She thinks she’s hiding the pain, but she isn’t. I see it all. Every fracture, every sharp little edge she pretends isn’t there.
Those pieces are already mine, and soon, the rest of her will be too.
Don’t worry, detka. I have the perfect solution to all your problems.
A smirk cuts across my lips.
This woman…blyat, the things she drags out of me. Every shred of savagery claws its way to the surface when she’s near. If I’m not careful, this thing I feed on, this loathing, could shift into something else. Something harder to kill.
Fiona Clark is my sweetest poison. My greatest challenge. My most dangerous enemy. And when I take her, when I own her, she will beg for an ounce of mercy I will never give.
Toggling to the exit camera, I follow the dust that rises behind her tires. Another keystroke throws her onto a different monitor: the state road, a wide shot from a traffic mast.
I sit back, my office dim except for the multiple screens in front of me. Floorboards creak in the hall, then two soft taps sound at the door, and I know it’s my maid, Galya.
“Come in.”
She slips inside, her smile warm, though it does nothing but irritate me. “Your brother Kirill is here, sir. Little Lev too.”
“Send them in.”
They’re already at the threshold when she steps aside. Kirill crosses first, wearing that arrogant grin he saves just for me. The one that says he knows exactly where my security feeds are pointed and who I’ve been watching.
Lev follows close behind, gripping his father’s hand tightly, his other hand grasping the strap of his backpack. His eyes flick up to the ceiling, then the floor, then finally land on me. But not for long. He never stares. He takes everything in quietly, like he’s recording it all in that brilliant brain of his.
“Hi,” he says at last, voice soft and unsure.
I crouch until we’re level. “Privet, soldatik.”Hi, soldier.
Kissing the crown of his head, I move to the bookshelf along the wall and pull out the hardcover book on constellations I ordered last week. His current fixation.
“Eto tebe.”This is for you.
Reaching out, I hand it to him. His fingers hover, then he takes it carefully, as if it might break if he breathes too hard. He runs his thumb over the cover like he’s reading it through touch.
Kirill stands beside him, watchful and protective. A permanent shield. He’s been like that ever since his ex walked out when Lev was barely three. She couldn’t handle the diagnosis. Couldn’t stomach the reality of raising an autistic child. Some mother.
The only reason Kirill didn’t put her in the ground for it is because she’s the daughter of someone powerful, someone we couldn’t afford to provoke. But I would’ve done it. No matter what.
“Spasebo,” he says softly after Kirill bends and whispers the reminder in his ear.
He doesn’t look up. Just runs his hand over the book again, like it might vanish if he stops touching it.
But I don’t need eye contact, a smile, or some classic version of gratitude. Not from Lev. It’s in the silence. In the way he holds the book close to his chest—not like a child with a toy, but like someone who’s finally found something meant for him. He doesn’t have to say “thank you” because I already know it’s there, where it matters most. In his heart.
“Of course.” I give him another kiss on his head.
“Go sit and read,” Kirill tells him, roughing his dark hair. “Papa will be done soon.”
He takes small steps toward his favorite spot: the armchair by the window, overlooking the garden at my estate. He pauses, taps the armrest once, takes two steps back, then sits. One of his small rituals that keeps the world safe for him.
When he’s happily reading, Kirill cocks a brow. “Do you do anything other than stare at her all day?”
“I do other things.”
Sometimes…
“Like what?” His laugh is low, needling, as he drops into the chair across from my desk.
