“You’ve changed,” I murmur, not meaning to say it aloud.
Her lips curve, but not in a smile. “So have you.”
The truth of it hangs heavy between us. We’re not the same as when this began. The lines that separated us—hostage and captor, vengeance and guilt—have blurred until I can’t see them anymore. What’s left is something dangerous, something forged out of violence and betrayal, but real all the same.
The fire pops, and the wind moans through the trees outside. She sets her glass down and leans forward, her eyes burning into mine. “Do you regret it?”
“Which part?”
“All of it. Me. This.” She gestures at the table, the maps, the files. “The war we’re about to start.”
I should lie. I should tell her what keeps the edges smooth, what makes men stay steady in moments like this. Instead, I shake my head. “No. I regret nothing.”
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. Then she leans back, exhales slowly, and whispers, “Good. Neither do I.”
Something shifts in my chest, subtle but undeniable. It’s not comfort, not peace—those are luxuries long dead. It’s a recognition. We’re in this together now, tied tighter than marriage, bound by blood we’ve already spilled and the blood we plan to spill tomorrow.
I finish my vodka and rise, pacing once to the window. The forest outside is black, endless. I can’t see the road, can’t seethe men who might already be watching. I feel them. The elders, the Council, Igor—waiting, always waiting.
Behind me, Vivienne moves. I hear the rustle of her coat being draped over the chair, the soft click of her boots as she walks across the floor. She stops just behind me, so close I can feel the heat of her body against my back.
“They’ll see you as your father’s son,” she says softly.
“I am his son.” My voice is a growl. “I amnothis shadow.”
Her hand brushes my arm, not gentle, but firm, grounding. “Then prove it tomorrow.”
I turn, meeting her eyes. The firelight flickers in them, fierce and unyielding. I see the reflection of my own rage, my own hunger, staring back at me.
In that moment, I know: whatever happens at that table tomorrow, whether Igor dies by my hand or another’s, whether this empire fractures or burns, she will be beside me.
The fire crackles, the wind howls, and the safehouse walls seem to close tighter around us. I reach for her then, not out of desire alone but out of need—raw, desperate, the kind that has nothing to do with lust and everything to do with survival. My mouth crashes against hers, and she answers with the same fury, the same fire.
By the time we pull apart, breathless, the taste of her still on my tongue, I know sleep won’t come tonight.
Tomorrow, the elders wait. Tomorrow, Igor breathes his last.
Tonight, we sit in the silence of the safehouse, two wolves circling the same fire, waiting for dawn.
***
The next morning, the warehouse is colder inside than out. Concrete walls sweat from decades of neglect, the ceilingbeams dripping condensation in thin lines that streak the floor. A long steel table sits in the center of the room, chairs arranged like thrones for men who’ve long since lost the right to be kings.
They sit there now, heavy coats draped over shoulders, eyes hard and sharp as blades. Some give stiff nods when I enter, a grudging acknowledgment of bloodline. Others keep their faces blank, colder than the walls around us.
I feel Vivienne beside me, her stride steady, unflinching. She wears black, tailored sharp enough to cut, her chin lifted as if she was born to walk into a den of wolves and stare them down. I hear the shift in the room as they register her presence. A ripple. Not just surprise, but disdain.
I introduce her the only way that matters: “Vivienne. My partner.”
The words echo in the concrete chamber. The silence that follows is broken by Igor’s voice.
“Her blood is a stain,” he growls, leaning forward in his chair. His face is lined with age, but his eyes are still predator’s eyes. “You bring the daughter of a traitor into this room? You spit on your father’s grave. On ours.”
My jaw clenches, but I don’t answer. I let the rage simmer low, steady, waiting.
It’s Vivienne who moves first. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away. Her voice is calm, clear, cutting through the air like glass. “You call my blood a stain. Yet it was your hands that made it spill.”
Murmurs ripple across the table. Igor’s sneer deepens, but she doesn’t stop. She lays the files onto the table, one after another, the ones we carried across borders and locked in the safehouse. Each document a knife. Evidence tying Igor to thecover-up, the network of officials who signed her father’s death like it was nothing more than an entry in their ledger.
