Stop thinking about it.I pull into my destination’s parking lot so fast that tire marks burn into the asphalt in my wake.Stop being distracted by her. You don’t have time for that.
She’s leverage. A pawn. Nothing else.
Even as I tell myself that, I can’t chase the heat of her body out of my mind. The warmth of her skin, the sweet moans that spilled from her lips when I fingered her in that dressing room. She wanted me then—I know she did.
But I shouldn’t want her in return. Not like this. Not with this burning need scorching me from the inside just below the surface.
As soon as I walk into the hospital, I’m assaulted by thepungent smell of antiseptic. Hopelessness, too, reeking from every open door.
I’ve only been away for a few days, but when I walk into Dimitri’s room, he isn’t looking nearly as good as he was the last time I saw him. And he hasn’t looked good since the accident, so that’s saying something.
I take a seat next to his bed. “Hi, Mitya. You look like shit.”
The nickname grates like nails on a chalkboard. The Dimitri I know would flash a grin in response, call me “Petya” with a clap on the shoulder, and say I look way worse.
But this Dimitri is still as the grave.
I take in his gray skin, his sunken cheeks. He’s been under for a week, but he’s already dropped a lot of weight. He was always big on working out, eating to keep up his bulk. Now, he feeds through a tube.
I clench my fists in my lap. I shouldn’t be here. I’ve got a plan to carry out tonight. But talking about him with Sima made me miss my brother. More than I care to admit.
It’s a weakness, too human to be allowed. But then again, I’ve only beenpakhanfor a week. Father learned to excise all weaknesses during his reign. All emotions.
Sooner or later, I’ll get there, too.
Or I’ll get killed first.
“Mikhael’s been acting like a dickhead.” I don’t even know why I bother speaking. It’s not like Dimitri can hear me. “He wouldn’t have dared with you. Would have kissed the ring the second you walked into the room to announce your succession.”
The reminder that I was never supposed to have the throne burns a hole in my stomach. Growing up, I never resented Dimitri for it. He was the eldest son. It was his birthright to rule. Mine was to be his keeper, the armed shadow at his side.
Even when my father made it clear who his favorite son was, I never blamed it on my brother.
“You don’t have the brains to solve problems, Petyr. That’s Dimitri’s job. You’re the muscle. You hit things until they stop being a problem.”
I believed him.
Now, here I am, wearing a crown that was never molded for my head. My father’s probably turning in his grave.
I remember one night in particular. I was fifteen, standing in the study while my father grilled Dimitri on the details of an arms deal. Stupidly, I tried to chime in with an idea.
Father didn’t even spare me a glance.
“Don’t stress your brain, Petyr. No one wants it to melt.”
He sent me to the gym to train. I walked out of there with my knuckles bloodied from punching a hole through the bag.
Now, I sit at my brother’s side, staring at his motionless face, the machines breathing for him. Seeing him like this, half-dead, half-alive, makes me want to break something. Kill someone, watch blood flow instead of the stuffing of a punching bag.
I lean in, voice low but steady. “I’ll kill them, Mitya. Both of them. Nikolai, Anatoli—I’ll make those twomudakipay for what they did to you. To all of us.”
The promise burns hot in my chest, the rage welcome and familiar. I know what to do with rage. Where to put it, how to use it. Everything else, I don’t need.
Including any misguided interest in Sima.
When I straighten up, I glance at the door. No nurse, no security. It’s not even visiting hours, but I walked in without once being questioned. That’s not right. It makes it too easy for the Danilos to finish what they started.
Where are his guards?
