Taking over wasn’t as easy as killing him, though. His allies and enemies circled like vultures, testing me and waiting to see if I’d flinch. But I didn’t. I made examples of the first few who tried. After that, the rest remembered who I was. Who had made me.
It took months before I could breathe without looking over my shoulder. Months before I could think of anything beyond consolidating power. And when I finally did, it wasn’t power I thought of. It was her. My Anya.
I’d called her after Yuri’s death, needing to hear her voice and tell her she was free. Free from him. She would be safe now. But I hadn't dared to wait and hear her response. Because if I had heard her soft melodic voice, I'd have folded right there and then.
Instead, I forced myself to leave her be. She needed to finish school.
But she’s done now. She’s not a girl anymore. She’s a woman—my woman—and she’s coming home.
Not only to New York.
To me.
Soon, the car pulls up in front of her building. The streets are nearly empty now. A narrow row of Georgian townhouses, pretty on the outside, too trusting on the inside. That’s London for you. Too much glass. Not enough steel.
Anya’s flat is on the second floor. I know that because I’ve been here before…weeks ago. I didn’t go in then. Just watched. Learned her routines. The way she leaves her window cracked even in winter. The way she double-locks her door but never sets the chain.
Tonight, I’m not just watching.
I have my driver park in the shadow between two streetlights, then dismiss him. After he leaves, I slip out of the car and cross the sidewalk. The brass buzzer panel glints under my fingertips as I pass. I take the back way, through the old, narrow service entrance—out of habit more than necessity. The security camera above the main door hasn’t worked since last autumn.
I know because I paid someone to make sure of it.
Her lock is a joke—a standard Euro cylinder with an aftermarket deadbolt. It’s cheap, mass-produced, and very easy to pick. I could open it with a pin, but I use a proper pick set instead. It clicks almost instantly.
I’ll have to upgrade her security before she leaves. She can’t go through life this unprotected.
When I step inside, I’m met with warmth. The faint scent of jasmine tea, something sweet, and the ghost of her perfume—light, floral, familiar. It hits me harder than it should.
The flat is small but tidy. Cream walls hold framed music scores. A secondhand upright piano sits in the corner by the window. Her world feels lived-in, soft around the edges. There’s a blanket folded over the couch, a half-read book on the coffee table, and a pair of fuzzy slippers neatly aligned by the door.
I don’t realize I’m smiling until I hear a sound—a low, irritated hiss.
I glance down and there, sitting squarely in the middle of the hallway, is a cat. It’s black as sin, with one ear nicked and a glare that could cut glass. Its tail flicks once, disdainfully, like it’s judging my very existence.
“Well,” I mutter, crouching down a little. “Who the hell are you?”
The cat blinks at me.
“You live with her, hm? Keep her company while she forgets me?”
Another flick of the tail.
“Figures,” I say, reaching out a hand. The cat takes one step forward, then smacks my knuckles with a swift paw, claws sheathed but firm.
I actually laugh. Can’t help it. “Protective little thing, aren’t you?”
My eyes catch the collar—red leather, soft and worn. A small silver tag dangles from it. I angle it toward the light, trying to make sense of the letters engraved on it.
A-l-y-o-s-h-a.
For a second, I forget to breathe.
It's my name– the name only she ever called me when she thought I couldn’t hear.
Alyosha.
It feels like being punched in the chest. I chuckle; a sound caught between amusement and amazement.
