “Load up the weapons. Distribute them to people you trust. Four days. That’s all we have to prepare.”

“What about Roman?” Leo asks. “He’s not going to just let you waltz into the council meeting.”

“I know.”

“You really are your father’s son,” Leo says. “He would fight anyone that threatened what was his.”

“And look how that ended for him,” I say bitterly.

“He died with honor. With dignity. Can you say the same for Roman?”

No. I can’t. Roman is a snake who murders from the shadows and tortures for sport.

If I’m going to die, I’d rather die like my father—trying to do the right thing—than live like Roman.

“Let’s get these weapons loaded,” I say, pushing away the dark thoughts. “Time’s running out.”

We spend the next hour transferring crates to various vehicles. The work is methodical, careful. No one speaks much. The weight of what we’re planning hangs over everyone.

Finally, Semyon and I are back in our car, trunk loaded with enough firepower to start a small war.

“You really don’t know?” Semyon asks as we pull away from the warehouse. “About taking over?”

“I really don’t.” I stare out at the gray streets. “Part of me wants to walk away. Take Kira and disappear. Raise our child somewhere normal.”

“And the other part?”

“Knows that’s not possible.” I glance at him. “My father wanted change. Wanted to modernize, make things less brutal. Maybe that’s what I owe him. To finish what he started.”

“That’s a heavy burden.”

“Everything about this life is heavy.”

“We need to scout the location,” I say finally. “Where they’re holding him.”

“Maksim—”

“I know it’s a trap. Help me figure out a way to do this that doesn’t get us killed.”

He sighs, but I see the resignation in his eyes. He knows I’m going after the old man regardless. Might as well help me do it smart.

“Tonight,” he says. “We scout tonight. See what we’re dealing with. Then we decide if it’s even possible.”

“Deal.”

We pull up outside the safehouse. I grab two of the smaller bags from the trunk—handguns and ammunition we can store in the apartment.

Inside, Kira is on the couch, but she sits up the moment I walk through the door. Her eyes immediately go to the bags.

“That’s a lot of supplies,” she observes.

“Told you we were picking up weapons.” I set the bags down carefully. “Everything went fine. No problems.”

She doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t push either.

I cross to her and sink onto the couch, pulling her against my side. She fits perfectly there, her head on my shoulder.

“I’m tired,” she murmurs.

“Then sleep. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

It’s a lie. In a few hours, Semyon and I will head out to scout the location where they’re holding her father. But she doesn’t need to know that right now.

She needs to rest. To take care of herself and our baby.

Everything else can wait.

Kira

I wake to the sound of low voices filtering through the thin walls. My neck aches from falling asleep on the couch. The bedroom is dark. Maksim must have carried me in here. I can still feel the ghost of his arms around me.

I push myself upright, fighting a wave of nausea. The morning sickness has started hitting at random times now, not just mornings. I breathe through it, waiting for my stomach to settle.

The voices in the living area are hushed but urgent. I catch Maksim’s tone and feel the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Something’s wrong.

I pad to the door and ease it open.

Maksim and Semyon stand by the kitchen table; heads bent over something. Anya sits on the couch, her face blotchy and red. She’s been crying.

My heart lurches. “What happened?”

All three heads snap toward me. Maksim’s expression shifts immediately—from hard strategist to concerned protector in a heartbeat.

“You should be resting,” he says, moving toward me.

“Anya’s been crying.” I sidestep him, crossing to my sister. “What’s going on?”

She looks at Maksim, uncertain. He nods once, jaw tight.

“Roman has our father,” she whispers. “He sent pictures. It’s so bad.”

The words take a moment to register. Our father. The man who sold Maksim out for money. The man who set this entire nightmare in motion.

“Show me,” I demand.

Maksim hesitates. “Kira—”

“Show. Me.”

He exchanges a look with Semyon, then pulls out his phone. The screen shows a photo that makes my breath catch.

My father tied to a chair. His face is a mess of bruises and blood. One eye is swollen completely shut. His shirt is dark with what I know is blood.

“Next,” I order.

Because I know there is another one. I know this game. I’ve led this game.

Maksim sighs and slides the screen to show me the latest photo.

I stare at the image, emotions warring inside me. I thought I hated this man. Thought I’d moved past caring what happened to him. He betrayed Maksim. Destroyed our lives. Got paid to do it.

But seeing him like this—broken and bleeding—hurts in a way I didn’t expect. The second picture is horrific. I can’t even say for certain he’s alive. His one eye is open, but he’s staring at nothing.

“When?” My voice comes out steady despite the turmoil inside.

“About two hours ago,” Semyon answers. “They sent it to draw us out.”

“It’s a trap,” I say, still staring at the photo.

“Obviously.” Maksim takes the phone back, like he can’t stand me looking at it anymore. “But we can’t just leave him there.”

I look up at him. “Can’t we?”

The question hangs in the air. Everyone stares at me.

“He sold you out,” I continue, my voice harder now. “Took money from Roman. Set you up to be kidnapped and tortured. Why should we risk ourselves to save him?”

“Because he’s your father,” Maksim says quietly. “And our child’s grandfather.”

“Our child’s grandfather is a traitor who values money over lives.”

“I know.” He moves closer, his hand finding mine. “But you’ll never forgive yourself if we don’t at least try. And neither will I.”

I want to argue. Want to say I don’t care. But he’s right—damn him, he’s right.

I close my eyes, breathing through the nausea that has nothing to do with pregnancy. “What’s happening? What’s the plan?”

“We’re going to get him,” Semyon says. “Maksim and I are headed out now to scout the location. Then we’ll extract him.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“Absolutely not.” Maksim’s response is immediate and firm.

“I can handle a gun. I can help—”

“Kira, you’re pregnant.” He frames my face with his hands, forcing me to meet his eyes. “You’re carrying our child. There is no scenario where I let you walk into a trap.”

“He’s right,” Anya says softly. “Kira, it’s too dangerous.”

“It’s too dangerous for all of us!” I pull away from Maksim, frustration boiling over. “You think I can just sit here while you two go get yourselves killed?”

“We’re not going to get killed,” Semyon interjects. “We’re professionals. We know what we’re doing.”

“So do I!” My voice rises. “I ran an organization for six years. I’ve handled worse situations than this.”

“Not while pregnant,” Maksim says flatly. “Not with my child. I won’t risk you. End of discussion.”

I want to scream at him. Want to throw something. But I see the fear beneath his stubborn determination. He’s terrified of losing me. Of losing the baby.

“We’re moving,” Semyon says, breaking the tense silence. “This location isn’t safe anymore. Roman sent that photo to Maksim’s phone—even a burner can be traced given enough time. We need to relocate.”

“Where?” Anya asks.

“I’ve got another place. Deeper in the city. Harder to find.” He’s already gathering weapons, packing them into bags. “We move now, before they find us.”

“I want to be close,” I say, an idea forming. “Not at the safehouse. Close to where you’re going. Close enough to help if something goes wrong.”

“Kira—” Maksim starts.

“I’m skilled,” I cut him off. “You know I am. I won’t go in. I’ll stay back. But you might need cover. You might need backup. And I can provide that better than sitting in some apartment across the city wondering if you’re dead.”

The men exchange looks. I can see them weighing options, calculating risks.

“She has a point,” Semyon says finally. “We could use all the help we can get. And she’s right—she’s skilled enough to provide cover fire if needed.”

“She’s pregnant,” Maksim repeats.

“I’m also standing right here.” I cross my arms. “And I’m going. The only question is whether I go with your blessing or without it.”

His jaw clenches. I can see the war playing out behind his eyes—protectiveness versus pragmatism.

“You stay in the car,” he says finally. “Far enough away to be safe. You don’t engage unless absolutely necessary. And if things go wrong, you drive away. You don’t try to save us. You get yourself and Anya to safety. Understood?”

“Maksim—”

“Those are my terms.” His voice is steel. “Take them or stay behind.”

I want to argue. But I know this is the best compromise I’ll get.

“Fine,” I say. “Anya and I wait in the getaway car. Far enough to be safe. But close enough to help if needed.”

“I didn’t agree to this,” Anya protests. “Kira, I don’t want to—”

“You’ll be safer with us than alone,” Semyon tells her. “And we need someone to drive if things go sideways. Can you do that?”

She looks terrified, but she nods. “If Kira’s going, I’m going.”

Maksim runs a hand through his hair, clearly hating this plan. But he doesn’t have a better option.

“Get dressed,” he says. “Warm clothes. Dark colors. We leave in ten minutes.”

I move back to the bedroom, Anya following. We change quickly—black jeans, dark sweaters, boots. I catch my reflection in the mirror. I look pale, scared.

Good. I should be scared. We’re walking into a trap to save a man who doesn’t deserve saving.

But Maksim’s right. I’ll never forgive myself if we don’t try.

In the living area, the men have packed everything. Weapons. Ammunition. Medical supplies. For some reason, seeing that massive first aid kit makes it all the more real. It’s been less than two weeks since I almost lost Maksim.

What if the third time is the charm?

“Ready?” Maksim asks.

I nod, not trusting my voice.

He crosses to me, pulling me into his arms. The embrace is tight, desperate.

“If anything happens—” he starts.

“Nothing’s going to happen,” I interrupt. “We’re going to get my father, and we’re all going to survive. Understand?”

He doesn’t answer. Just kisses me once.

When he pulls back, his eyes are haunted. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” I touch his face. “So don’t get killed.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

Semyon opens the door, checking the hallway. “Clear. Let’s move.”

We file out into the night. The air is cold, biting through my sweater. Two cars wait in the alley.

“You’ll take that one,” Semyon says, pointing to the second car. “Keys are in the ignition. Follow us but stay back. When we stop, you park a block away. Eyes on the building but far enough to run if needed.”

Anya and I climb into the designated car. It smells like cigarettes which almost makes me puke.

Maksim appears at my window. I roll it down.

“Be careful,” he says. “Please.”

“You, too.”

He leans in, kissing me one more time. Then he’s gone, jogging back to the other car.

I follow, keeping a careful distance. The streets are empty at this hour—just past one in the morning.

We drive for twenty minutes, winding through industrial districts and rough neighborhoods. Finally, the lead car’s brake lights flash.

I slow, watching as Maksim and Semyon park near a warehouse. I continue past, finding a side street a block away like instructed.

From here, I can see the building. Dim lights in a few windows. Two men standing guard outside.

“What now?” Anya whispers.

“Now we wait,” I say, checking the gun in my lap. “And pray this doesn’t go to hell.”

Through the windshield, I watch Maksim and Semyon approach the warehouse. They move like shadows, weapons ready.

I send up a silent prayer that the father of my baby survives. And dammit, I actually hope he can save my own father.

Maksim

Semyon’s men are ready and waiting. He gives the signal, and the entire industrial district is plunged into darkness. For a brief moment, there’s silence. Like the world is holding its breath.

I silently count. This plan isn’t great, but it’s all we have. I didn’t dare tell Anya and Kira, but their father is likely dead. But as soon as Anya walked in on us looking at the new picture, there wasn’t an option. Semyon and I had changed our plans. We weren’t going to attempt a rescue. We were going to move to the new location and lay low.

But then Anya freaked, and I knew we had to try.

Semyon taps my forearm letting me know it’s time.

All hell breaks loose.

Explosions light up the opposite side of the building. It’s the diversionary charges. Orange and red blooms against the night sky, loud enough to wake half of Moscow.

“Go!” I shout.

We move through the loading docks in tactical formation. Me and Semyon leading, with two additional men behind, weapons ready. The darkness is our friend now.

At least, that’s the theory.

The reality proves different the moment we breach the door.

Automatic gunfire erupts from concealed positions we didn’t know existed. Muzzle flashes illuminate the factory interior like deadly lightning. Old machinery across the main floor provides the perfect cover for ambush.

I see the muzzle flash before I hear the rapid fire of the gun aimed in our direction.

I’m already diving for cover behind a massive steel support beam. Bullets slam into the concrete where I was standing, sending chips flying.

“They were waiting for us,” Semyon shouts.

“Obviously!” I return fire, aiming at muzzle flashes. “Push forward! We can’t stay pinned here!”

We advance through the factory floor. I realize with sinking dread that this isn’t a defensive position. It’s a killing field. Every piece of equipment and stacks of crates have been arranged to funnel attackers into crossfire zones.

They didn’t just expect us. They designed this specifically to murder us. We knew it was a trap, but this was so much more than we prepared for.

“It’s worse than we thought!” Semyon says. “They’ve got the whole place wired!”

I spot it then—red lights blinking in the darkness. Fuck. Explosive charges attached to support beams, walls, and machinery. Scattered throughout the structure like deadly Christmas decorations.

This isn’t just a trap. It’s a tomb.

“Everyone out!” I shout. “Building’s rigged to blow!”

“Negative!” Semyon replies. “We’re pinned down! Can’t retreat without getting cut to pieces!”

A sniper’s bullet shatters concrete inches from my head. I duck instinctively, scanning for the shooter. Third floor, northwest corner. I return fire, and the shooting stops—either I hit him, or he moved.

A wave of guilt washes over me. I brought these men to their deaths. All because I was trying to save the woman, I love from grieving for a man I doubted would ever grieve for her.

It was stupid.

Reckless.

I was going to leave my baby without a father. Surviving this was next to impossible. We either died by their bullets or died when the walls caved in on us.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to kill as many as I can on my way out.

We push deeper into the factory, and bodies start dropping. Theirs and ours. The darkness that was supposed to advantage us works both ways—we can’t see them clearly either.

“Where’s the old man?” I demand, grabbing a wounded enemy soldier—one of ours put a bullet through his leg.

He laughs through bloody teeth. “Third floor. But you’ll never make it. Boom!”

I shoot him.

Fuck him.

I should have left him alive to suffocate under the rubble, but I can’t take the chance he won’t shoot on of my guys.

The odds are impossible.

But I’ve faced impossible before.

“Semyon! Get everyone out! I’m going for the old man!”

“Maksim, don’t—”

“Get our people clear! I’ll find my own way out!”

I don’t wait for his response. Don’t have time for arguments.

I sprint through the chaos toward the stairwell. Bullets follow me, ricocheting off metal, punching holes in walls. I return fire blindly, not aiming, just creating covering fire.

A figure appears ahead—someone in tactical gear, running toward the exit. In the muzzle flashes and explosive light, I catch a glimpse of his face.

Roman.

He actually showed up. I thought he’d be holed up and waiting for the dust to settle.

Rage floods through me. I raise my weapon and fire. Once, twice, three times. But he’s already moving, and the darkness makes accurate shooting nearly impossible.

Did I hit him? I can’t tell. He disappears around a corner, and I have to make a choice: chase him or save Kira’s father.

The father wins. Because if I let him die, Kira will never forgive me. It’s why we’re all here.

Even if the bastard doesn’t deserve to be saved.

I reach the stairwell and run up the stairs. My shoulder screams in protest from the vibrations.

Ignore it. Keep moving.

Second floor. Still chaos below. Still gunfire. Still my men dying to create this opportunity.

Third floor.

The hallway is dark. Quiet.

Wrong.

I advance carefully, weapon up, checking corners. The silence is worse than the gunfire. At least gunfire tells you where the enemy is.

A door at the end of the hall shows light beneath it. Flickering. Candle or lantern. It’s a beacon to draw me in. I know it but I still have to go.

I approach, every sense screaming this is a trap.

The door is unlocked. Also wrong.

I kick it open and go in low, weapon sweeping the room.

Kira’s father sits tied to a chair in the center of the space. I pause and wait. When I hear him wheeze, I know I have to keep going.

He’s alive.

And alone.

Too easy. This is too easy.

“Maksim?” His voice is slurred. “That you?”

“Yeah.” I move closer, checking for tripwires, pressure plates, anything that would turn this rescue into another death trap. “We’re getting you out.”

“Trap,” he mumbles.

“I know.” I’m already working on his restraints. “But we’re leaving anyway.”

The knots are designed to take time to undo. Wasting precious minutes while the building counts down to explosion.

“Sorry… so sorry…”

“Save it.” I cut through the last rope with my knife. “Can you walk?”

“Think so.”

He tries to stand and immediately collapses. I catch him. His weight nearly takes us both down. He’s deadweight.

This is going to be so much harder than I planned. I’m not exactly in the best shape myself.

“Come on.” I get his arm over my shoulders, taking most of his weight. “We’re moving.”

We stagger into the hallway, and that’s when I hear it.

Footsteps. Multiple people. Coming up the stairs.

Roman’s men, cutting off our escape.

“Back room!” I pull Kira’s father the opposite direction. “We find another way out!”

We stumble down a secondary corridor. I search for an escape. I know it’s unlikely, but I can’t stop trying. I can’t just roll over and die.

A window. Finally, a window.

I peer out. It’s too high to jump safely, especially carrying an injured man.

But our options are limited.

I ease Kira’s father into the corner, propping him against the wall. “Stay here. Don’t move.”

“Not going anywhere,” he wheezes.

I move back into the hallway, weapon raised, searching for another exit. There has to be a fire escape, a service elevator, something—

“Maksim Barinov.” The voice freezes me in place. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

I spin, weapon tracking to the source.

Roman stands at the end of the corridor. He looks calm. Composed. Like we’re meeting for coffee instead of a firefight.

“You should have stayed dead,” he says conversationally. “Would have been easier for everyone.”

“Easier for you, you mean.” I keep my weapon trained on him. “Harder to steal what’s mine when I’m alive to stop you.”

“Your father’s empire was never yours. You were weak. Sentimental. He knew it too.”

“My father loved me. Which is more than anyone ever felt for you.”

His expression darkens. “Your father was a fool. Clinging to outdated ideals while the world moved on. I did what needed to be done.”

“You murdered him.” My finger tightens on the trigger. “Poisoned him like the coward you are.”

“I freed the organization from his weakness.” Roman takes a step closer. “Just like I’m about to free it from yours.”

I’m about to pull the trigger when someone shouts from the stairwell. “Boss! Now!”

The first explosion cuts off his words.

The building shudders. The floor beneath my feet buckles. Somewhere below, support beams scream as they fail.

Another explosion. Closer this time. The walls crack, raining concrete dust.

Roman laughs as the building tears itself apart around us. “Perfect timing!”

He raises his weapon and fires.

The bullet slams into my thigh. White-hot agony explodes through my leg. I drop, my weapon clattering away across the tilting floor.

“This time you die,” Roman says, standing over me. “No prison. No torture. Just death.”

He turns and runs, disappearing into the smoke and chaos.

I grit my teeth against the pain. Blood pours from my thigh, hot and sticky. I pull off my belt and quickly wrap it around my upper thigh.

Another explosion rocks the building. The ceiling above me cracks, chunks of concrete raining down.

I have to move. Have to get back to Kira’s father.

I drag myself across the floor, my leg screaming with every movement.

The building groans. Metal shrieks. The entire structure is coming down, and I’m crawling through it like a wounded animal.

I make it to where Kira’s father stares at me with wide, terrified eyes.

“You’re hit,” he says unnecessarily.

“Noticed that.” I pull myself into the room using my arms, my useless leg dragging behind.

Another explosion. This one feels like it’s directly below us. The floor tilts at a sickening angle. Equipment slides across the room, crashing into walls.

“We’re going to die here,” Kira’s father whispers.

“Not yet.” I reach him, pulling myself up using the wall. “Not while I can still breathe.”

The ceiling cracks. A massive support beam tears free, swinging down like a pendulum of death.

I don’t think. Just react.

I throw myself over Kira’s father, covering his body with mine as the world explodes around us.

The beam crashes down. The ceiling follows. Tons of concrete and steel collapsing in a deafening roar.

My last thought before the darkness takes me is of Kira.

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

I tried.

Kira

The sound of gunfire has been echoing for a good ten minutes. I’m freaking out. I want to be in there. I want to fight.

My hands drip the steering wheel. The car is running and I’m ready to hit the gas and rush headlong into danger.

“Don’t do it,” Anya says quietly.

“I can’t sit here,” I groan.

“You have to. They’ll come out. We’ll go. But not until then.”

“What if—”

“Don’t. Don’t say it. Don’t think it. We have to stay positive.”

I love my sister. I really do, but her personality is the total opposite of mine. I’ve done all I could to make sure she could be all peace and love. But right now…no. I’m pissed. Negative. Terrified. I don’t want to be a cheerleader. I don’t want to look for the silver lining.

I want to scream and rage.

“So, what’s the plan?” Anya asks suddenly. “After this is over. Are you and Maksim leaving Russia?”

I glance at her. She’s staring straight ahead at the warehouse, but I can tell by the forced casualness in her voice that she’s trying to distract me.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “We haven’t really talked about it.”

“But you’re thinking about it.”

“Of course I’m thinking about it.” My hands tighten on the wheel. “Raising a child here, in this world? It’s not exactly ideal.”

“Where would you go?”

“Anywhere. Everywhere.” I echo Maksim’s words from days ago. “Somewhere the bratva doesn’t reach.”

“Does that place even exist?”

“It has to.”

More gunfire erupts from the warehouse. I flinch at each crack, imagining Maksim in the middle of it. Dodging bullets. Fighting for his life.

“He’s going to be okay,” Anya says softly. “He survived six years of torture. He can survive this.”

“Can he?” The words burst out of me. “Anya, he’s already been shot twice in the last two weeks. His body is held together with stitches and stubbornness. How much more can he take?”

“As much as he needs to. Because he loves you. Because he has something to fight for now.”

I want to believe her. Want to have her optimism.

But I’ve seen too much death to trust in happy endings.

“What about you?” I ask, deflecting. “What will you do after?”

“I don’t know. I’d still like to go to Paris.”

“Good. I want you to.”

The gunfire intensifies. I count the shots, trying to distinguish between different weapons. Trying to figure out who’s winning.

“Tell me about the baby,” Anya says. “Have you thought about names?”

“Not really.” Though that’s a lie. I’ve thought about little else during the quiet moments. “It’s too early. I don’t even know if it’s a boy or girl yet.”

“But if you had to guess?”

“A boy.” I don’t know why I think that. Just a feeling. “With Maksim’s eyes and stubborn streak.”

“God help you if they inherit both your personalities.” Anya actually laughs.

I’m about to respond when the first explosion hits.

The shockwave slams into our car even from a block away. The windows rattle. The entire vehicle rocks on its suspension. My hands jerk on the steering wheel reflexively.

“What was that?” Anya gasps.

I don’t answer. I’m already staring at the warehouse, my heart in my throat.

Another explosion. This one bigger. Louder. I feel it in my chest, in my bones. Orange flames bloom against the night sky, painting everything in hellish light.

“No.” The word comes out strangled. “No, no, no.”

A third explosion. The entire side of the warehouse collapses inward. Metal screams. Concrete crumbles. Flames shoot upward, hungry and violent.

“Maksim.” I’m already reaching for the door handle. “He’s in there. He’s—”

“Kira, wait!” Anya grabs my arm. “You can’t—”

“He’s in there!” I’m screaming now, fighting against her grip. “Let me go! I have to—”

Another explosion cuts off my words. The warehouse is an inferno now. Flames consume everything. Smoke billows into the sky, thick and black.

No one survives that. No one could survive that.

“Maksim!” I’m out of the car now, running toward the warehouse. My legs carry me forward even though my mind knows it’s useless.

He’s gone. The father of my child is gone.

“Kira, stop!” Anya is behind me, chasing me. “You can’t go in there!”

I don’t care. I have to reach him. Have to find him.

Figures emerge from the smoke. Men running, stumbling, some dragging others. I scan their faces desperately, searching for the one face I need to see.

Not him. Not him. Not him.

Then I see Semyon. He’s limping, his face covered in soot and blood. Two other men support him on either side.

But Maksim isn’t with them.

“Where is he?” I reach Semyon, grabbing his jacket. “Where’s Maksim?”

His eyes meet mine, and I see the answer before he speaks.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps. “He went back for your father. The building—it came down. I tried to stop him, but he—”

“No.” I shake my head violently. “No, he’s not dead. He can’t be dead.”

“Kira—”

“He promised me!” I’m hitting Semyon’s chest now, pounding uselessly against him. “He promised he wouldn’t die! He promised!”

Strong hands catch my wrists. I struggle against them, but Semyon’s grip is iron despite his injuries.

“Listen to me,” he says urgently. “We have to go. Roman’s men are still out there. Maksim made me promise to get you to safety if anything went wrong.”

I pull away.

“Kira, what are you doing?” Anya grabs my arm. “You can’t—”

“I have to—I can’t just—”

“You’re pregnant!” She’s crying now. “You can’t run in there! The baby—”

“Will have no father if Maksim dies!” The words come out harsh.

I wrench free from Anya’s grip and run toward the inferno.

The heat hits me like a physical wall, scorching my lungs with each breath. Flames climb what’s left of the warehouse walls, consuming everything. The roar of the fire drowns out my sister’s screams behind me.

“Maksim!” My voice tears from my throat, raw and desperate. “Maksim!”

The devastation is complete. The entire structure has collapsed into itself, twisted metal and shattered concrete creating a hellscape of destruction. Nothing could survive this. No one. There’s one side of the building left but it’s nothing but rebar and walls that are crumbling into dust.

My legs give out twenty feet from the flames. I drop to my knees on the cracked pavement, the impact jarring through my bones. “No, no, no.”

This can’t be happening. I can’t lose him again.

“Maksim!” I’m screaming now. “Please! Please don’t be dead!”

Anya crashes down beside me, her hands gripping my shoulders. “Kira, we have to go. We have to—”

“I’m not leaving him!” I try to stand, to run into the flames. I don’t care if I burn. I don’t care if I die. I just need to find him.

Semyon appears on my other side, blood streaming down his face from a gash above his eye. “Kira, he’s gone. The whole third floor came down. No one could—”

“Shut up!” I round on him, fury and grief warring in my chest. “Don’t you dare say it. Don’t you dare tell me he’s dead!”

My skin feels like it’s blistering even from this distance.

Anya is crying, her arms wrapping around me from behind. “Kira, please. The baby. Think about the baby.”

The grief threatens to swallow me whole. I can’t breathe. Can’t think.

“We need to move,” Semyon says urgently.

“Let them come! Let them kill me! I don’t want to live without him!”

“Kira, you don’t mean that.” Anya’s voice breaks. “Please. We have to go.”

“Holy shit.” Semyon’s voice cuts through my grief.

I barely register it.

“Holy shit!” He’s shouting now, pointing. “Look!”

Anya gasps. Her grip on me tightens.

I follow their gazes through my tears, not understanding what I’m seeing at first.

Movement. On the second floor where part of the wall still stands. A shadow against the flames.

Then the shadow becomes a figure. A man.

He’s at a window, silhouetted against the inferno behind him. Even from here, even through the smoke and fire, I recognize the way he moves.

“Maksim,” I breathe.

He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t look down to calculate the fall. He just jumps.

Time slows. I watch him arc through the air, his body twisting. He’s aiming for a pile of debris to break his fall.

He hits with a sickening thud that I feel in my bones. The pile shifts, absorbing some of the impact, but not all of it.

“Maksim!” I’m on my feet, running before I realize I’m moving.

He’s not moving. Just lying there in a crumpled heap on top of the debris pile.

Then I see it. Another shape beside him. Another body.

My father.

Maksim got him out.

I reach them just as Maksim coughs, his whole body convulsing. He’s alive. Barely, but alive.

“Don’t move,” I gasp, dropping to my knees beside him. “Don’t—oh God, there’s so much blood.”

His eyes find mine. Even through the pain and exhaustion, they light up when he sees me.

“Told you,” he rasps. “Not leaving.”

Behind us, the warehouse groans. What’s left of the structure shudders, preparing for final collapse.

“We have to move!” Semyon is there, grabbing Maksim under the arms. “Now!”

I look at my father. He’s unconscious but breathing. Anya and one of Semyon’s men are already dragging him away from the building.

Another man helps me support Maksim’s other side. He coughs and chokes.

“Almost there,” I tell him, even though we’re not. Even though the car is still a block away and he’s leaving a trail of blood behind us.

The warehouse gives its final death rattle. The remaining walls collapse inward with a roar that shakes the ground beneath our feet.

We keep moving. Stumbling. Running. Maksim’s weight nearly takes us all down twice. The other men drag my father.

Finally, mercifully, we reach the cars. We load Maksim into the backseat while my father is loaded into another car. I climb in with Maksim and to my surprise Anya gets in the driver’s seat.

“Drive!” Semyon shouts to Anya. “Don’t stop for anything!”

The engine roars to life. We lurch forward, tires squealing.

I look at Maksim. He’s covered in gray dust that makes his teeth and the white of his eyes look even brighter. But he’s smiling.

“You’re crazy,” I say.

“I’m alive.”

“With another hole in your body,” I mutter.

He grins and then drops his head back and the smile fades. He’s in pain. He put on a brave face, but I knew it wasn’t real. He was in bad shape.

Again.

Maksim

The hospital is chaos when we arrive. Cars and ambulances that I know are from the chaos we just left. Enemies. This has the potential to turn ugly.

“Semyon,” I say.

“I see them. Hospital is neutral territory.”

“When has that ever stopped anyone.”

Anya screeches to a stop outside the emergency entrance behind the car carrying their father. Suddenly we’re swarmed. Nurses. Orderlies. Someone shouts about gunshot wounds and smoke inhalation.

Kira hops out of the backseat and grabs one of the nurses. I can hear her yelling and gesturing to me.

The door opens and Kira is there pulling me out of the back.

They try to separate me from Kira immediately. A doctor grabs my arm, attempting to steer me toward a trauma room.

“No.” I pull away, stumbling slightly. “I stay with her.”

“Sir, you’re bleeding—”

“I’m fine.” The lie tastes bitter, but I need to stay with Kira. Need to make sure she and the baby are okay. “The bleeding stopped. I’m not dying.”

The doctor looks like he wants to argue, but another stretcher crashes through the doors. Kira’s father. He looks worse than I remember. I think he’s dead.

Fuck.

All of that for nothing.

“Critical patient!” someone shouts pushing in another gurney. “GSW to the abdomen, possible internal bleeding!”

I recognize the guy as one Roman’s little soldiers.

He’s not going to make it.

The staff knows it. I see it in their faces as they turn their attention to Nikolai.

Medical staff converge on him like ants. Kira and Anya try to follow, but a nurse blocks their path.

“We’re taking him into the trauma room,” she says firmly.

“We’re family!” Anya’s voice rises. “That’s our father!”

“I understand, but you need to wait here. The doctors need space to work.”

Kira looks ready to fight. I see her hands curl into fists, that familiar stubborn set to her jaw.

“Let them do their job,” I tell her quietly. “They’ll save him if they can.”

She turns those blue eyes on me. I see the war playing out behind them. The need to control versus the need to trust.

Finally, she nods. “Fine. But the second they’re done; I want to see him.”

“Of course.” The nurse’s expression softens. “There’s a waiting area just down the hall. We’ll update you as soon as we know anything.”

They wheel Kira’s father through swinging doors that slam shut with finality. The sudden absence of crisis leaves us standing in the harsh fluorescent light, covered in blood and soot.

“You should sit down,” Kira says, studying my face. “You look pale.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding through your pants.”

I glance down. She’s right. Blood stains my thigh where Roman’s bullet tore through muscle. The makeshift tourniquet helped, but it’s not a permanent solution.

“It can wait,” I say stubbornly.

“Maksim—”

“My leg can wait ten minutes.”

It’s a lot longer than ten minutes. The sound of beeping and crying and chaos echoes all around us. Semyon has checked in a couple of times, but he’s trying to figure out who lived and who died. Cops are everywhere. Thankfully, we’re left alone. It’s like the world forgot we were even there.

That’s a good thing. I don’t know who might be on Roman’s payroll. I know my father had a pretty good hold on the local police, but I have no idea if that relationship extends to me. There are going to be questions.

Semyon appears in the doorway, his face a mask of irritation despite the blood still caked on his temple. “You haven’t been seen yet?”

“Couldn’t get seen if I wanted to.” I gesture at the chaos around us. “Place is packed. I’m not bleeding out. My injury is minor compared to half the people here.”

He crosses his arms, looking unconvinced. “You were shot. Again.”

“Flesh wound. The bullet went through.” I shift my weight, trying not to wince. “I’ve had worse.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?” I’m getting irritated now. My leg throbs. My shoulder aches. Every breath tastes like smoke. “We’ve got bigger problems than my leg.”

His expression shifts slightly. “Speaking of which—I’ve got the police situation handled.”

I raise an eyebrow. “That was fast.”

“Roman’s men, the few that made it out alive, aren’t going to be a problem.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “They’re in critical condition. Very critical.”

I understand immediately. “You have friends on staff.”

“Several.” He glances over his shoulder, checking to make sure no one’s listening. “They’ll die of their injuries. Tragic, really. Such a devastating explosion.”

The coldness of it should bother me more than it does. But I’m too tired and too focused on keeping Kira safe to care about Roman’s soldiers getting what they deserve.

“What about Roman himself?” I ask quietly. “Did he make it out?”

“No body yet. But the building’s still too hot to search properly. Could be buried in the rubble.” Semyon’s jaw tightens. “Or he could have escaped before the main collapse.”

“He was there. I saw him. Shot me in the leg and ran.” The memory makes my blood boil. “Coward triggered the explosives and left his own men to die.”

“Sounds like Roman.” Semyon runs a hand through his hair, dislodging ash. “We’ll know more in a few hours. I’ve got people watching the site, monitoring police radios. If they pull him out, we’ll hear about it.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Then we assume he’s alive until proven otherwise.” His eyes meet mine. “Which means this isn’t over.”

I already knew that. He had an exit strategy. He always does.

“How many did we lose?” I force myself to ask.

“Four confirmed dead. Three more critical.” His voice goes flat. “Leo didn’t make it.”

Leo, who’d survived four decades in the bratva and pledged his loyalty to me just days ago. Dead because I led him into a trap.

“Fuck.” The word comes out hollow.

“He knew the risks. I need to take care of a few things. Get your ass in a room. We didn’t go through all of that to have you die in a waiting room.”

“I will,” I tell him.

Semyon leaves and were left waiting for another thirty minutes.

A doctor steps into the room, tablet in hand. He looks as exhausted as I feel. “Are you family of Nikolai Markov?”

“Yes,” Kira answers. “He’s our father. What’s his condition?”

“Critical but stable for now. He has multiple broken ribs, and significant internal bleeding. Concussion. We’re taking him into surgery immediately.” He pauses and I know what’s coming. “I need to be honest with you—the next few hours are crucial. It’s going to be rough.”

“But he’ll survive?” Anya’s voice trembles.

“We’re going to do everything we can.” It’s not the reassurance we want, but it’s all he can give. “A nurse will come get you when we have updates. The next twenty-four hours will tell us more. The head injury—well, we don’t know how bad it is. There’s a lot of swelling.”

He disappears through the same doors that swallowed Kira’s father.

“Maksim.” Kira’s hand finds mine. “You need to get checked out. Please.”

“After you.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re pregnant and went through something traumatic.”

“Which is exactly why you need to be functional.” Her grip tightens. “I need you alive and healthy. Our baby needs you. So stop being stubborn and let a doctor look at that leg.”

Anya leans forward. “She’s right. And while you’re getting checked out, we’ll make sure Kira sees an OB. Make sure the baby is okay.”

“Okay,” I concede. “But I’m not leaving this floor. The second you go into an exam room; I want to be there.”

“Deal.”

A nurse appears—different from before, older, with kind eyes. “Are any of you injured?”

“He is.” Kira points at me. “Gunshot wound to the leg.”

“And she is,” I add. “Pregnant. Needs to be checked out. Smoke inhalation.”

The nurse’s eyebrows rise slightly, but she doesn’t comment on our condition. Working ER in Moscow, she’s probably seen worse.

“Let’s get you both looked at,” she says. “Follow me.”

We’re led to an exam room. I follow Kira. She glares at me.

“What are you doing?”

“I want to make sure you’re okay,” I say.

She rolls her eyes. “You’re so stubborn.”

The nurse doesn’t look any happier with me but says nothing.

Kira sits on the exam table.

A doctor enters maybe ten minutes later. She introduces herself and immediately starts asking questions. I can tell she’s in a rush, which pisses me off. She needs to be focused on my woman. My baby.

“How far along are you?”

“About six weeks,” Kira answers.

“Any bleeding? Cramping?”

“No bleeding. Some cramping earlier, but I think that was stress.”

“Any previous pregnancies?”

“No.”

The doctor nods, making notes on her tablet. “And you were exposed to smoke? Any trouble breathing?”

“A little. My throat burns, but I can breathe fine.”

I watch the doctor examine Kira. Checking her vitals, listening to her lungs, touching her belly. Each touch makes me tense, waiting for something to be wrong.

“Everything seems normal,” the doctor says finally. “But given the trauma and smoke exposure, I want to do an ultrasound.”

“Okay.” Kira’s hand finds mine, squeezing tight.

A nurse wheels in the ultrasound machine—a bulky thing with a screen and various attachments. My stomach twists. This is real now. We’re about to see our child.

Or find out we lost them.

“Lie back,” the doctor instructs, pulling up Kira’s shirt to expose her stomach. “This gel is going to be cold.”

Kira flinches when the gel touches her skin. I squeeze her hand, wishing I could take away her fear. Wishing I could guarantee everything will be okay.

But I can’t. I’ve learned the hard way that I can’t protect the people I love from everything.

The doctor presses the transducer against Kira’s abdomen, moving it slowly. The screen shows nothing but grainy static to my untrained eyes.

“There,” the doctor says, angling the screen toward us. “See that?”

I lean forward, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing.

“So the baby’s okay?” I have to hear the words.

I watch the doctor. She’s gone silent. The wand still moving over her belly.

“Doctor?” I ask, my heart in my throat.

I don’t know how I’ll handle bad news. I thought I was prepared, but I’m not. I stand, holding onto Kira’s hand.

“Babies,” the OB corrects gently.

The word doesn’t register at first. I hear it, but it doesn’t make sense.

“What?”

“Babies,” she repeats, smiling now. “Plural. You’re having twins.”

I grab the edge of the exam table to keep from falling. I’m suddenly really fucking dizzy.

“Twins?” The word comes out strangled. “As in… two?”

“That’s generally what twins means, yes.” The OB’s smile widens. “Would you like to see?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer. Just turns the ultrasound screen toward us.

And there they are.

Two tiny blobs. But the blobs aren’t what I’m looking at. It’s the two heartbeats flickering on the monitor like the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

“Oh my God,” I breathe.

My legs give out. I drop into the chair beside the exam table.

“Two babies,” Kira whispers. Her hand tightens in mine. “Maksim, we’re having twins.”

“I can see that.” I can’t look away from the screen.

“Twins run in families sometimes, but they can also happen spontaneously,” the doctor is saying. B

Two babies. Two lives depending on me to keep them safe.

The magnitude of it crashes over me like a wave. Not just one child to protect. Two.

“Are they okay?” I manage to ask. “After everything tonight.”

“Perfectly healthy,” the OB assures me. “Both heartbeats are strong. No signs of distress. The placenta is protecting them well.”

Relief floods through me so intensely I feel dizzy again.

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.” She prints out images from the ultrasound, handing them to Kira. “I want to see you back in two weeks for a follow-up. And try to avoid burning buildings for the rest of the pregnancy.”

There’s humor in her voice but also concern. She knows something happened tonight. Knows we’re not normal expectant parents.

“We’ll try,” Kira says.

The OB leaves, and suddenly we’re alone with the ultrasound images. Two tiny shapes that will become our children.

“Twins,” I say again, testing the word. “We’re having twins.”

“Are you okay?” Kira studies my face. “You look pale.”

“I’m—” I stop. “I think. I love you, but I’m going to pass out.”

“Nurse!” Kira calls out even as my world starts to fade.

I pushed it too far.

Whoops. I’m going down.

Kira

Maksim’s eyes roll back, and he starts to collapse.

“Maksim!” I lunge forward, trying to catch him, but he’s too heavy. He hits the floor hard, his head cracking against the tile.

Two nurses rush in, followed by the doctor who examined me.

“He’s been shot,” I blurt out. “In the leg. He wouldn’t get treatment until I was checked.”

“Stubborn idiot,” one of the nurses mutters, already checking his pulse. “Get a gurney. Now.”

Within seconds, they have him loaded onto a stretcher. I follow as they wheel him down the corridor, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“Is he going to be okay?” My voice sounds small, scared. I hate how scared I sound.

“Blood loss and shock,” the doctor says, not slowing. “We need to get him stabilized. You need to wait here.”

“No.” I grab the edge of the gurney. “I’m not leaving him.”

“Ma’am, you need to—”

“I’m pregnant with his children. Twins. And I just watched him survive a building collapse.” My voice breaks. “I’m not leaving him.”

The doctor’s expression softens slightly, but he doesn’t relent. “You can wait right outside the trauma room. But I need you to let us work.”

They push through double doors, and a nurse physically blocks my path. “Right here,” he says gently. “We’ll update you as soon as we know anything.”

The doors swing shut, leaving me standing in another sterile hallway.

I sink onto a plastic chair, my hands shaking. The ultrasound images are still clutched in my fist, slightly crumpled now.

I smooth them out carefully. Two tiny shapes. Two heartbeats.

Our babies.

Maksim has to survive this. He has to meet them. Has to hold them.

I press my hand to my stomach, feeling nothing yet but knowing they’re there. Growing. Depending on me to keep them safe.

“Please,” I whisper to whatever gods might be listening. “Please let him be okay.”

Anya appears beside me, dropping into the chair. Her face is streaked with tears and soot. I look at her and realized I probably look just as bad.

“What’s going on?” she asks.

“Maksim passed out. Blood loss. Stubborn fool. I swear I will kill him if he dies.”

She smiles. “I think we’ve all learned the man is made of titanium. He’s not going anywhere. The devil doesn’t want him.”

“We’re having twins.”

She laughs. “Yeah right.”

I hand her the crumpled-up paper that is the proof.

Her eyes widen. “Twins?”

“Two babies, Anya. And their father just collapsed because he’s too stubborn to take care of himself.”

“He was taking care of you.” She squeezes my hand. “That’s what he does.”

“I know.” Tears burn my eyes. “But I need him alive. These babies need him alive.”

We sit in silence, both of us staring at those double doors. Willing them to open. Willing someone to come out and tell us Maksim is fine.

Time crawls. Minutes feel like hours.

A doctor comes out looking just a little frantic.

I hop to my feet. “What’s wrong? Is he okay?”

The doctor sighs. “He lost a lot of blood. The injury tore through some arteries. He’s got some broken ribs—”

“Those are probably old,” I say absently. “He got shot a couple of weeks ago.”

He looks at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Yeah. I saw. Look, that man is lucky to be alive. I don’t know how he is alive to be frank. You should probably go get comfortable. We need to do a full workup. He’s bruised. Was he in that building that collapsed?”

I nod slowly. “Yes.”

He curses under his breath. “Please, go sit and get comfortable.”

He starts to walk away but I grab his arm. The doctor looks at me. “Just tell me, is he going to live?”

“Yes, but I need to get some blood.”

“Come on,” Anya says. “You need to eat. Drink. You heard the doctor; he’s going to be okay.”

I want to sit in that room and oversee everything.

But I can’t.

I’ll be in the way.

I have to let them do their thing.

I let Anya lead me away.

Anya pulls me toward the public restrooms near the emergency department entrance. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting harsh shadows that make everything feel more surreal.

I push through the bathroom door and catch my reflection in the mirror. I stop dead.

“Oh my God,” I breathe.

Anya appears beside me, and we both stare at our reflections in stunned silence.

I look like I crawled out of a grave. My face is streaked with soot and ash, creating dark lines that make me look like some kind of warrior gone to battle. My hair is a tangled mess with debris caught in the strands. Blood—Maksim’s blood, my father’s blood, stains my clothes and hands. My eyes are wild; pupils dilated with adrenaline that hasn’t worn off yet.

Anya looks just as bad. Maybe worse. Her normally perfect blonde hair is gray with ash, standing up in odd angles. Soot covers her face like war paint.

We lock eyes in the mirror.

And then, inexplicably, we both start laughing.

It’s not funny. Nothing about tonight is funny. But the laughter bubbles up anyway, hysterical and uncontrollable. We’re alive. Against all odds, we’re standing here looking like extras from an apocalypse film, but we’re alive.

“We look like hell,” Anya gasps between giggles.

“Literally.” I wipe at my face, which only smears the ash around. “I think there’s a piece of ceiling in my hair.”

“There is. Want me to get it?”

“Please.”

She picks through my tangled hair, extracting chunks of concrete and who knows what else.

“Your turn,” I say when she’s done.

I return the favor, finding even more debris in her lighter hair. “You need a shower. Like, immediately.”

“So do you.” She turns on the faucet, wetting paper towels. “Here, let’s at least get the worst of it off.”

We scrub at our faces and hands, the white paper towels turning black almost instantly. It takes a dozen towels each before we start to look remotely human again.

“Better?” I ask, checking my reflection.

“Marginally.” Anya tries to finger-comb her hair into something resembling order. “Still look like we’ve been through a war.”

“We have been through a war.”

The laughter fades. Reality crashes back in. My father is in critical condition. Maksim is being treated for God knows how many injuries. And I’m standing in a hospital bathroom covered in the evidence of tonight’s violence.

“Come on.” Anya grabs my hand. “Food. You need to eat something.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’re pregnant. With twins. You need to eat whether you feel like it or not.”

I let her pull me down the hallway toward the cafeteria. The hospital at this hour is quieter than before, though still busy. We pass doctors and nurses rushing down the hall with various supplies. I wonder if any of them are working on Maksim right now.

The cafeteria is nearly empty. A few exhausted-looking doctors and visitors sit hunched over coffee cups in one corner.

“Sit,” Anya commands, steering me toward a table. “I’ll get food.”

“I can—”

“Sit.”

I sit. My legs are shaking anyway, the adrenaline finally wearing off completely. The plastic chair is uncomfortable, but I’m too tired to care.

Anya returns with two trays loaded with toast, fruit, and bottles of water. She sets one in front of me.

“Eat,” she says.

I stare at the food. My stomach churns at the thought of eating, but I know she’s right. I need to eat. The babies need me to eat.

I still can’t quite wrap my head around it. Two lives growing inside me.

I pick up a piece of toast and force myself to take a bite. It tastes like cardboard, but I chew and swallow mechanically.

“Good,” Anya says, watching me like a hawk. “Keep going.”

We eat in silence. I manage to get through one slice of toast and some fruit before my stomach rebels. I push the tray away.

“That’s all I can do,” I say.

“It’s enough for now.” She drinks her water, studying me over the rim of the bottle. “So. Twins.”

“Twins,” I confirm.

“How do you feel about that?”

“Terrified.” The word comes out before I can stop it. “I can barely handle the idea of one baby. Two? Anya, how am I supposed to protect two babies in this world?”

“The same way you’ve protected me all these years. You’re going to be an amazing mother, Kira.”

We make our way back to the waiting room. I check in with a nurse and am told there’s no news yet.

Semyon finds us eventually. He’s been treated—stitches above his eye, his arm in a sling. “Any word?”

“Not yet.” I don’t look away from the doors. “He passed out. They took him in.”

“Damn it.” Semyon sits heavily on my other side. “Stubborn bastard should have been treated hours ago.”

“He was worried about me.” My voice cracks. “About the babies.”

“Babies?” Semyon’s head snaps toward me. “Plural?”

“Twins.” I show him the images.

“Well, shit. Maksim’s going to have his hands full.”

“If he survives,” I whisper.

“He will. This is just another day for him.”

The doors finally open. A doctor emerges, pulling off bloody gloves.

I’m on my feet before I realize I’m moving. “How is he?”

“Stable,” the doctor says, and I nearly collapse with relief. “The bullet went clean through, no major arteries hit. He lost a lot of blood, which is why he passed out. We’ve given him a transfusion and stitched him up.”

“Can I see him?”

“He’s sedated right now. We want him to rest.” The doctor’s expression is kind. “But yes, you can see him. Just for a few minutes.”

I follow the doctor into a recovery area with several beds separated by curtains. Maksim is in the far corner, hooked up to monitors and IVs.

He looks pale against the white sheets. Vulnerable in a way I’m not used to seeing.

I pull a chair close to the bed and take his hand.

“You’re an idiot,” I tell him quietly. “A stubborn, reckless idiot.”

His fingers twitch slightly in mine.

“But you saved my father. He didn’t deserve a single ounce of your blood but you did it anyway. You did it for me.”

“You have to be here for us.” Tears spill down my cheeks. “So no more heroics, okay? No more throwing yourself in front of bullets. We need you.”

The monitors beep steadily. His chest rises and falls with each breath.

A nurse appears at my elbow. “I’m sorry, but you need to let him rest. You can come back in a few hours.”

I don’t want to leave. But I know she’s right.

I lean down, pressing my lips to Maksim’s forehead. “I love you,” I whisper.

Then I force myself to walk away and leave him in the hands of people who can help him more than I can right now.

Anya and Semyon are waiting for me.

“He’s okay,” I say. “Stable. Sedated. They want him to rest.”

“Good.” Semyon stands. “I need to check on some things. Do you want to go to the safehouse?”

“No,” I answer without hesitation. “I need to be here.”

He nods. “I’ve got men stationed outside. You’ll be safe.”

“I’ll stay with her,” Anya says.

“Tell him I’ll be back,” Semyon says.

I stop him from leaving. “Semyon?”

“Yeah?”

“If you find Roman, please kill him. I don’t want justice. I want him dead.”

“I know,” he replies. “And I will.”

Maksim

I wake to the sensation of someone holding my hand.

For a moment, I don’t remember where I am. The ceiling is too white, too clean. The beeping of monitors filters through the fog in my brain.

Then it all comes rushing back. The warehouse. The explosions. Roman’s bullet tearing through my leg. The jump from the second floor with Kira’s father.

I turn my head—carefully, because everything aches—and see her.

Kira is asleep in a chair beside my bed, her hand wrapped around mine. Her head is tilted at an awkward angle that’s going to give her a terrible neck ache. Even exhausted and disheveled, she’s beautiful. I have no idea what time it is, but it’s dark outside. She’s changed clothes and clearly showered. The last time I saw her, she was covered in cement dust.

I squeeze her hand gently.

Her eyes fly open immediately, that ice-blue gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that steals my breath.

“You’re awake,” she breathes.

“Apparently.” My voice comes out rough, like I’ve been gargling gravel. “How long was I out?”

She rubs her eyes and then looks at the clock. “All day.” She sits up straighter, wincing as her neck protests. “You scared the hell out of me, Maksim.”

“Sorry.”

“Sorry?” Her voice rises. “You passed out from blood loss because you were too stubborn to get treated! You could have died!”

“But I didn’t.”

“That’s not the point!” She’s on her feet now. I see the fear beneath her anger. “You can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep throwing yourself into danger and expecting everything to be fine!”

“Kira—”

“I’m serious, Maksim. You’re going to be a father. To twins. They need you alive.” Her voice breaks. “I need you alive. So, if you ever pull that crap again, I swear to God I will kill you myself.”

I can’t help it—I smile. “There’s the Ice Queen I fell in love with.”

“Don’t.” She swipes at her eyes, frustrated by the tears. “Don’t make jokes. This isn’t funny.”

“I know.” I tug on her hand, pulling her closer. “Come here.”

She hesitates, then sits on the edge of the bed. I shift over, ignoring the protests from my battered body, making room for her.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “You’re right. I should have gotten treated sooner. But I needed to make sure you and the babies were okay first.”

“The babies are fine. You heard the doctor.”

“I know. Now.” I bring her hand to my lips. “But I had to be sure. Had to see them on that screen.”

Her expression softens slightly. “Two heartbeats.”

“Two.” The wonder of it still hasn’t worn off. “We’re having twins, Kira.”

“I’m aware.” She touches my face, her fingers gentle. “Which is why you need to take better care of yourself. They need their father.”

“I will. I promise.” I mean it this time. “No more heroics.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Fair point.

“So, what’s the damage?” I ask.

“The list is extensive,” Kira says, her expression somewhere between exasperated and relieved. “The bullet wound in your thigh—which they didn’t have to do surgery, but you’re lucky. Because you kept walking on it like an idiot you almost did real damage. Three broken ribs, though the doctor says at least one of those was already healing from before.”

“From the last time I got shot,” I mutter.

“Yes. From the last time.” She gives me a look that could freeze fire. “You also have a mild concussion from hitting your head when you passed out. Or when a building collapsed on you. Hard to say. Smoke inhalation that they want to monitor. Multiple contusions and lacerations. The gunshot to your shoulder healed nicely but you tore the one on your side. They stitched it up again. No infections but you are getting antibiotics.”

I process this information. It could be worse. I’ve definitely had worse.

“So when can I leave?”

“You’re not leaving.” Her voice is flat, brooking no argument. “The doctor says minimum one day, possibly two. You need rest. Real rest. Not ‘Maksim pretends to rest while planning his next suicide mission’ rest.”

“Kira—”

“No.” She crosses her arms. “I’m not negotiating this. You’re staying in this bed until a medical professional clears you to leave. And if you try to sneak out, I will have Semyon post guards at your door.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

I study her face and realize she absolutely would. The Ice Queen doesn’t make idle threats.

“Fine,” I concede. “One day. Maybe two. But then we need to move. Roman is still out there.”

“Semyon is handling it.”

“Semyon can’t—”

“Semyon is perfectly capable of coordinating people without you micromanaging from a hospital bed.” She leans forward, her eyes intense. “You need to trust him. Trust that the world won’t fall apart if you rest for forty-eight hours.”

The hardest thing for me isn’t the pain or the injuries. It’s the inactivity. The feeling of being useless while threats still circle.

But she’s right. My body needs time to heal. And pushing myself now will only make me a liability later.

“Okay,” I say quietly. “Two days. I’ll stay.”

“Thank you.” The relief in her voice is palpable. “Now, the doctor wants you on bed rest. That means no getting up except to use the bathroom.”

“What am I supposed to do for two days?”

“Rest. Sleep. Heal.” She touches my face again, her thumb brushing my cheekbone.

“Where’s Anya?” I ask.

Kira’s expression shifts, becoming more guarded. “ICU. With our father.”

My stomach drops. “He’s still alive?”

“Barely. He’s hanging on, but…” She trails off, and I hear everything she’s not saying. “The doctors aren’t optimistic. The head injury is severe. Even if he survives, there might be permanent damage.”

Guilt crashes over me. I got him out of that building, but maybe I should have done more. Moved faster. Protected him better.

“Maksim.” Kira’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. “This isn’t your fault.”

“I should have—”

“You did everything.” Her grip on my hand tightens. “You got him out. You jumped from the second floor and somehow survived. You did everything humanly possible.”

She leans closer, her forehead resting against mine. “My father made his choices. He set this whole nightmare in motion when he betrayed you. What happens to him now is consequence, not your responsibility.”

I want to argue. Want to take on the guilt of failing to save him completely.

But she’s right. I did everything I could.

The door opens, and Semyon walks in. He looks better than the last time I saw him—cleaned up, the cut above his eye neatly stitched. His arm in a sling.

“You’re awake,” he observes. “Good. We need to talk.”

“What happened?” I try to sit up more, but Kira pushes me back down.

“Stay,” she orders. “You’re not going anywhere. I will absolutely shoot you with a tranquilizer dart myself if you even think about getting out of that bed.”

Semyon pulls up another chair. He looks from me to Kira then back at me. “Roman is dead.”

The words hang in the air. I stare at him; not sure I heard correctly.

“What?”

“Roman is dead,” he repeats. “I saw the body myself. Pulled from the rubble about three hours ago. Crushed when the third floor collapsed.”

Relief floods through me so intensely I feel dizzy. “You’re sure?”

“Positive. I made them show me the body twice. Checked for a pulse myself.” His smile is grim. “He’s dead, Maksim. Really dead. That piece of shit is never coming back.”

I can’t process it. After everything he put us through, Roman is just… gone.

“His network is collapsing,” Semyon continues. “Without him, there’s no leadership. His lieutenants are already turning on each other, fighting for scraps. By tomorrow, the Barinov bratva will be in complete chaos.”

“Good,” Kira says fiercely. “Let it burn.”

“It’s not that simple,” Semyon says, looking at me. “Nature abhors a vacuum. Someone will step in to fill the void. The question is who.”

I know what he’s asking. What everyone will be asking.

Will I take my father’s place? Claim what’s mine by blood and right?

“The families are already asking,” Semyon says quietly. “Leo’s death is being mourned. The torture victims Roman left behind are being found. People are angry, Maksim. They want justice. They want leadership.”

“They want revenge,” I correct.

“That too.” He doesn’t deny it. “But mostly they want someone to rebuild. To restore order. Your father was loved. You’re his son. His legitimate heir.”

“I don’t want it,” I say, but even as the words leave my mouth, I’m not sure they’re true.

Part of me does want it. Wants to finish what my father started. I want to build something better than what Roman created.

But another part wants to walk away. I just want to disappear and be normal.

“You don’t have to decide right now,” Semyon says. “Take time. Heal. But know that the offer is there. The families will follow you if you ask.”

“And if I don’t ask?”

“Then someone else will step in. Someone who might be worse than Roman.” His expression is serious. “I’m not trying to pressure you. Just giving you the facts.”

I look at Kira. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s your choice,” she says carefully. “I’ll support whatever you decide.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Because I don’t have one.” She touches my face. “Part of me wants you to walk away. To take me and Anya and disappear somewhere safe. Somewhere our children can grow up without this violence.”

“And the other part?”

“Knows that won’t work. The bratva doesn’t let people walk away. The only way to truly be safe is to control the danger.” Her eyes meet mine. “If you take power, you can change things. Make them better. Be the leader your father wanted to be.”

“That’s a lot of responsibility.”

“You can handle it.” Her smile is sad. “You survived six years of hell. You can survive this too.”

Can I? I’m not sure.

But looking at her, I know I have to try.

“I’ll think about it,” I tell Semyon. “Give me a few days.”

“Take the time you need.” He stands. “I’ll keep things stable in the meantime. Make sure no one does anything stupid.”

“Thank you. For everything.”

“That’s what friends are for.” He heads for the door, then pauses. “For what it’s worth? I think you’d be a good pakhan. Better than your father. Better than anyone.”

He leaves before I can respond.

Kira shifts, settling more comfortably against my side. “How are you feeling? Really?”

“Like I got shot, fell from a building, and got my ass kicked.”

“So, accurate.”

I hold her, relishing the fact we’re alive and that fucker is dead.

“How is Anya?” I ask quietly.

“She’s not ready to let go yet.”

“Are you?”

She’s quiet for a long moment. “I don’t know. Part of me hates him for what he did. He started this whole nightmare. He’s been a horrible father to me. I don’t know if I can say I love him, but I believe Anya does.”

“You love her more than you hate him.”

“Yes. He’s still my father. He wasn’t always this person. That once, a long time ago, he was a good man.” She sighs. “It’s complicated.”

“Family usually is.”

I’m exhausted but I don’t want to sleep. Don’t want to miss a single moment with her.

“Maksim?” Her voice is soft.

“Yeah?”

“I love you. Whatever happens—whether you take power or we run—I love you.”

“I love you too.”

She kisses me gently. “Now rest. You need to heal.”

“Stay with me?”

“Always.”

Kira

Six months after the factory explosion, I walk into what used to be Roman’s private office and smile.

They’ve stripped away the ostentatious decorations that were just so ugly. The gold fixtures, the expensive art that was more about displaying wealth than appreciating beauty, and the furniture designed to intimidate rather than function is all gone.

This is my husband’s office now.

Our office.

The massive conference table is covered with organizational charts and territory maps. The architecture of a new kind of power structure. One we’re building from the ground up. Together. I love that he wants my opinion. He appreciates my experience.

And damn does it feel good to be at the head of the table again. Maybe I got a little power hungry after getting to run my own operation.

I sit down at the table and reach for a pen. My ring catches the light. Every time I see it on my finger I’m reminded of what it took to get that ring there. Maksim and I married a week after he was released from the hospital. We didn’t want the big ceremony. It was too risky. But Maksim insisted on making me his wife and I certainly wasn’t complaining. Anya along with Alina and Semyon attended. We kept it very, very small. Our circle of trusted people was much tighter back then.

“The Volkov family wants to negotiate,” Semyon announces as he walks into the room.

I shift in my chair, trying to find a comfortable position. At eight months pregnant with twins, comfortable positions are theoretical rather than practical.

“That’s the fifth family this month,” I observe, reaching for the folder.

“Word is spreading.” Semyon looks satisfied. “The Barinov-Markov alliance offers something the old regime never did—stability without terror, profit without brutality.”

“Not everyone approves.” I gesture to the security reports on the corner of the table. “Three attempts on our lives in the past month.”

“Three failed attempts,” Semyon corrects. “And each one cost the old guard credibility. Weak attempts from people that are just trying to get a name for themselves. No one takes them seriously. People are tired of the violence. Tired of living in fear. What you and Maksim are building—it’s what people have wanted for years but were too afraid to ask for.”

I want to believe him. Want to believe that six months is enough to fundamentally change how the Moscow underworld operates.

But I’m a realist. And I know change is slow. Painful. Resisted by those who benefited from the old ways.

A lot of people have lost some of their control. They’ve lost money and connections. That makes people do really stupid things.

“Schedule the meeting with the Volkovs,” I say finally. “But Maksim and I both attend. Show them this is a genuine partnership, not a power grab.”

“Will do.” Semyon makes a note. “And Kira? You’re doing well. Better than anyone expected. The families respect what you’ve accomplished.”

“They respect what we’ve accomplished.” The distinction is important. “Maksim and I together. That’s the whole point.”

The door opens, and Maksim enters carrying two cups of tea.

“Chamomile,” he says, setting one cup in front of me. “Doctor’s orders.”

“The doctor also ordered bed rest.” I take the tea anyway. “Which I’m ignoring.”

“Compromise.” He settles into the chair beside me. “You work from here, sitting down, with frequent breaks.”

The twins kick in response to his voice—they always do. Like they recognize their father even from inside the womb.

At eight months, hiding the pregnancy is impossible. My belly is enormous, stretching my clothes to their limits. We announced it publicly three months ago, and it became an immediate symbol. We knew it was a risk and invited violence, but it wasn’t like we could hide it forever. And Maksim is a scary man on a regular day. When it comes to protecting his babies, he’s fierce. Deadly. People know better.

“Your father wants to see you,” Maksim says, changing the subject.

I tense slightly. The reconciliation with my father has been slow and painful. Necessary, but difficult.

“How is he?” I ask.

It’s not lost on me that Maksim seems to have a closer relationship with my father than I do. I just haven’t been able to bring myself to forgive him. Maksim pays the doctors and therapists. I’ve visited a few times, but it’s so hard for me to look at him. To know he tried to kill the man I loved and then watched me suffer.

My father’s physical injuries have healed but he will always walk with a cane. His psychological trauma was far worse.

But again, I can’t bring myself to care.

I care for Anya’s sake, but that’s it.

“I’ll visit him tomorrow,” I say finally. “After the morning briefings.”

Maksim nods. I see relief in his eyes. He’s been pushing for this reconciliation, believing our children deserve to know their grandfather despite his flaws.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe forgiveness—or at least acceptance—is possible even after betrayal.

“How are we doing with the integration?” I ask, reviewing the latest reports spread across the table.

“Better than expected.” Maksim picks up one of the charts. “The younger generation especially seems eager for change. They’re tired of the old ways.”

“And the old guard?”

“Resistant. But dying off or being forced out.” His smile is grim. “Natural selection. The families that can’t adapt are losing territory and influence to those who can.”

“We’re actually doing this,” I say quietly. “Changing how things work.”

“We are.” Maksim reaches behind me and rubs my back. It always hurts these days and he always knows how to help make it a little less painful.

The twins kick again, more forcefully this time. I wince.

“They’re active today,” Maksim observes.

“They’re always active.” I rub my stomach. “I think they’re fighting in there.”

“Already.” He laughs. “We’re in trouble.”

“So much trouble.” But I’m smiling. Despite the discomfort and the fear about childbirth, I’m happy about these babies.

“Roman would hate this,” I observe, looking around the transformed office. “Everything we’re building. The changes we’re making. He’d be furious.”

“Good.” Maksim’s smile is fierce. “Let him spin in his grave while we build the future.”

The satisfaction in his voice mirrors what I’m feeling.

We won.

“Do you ever wonder if we’re being naive?” I ask. “Thinking we can change centuries of tradition?”

“Every day. But then I remember what the alternative was. Living in fear. Raising our children in a world where violence was the only currency that mattered. That’s not acceptable.”

He’s right. Of course he’s right.

“The families meet next week,” I remind him.

“They’ll approve of the new arrangements.” He sounds confident.

“Some people want the old ways,” I counter. “The ones who profit from chaos.”

“True. But they’re outnumbered now.”

We talk business for a while, something that is second nature for us.

“I’m tired,” I admit, setting down my tea. “These babies are exhausting.”

“Then rest.” Maksim starts clearing papers.

“The Ice Queen isn’t supposed to get tired,” I pout.

“The Ice Queen is about to become a mother.” He helps me stand. “And mothers need rest. Doctor’s orders.”

I want to argue. I really want to push through like I always have. But my back aches and my feet are swollen, and the twins are taking turns trying to pop my kidneys.

“Fine,” I concede. “But only for an hour.”

“We’ll see.” He’s already guiding me toward our master bedroom down the hall. “Lie down.”

I manage to crawl on the bed.

Maksim covers me with a blanket, kisses my forehead, and returns to work.

I awake to a sharp pain that reaches around my entire lower body. My hand goes to my belly. “Ow. You two settle down in there.”

I take a second to gather the strength to sit up when I realize I’m wet.

“What the hell?”

I stare at the wet sheets beneath me, my brain struggling to catch up with what’s happening.

“Oh no,” I breathe. “No, no, no. Not yet. You’re not supposed to come yet.”

Another contraction hits, stronger this time. It steals my breath and makes my entire body tense. I grip the edge of the bed, waiting for it to pass.

“Maksim!” My voice comes out strangled. “Maksim!”

I hear his footsteps running down the hall before the door slams open. He takes one look at me—at the wet sheets, at my face—and goes white.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay? Is it the babies?” The words tumble out in rapid succession.

“My water broke.” I try to keep my voice calm. “I’m in labor.”

“You’re—” He stares at me like I’ve just spoken a foreign language. “But you’re not due for three more weeks.”

“Tell that to them.” I gesture at my belly. “The doctor said twins often come early. Remember?”

“Right. Yes. Early.” He’s nodding but not moving, just standing there frozen in the doorway.

“Maksim.” I grip the bed as another contraction rolls through me. “I need you to not panic right now.”

“I’m not panicking.” His voice is an octave higher than normal. “I’m completely calm. Totally calm. This is me being calm.”

“You’re panicking.”

“Maybe a little.” He runs his hands through his hair, making it stand up in all directions. “Okay. Hospital. We need to get you to the hospital. Where’s your bag? Did you pack a bag?”

“Closet. By the door.”

He rushes to the closet, grabs the hospital bag we packed weeks ago, then rushes back. “Got it. What else? What do you need?”

“Help me up.” I extend my hand. “And maybe some pants that aren’t soaked.”

“Right. Pants. You need pants.” He’s moving around the room like a tornado, opening drawers at random. “Where are your pants?”

“Second drawer. Maksim, breathe.”

“I’m breathing.” He pulls out a pair of loose sweatpants. “Here. Can you put these on? Should I help? I’ll help.”

He helps me change, his hands shaking the entire time. Another contraction hits halfway through, and I have to grip his shoulder until it passes.

“How far apart are they?” he asks.

“I don’t know. Five minutes? Maybe less?” Everything is happening so fast. “We need to go. Now.”

“Going. We’re going.” He helps me stand, supporting most of my weight. “Car is downstairs. We can make it to the hospital in fifteen minutes. Maybe ten if I speed.”

“Don’t speed. The last thing we need is to get pulled over.”

“Right. No speeding. Reasonable speeds only.” He’s practically carrying me down the hall. “Should I call ahead? Tell them we’re coming?”

“Yes. Call them.”

He fumbles for his phone with one hand while supporting me with the other. I hear him speaking rapidly to someone at the hospital, giving them our information.

“You’re doing great,” Maksim says, though he looks like he might pass out. “Really great. Just breathe.”

“I am breathing.”

“Good. That’s good. Keep doing that.”

Semyon is just pulling up to the compound.

“She’s in labor,” Maksim announces unnecessarily.

“I can see that.” Semyon opens the car door. “I’ll drive. You stay with her.”

“No, I can—”

“You’re shaking like a leaf. Get in the back.” Semyon’s voice brooks no argument.

Maksim helps me into the backseat, then climbs in beside me. I grip his hand as Semyon races down the driveway.

“Breathe,” Maksim reminds me. “You’re doing amazing. So strong. I love you.”

Another contraction hits harder than before. I squeeze his hand so tightly I hear his bones creak.

“Fuck,” I gasp when it passes. “That hurt.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He looks genuinely distressed, like he’s the one in pain. “We’re almost there. Just hold on.”

“Call Anya.”

“I will,” he says.

Semyon pulls up to the emergency entrance, and suddenly there are people everywhere. Nurses with a wheelchair.

“How far apart are the contractions?” the doctor asks as they help me into the wheelchair.

“Three minutes. Maybe less.”

“Let’s get you upstairs.”

Everything becomes a blur. Elevators. Hallways. A delivery room with too many bright lights. People helping me into a hospital gown while asking questions I barely process.

“How long has she been in labor?”

“Maybe forty minutes?” Maksim looks at his watch. “I don’t know. Everything happened so fast.”

“That’s normal with multiples.” The doctor is checking monitors, examining me. “You’re already at seven centimeters. These babies are in a hurry.”

“Is that bad?” Maksim hovers beside the bed, still holding my hand.

“It’s fine. Fast, but fine. First babies usually take longer, but twins often have their own timeline.”

Another contraction slams into me. I arch off the bed, gripping Maksim’s hand.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs. “So strong. I’m right here. Not going anywhere.”

“You better not,” I grit out. “You did this to me.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m terrible. The worst.” He’s babbling now, clearly terrified. “But you’re amazing. Our babies are going to be so lucky to have you as their mother.”

“Let’s have some babies,” the doctor announces.

“Already?” Maksim looks panicked. “But we just got here.”

“Sometimes it happens fast.”

“Okay, Kira,” the doctor says. “On the next contraction, I need you to push.”

I nod, gathering what strength I have left. The contraction builds, and I push.

“Good! That’s perfect. Again.”

I push again. And again. Maksim’s voice in my ear telling me I can do this is exactly what I need.

“I can see the head!” the doctor announces. “One more big push.”

I bear down with everything I have. There’s a moment of intense pressure, then sudden relief as the first baby enters the world.

“It’s a boy!” The doctor holds him up, and I hear the most beautiful sound—my son crying.

Tears stream down my face. “He’s perfect.”

“He’s amazing,” Maksim breathes, staring at our baby in wonder.

“Okay, Kira, let’s get baby number two out. You ready?”

I nod, exhausted but determined. Two more pushes, and our second son makes his entrance, crying just as loudly as his brother.

“Two healthy boys,” the doctor announces. “Congratulations.”

They clean the babies and wrap them in blankets, then place them both in my arms. I stare down at their tiny faces, their perfect features, and feel my heart expand in ways I didn’t know were possible.

“We made these,” I whisper.

“You made these.” Maksim touches one tiny hand, his expression full of awe. “I just helped a little.”

“More than a little.” I look up at him and see tears streaming down his face. “You okay?”

“I’m perfect.” He kisses my forehead. “They’re perfect. Everything is perfect.”

“Welcome to the world, boys,” I whisper to them. “Your father and I are going to make sure it’s a better place for you. We promise.”

 

THE END