But the way I see it, life ends without warning. You're here, breathing, laughing, fucking, and then you're not. So why waste time pretending to be civilized? Why not squeeze every drop of sensation out of each moment before it's gone?
I learned that young.
Moscow winter cold that bites through skin to bone. Hunger that empties you out until you forget what full feels like, until stealing becomes easier than asking because asking gets you nothing but fists.
Me and Zakhar. Small and feral. Sleeping in doorways because even the streets were better than the orphanage where they left us.
Month-old babies dumped like garbage. Unwanted. Inconvenient. Expendable.
The beatings came from everyone. Staff. Other boys. Anyone bigger and meaner, which was everyone when you're small and weak and your body betrays you in ways you can't control yet.
Zakhar tried to protect me. My twin. My other half. Stood between me and fists, between me and boots, took hits meant for me until he couldn't stand anymore.
So we ran.
Escaped into a world that didn't want us either, but at least gave us the freedom to fight back. To choose our own violence instead of just receiving it.
I survived. We both did.
And I learned that every breath is borrowed time.
Standing behind Zakhar yesterday, watching Maksim marry Victoria, I felt everything at once. Jealousy that she was saying vows to him and not me. Happiness that my brother—the one who saved us both, who turned starvation into empire—finally had something beautiful. Desire so sharp it carved me hollow.
And when I found out she'd asked the band to play Russian music, chose it deliberately, honored where we came from even though she doesn't know the full story, a crack opened in my chest. Wide and dangerous.
She paid attention.
She cared enough to learn what might matter to us, what might make us feel seen.
Maybe she'll fit. Maybe after this year of pretending, she'll choose to stay.
Maybe.
I replay the moment I looked over my shoulder during the reception, searching for her in the crowd, and saw her slipping away. Then her bastard father wobbled after her on his crutches, drunk and furious and looking for someone to hurt.
The sound of the golf club crunching into Arthur Ainsley's knee still makes me grin. Satisfying. Clean.
Instinct kicked in. One second I was standing with Maksim, the next I was cutting through the crowd.
But Zakhar stopped me. Hand on my shoulder, voice flat and final: "Allow me."
So I let him handle it. My twin knows when I need to stand down, knows when his steady violence serves better than my wild kind.
When he came back, Victoria was with him. Smiling. But I could see the cracks in the mask. Shock, nervous energy vibrating beneath polished composure.
We left shortly after. Brought her here. Home.
Except it's not her home. Not really. She looked at the repurposed warehouse like she'd been dropped into a foreign country where she didn't speak the language.
My phone chimes, pulling me out of memory. I grab it off the nightstand, squinting at the screen.
Mike. Head of security.
I answer. "Yeah?"
"Sorry to wake you." Mike's voice is clipped, professional. "We got a breach alarm on the observation deck. Checked the cameras. iIt’s Mrs. Severyn. Wasn't sure if she has clearance or if I should intervene."
Mrs. Severyn. The title sounds wrong and right at the same time.
