The sound pierced straight through my chest.
The calf shifted nervously, trying to tuck himself further beneath her, his small body trembling against hers.
I stood there, frozen, my hands clenched so tightly at my sides that my nails bit into my palms. Every instinct screamed at me to stop it—to throw myself in front of them, to shout, to fight.
But I knew better.
I wasn’t powerful here.
All at once, the air shifted—subtle but unmistakable. I felt it before I understood it. And when I turned on instinct, my breath caught.
Ruslan was in view.
He walked down the winding stone path with the same lethal grace he’d carried through the rain last night—every step precise, every motion deliberate.
Pure white suit, crisp shirt beneath, top button undone, sleeves perfectly pressed.
The morning sun caught him just so, turning the fabric luminous, almost angelic. But the danger radiating off him was undeniable: a predator wrapped in light, a man capable of ending lives without hesitation, without remorse.
The elegance only made it more terrifying.
The four men behind Petros immediately dropped their heads, shoulders hunched, hands clasped behind their backs, as though daring to meet his gaze would cost them their lives.
Even Petros—usually steady, unshakable—stiffened, the corners of his mouth tightening imperceptibly.
Ruslan stopped a few paces away, stance relaxed but coiled, like a panther deciding whether to pounce.
His eyes—hidden behind dark sunglasses—glided over me, then the elephants, then the men. Each movement was a wordless command.
Silence stretched like a drawn wire between us.
“We were just about to transport the calf,” Petros said quickly, voice low, careful, respectful.
Ruslan didn’t answer immediately.
His head tilted slightly, as if assessing the mother and her calf with the patience of someone who has waited lifetimes for this moment.
The baby elephant tugged at its mother’s trunk, squealing in delight, oblivious to the storm about to erupt around them.
“Right,” Ruslan said at last, voice flat, cutting through the tension like a blade. “And what is my wife doing here?”
The question hung in the air, addressed to no one, directed at everyone, and loaded with an authority that silenced the morning itself.
I swallowed, throat raw, heart hammering in my chest. “They told me the baby already had a buyer who’d paid in full. I... I asked them not to sell it.”
Ruslan didn’t look at me. His gaze stayed fixed on the calf, on the way it clumsily stomped toward its mother and wrapped its little trunk around hers.
“Why?” The word was quiet, almost casual, but beneath it was the weight of absolute expectation, of final judgment.
“Be-Because...” I forced the words past the knot in my throat, grounding my voice in conviction. “I saw how bonded they are. The mother keeps t-teasing him with the sugarcane—hiding it, pretending to eat it, then bringing it back when he’s about to give up. It’s... playful. Loving. Taking him away would break... break her heart.”
A low rumble echoed from the mother elephant’s chest, almost in response, a sound that vibrated through the ground and into my own ribs. I shivered, both from awe and fear.
“And...” I added, softer, almost timidly, “I’d like them to stay here.”
As if I had any right to like anything in this house. As if my words could carry any weight against the man who owned everything—land, wealth, power, and lives.
The men behind Petros remained statuesque, motionless, heads bowed, as though inhaling too sharply might shatter them.
