Hours pass before the door opens again. I expect Alexei, but it’s Dimitri this time. He steps inside with his usual casual menace, broad-shouldered, eyes sharp under the dim light.
“Get dressed,” he says simply. “You’re coming outside.”
The words jolt me. For the first time since I was brought here, the promise of fresh air pulls me upright. I dress quickly, pulling on the plain clothes laid out for me, my hair still damp from the shower.
He waits, patient and with his back turned. When I’m ready, he cuffs my wrists in front of me. The steel bites, colder than the cuff at my ankle, but I don’t protest. The chance to walk outside is worth it.
He bends to uncuff my ankle, and I flinch when his hand grazes my skin.
The estate grounds are sprawling, manicured within an inch of perfection. Gravel crunches underfoot as we walk the paths between hedges sculpted into precise angles, fountains spraying into the night air. Beyond the iron gates, the forest stretches dark and endless, a freedom I can see but not touch.
I inhale deeply. The night air is crisp, sharp with pine, and for a moment it almost feels like escape.
Dimitri glances at me as we walk, cigarette glowing between his fingers. His expression is harder to read than Alexei’s, but less cold.
“You’ve made quite the impression,” he says, smoke curling from his mouth.
I arch a brow. “Is that what you call it?”
He chuckles low, a sound without warmth. “I’ve known my brother a long time. I’ve seen him furious, I’ve seen him merciless. I’ve seen him destroy men without blinking. With you?” He shakes his head, amused. “You make him hesitate. You push, he pulls. You pull, he pushes. It’s like watching two predators circle each other, teeth bared, and neither willing to back down.”
I don’t answer. My throat is tight, my wrists aching under the cuffs.
“He wants you,” Dimitri continues bluntly. “That much is obvious. And you want him, whether you admit it or not. I’veseen the way you look at him, the way you talk about him. Hate, desire, it’s the same coin.”
I stop walking, turning to glare at him. “You think you know me?”
His smile is thin, sharp. “I don’t have to. It’s written all over both of you. You hate each other, but you can’t stay away. That kind of thing doesn’t end clean. It ends messy. Bloody.”
The words strike deeper than I want them to. My pulse jumps, but I force my voice steady. “If you’re trying to warn me, don’t bother. I don’t play his games.”
Dimitri exhales smoke, studying me with an almost curious tilt of his head. “Then don’t play mine either.”
I blink, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”
He steps closer, his voice lowering, the humor draining out. “Whatever it is you’re doing with Alexei—this back and forth, this dance of hate and want—don’t bring it to me. Don’t try to fuck with me the way you fuck with him. You won’t like how that ends.”
The warning coils sharp in my stomach. I hold his gaze, refusing to flinch, but inside my chest tightens.
He flicks his cigarette into the gravel, grinding it under his heel. Then he gestures for me to keep walking, his face smooth again, as if nothing passed between us.
I fall into step, the night air cooler now, the weight of his words pressing heavier than the cuffs on my wrists.
The truth is, he’s right.
I am playing with fire, and it’s already burning deeper than I can control.
Chapter Fourteen - Alexei
The storm rolls in like a beast. Rain slaps against the tall windows of my study, rattling the panes in steady bursts, thunder muttering somewhere out over the river. The lamps cast everything in amber, shadows stretched long across the shelves, the desk, the Persian rug that muffles my pacing. I’ve been up for hours. I can’t even remember the last time I slept.
When the knock comes, it’s a single rap. One of my men. The courier?
The door opens and closes quickly, no wasted words. A slim folder lands on the desk in front of me, the paper damp at the corners from the storm. I stare at it for a long time before sitting.
Weeks. I’ve been waiting for this for weeks. Pushing, demanding, sending men to comb through old archives, records buried deep enough that only money or fear could pry them loose. All for this.
A thin wisp of smoke curls upward from the ashtray as I slide the file closer. My cigarette burns low between my fingers. My other hand rests steady on the glass of whiskey beside me, though I haven’t touched it since pouring it.
