Blinding.
I wrench myself away from Liam, barely aware of his hands reaching for me as my gaze sweeps the chaos. It locks onto Vas instantly. The normally jovialsovietnikstands off to the side, shoulders tense, mouth drawn into a hard line. His eyes are dark with grief.
But he’s standing.
Breathing.
Unharmed.
“Why weren’t you with him?” The words rip out of me, shredded and hoarse.
My fists slam into his chest before I even realize I’ve moved. Once. Twice. Again. Each blow lands with a dull thud as hot tears spill down my cheeks, blurring everything.
“Where were you?” I sob. “Why did you leave him alone?”
I don’t recognize myself.
I don’t recognize this voice, this violence, this animal grief tearing through my body.
My mind barely registers who I’m hitting or why. Something inside me has snapped clean in two, and the part left standing wants blood. It wants payment. It wants someone—anyone—to hurt the way I am hurting.
This is Vas.
Sweet, funny, loyal Vas.
But my grief doesn’t care.
He doesn’t stop me. He doesn’t raise his hands or step back. He just stands there, frozen, taking every blow with grim resolve. Why isn’t he fighting back? Why isn’t anyone stopping me?
He’sPakhannow.
Touching him should be a death sentence.
And yet no one moves.
My fists grow weaker. The strikes lose their force, turning into slaps, then clumsy, useless shoves as my body runs out of rage-fueled strength. The fog begins to thin, just enough for horror to creep in at the edges.
Warm arms wrap around me, firm and unyielding, pulling me against a hard chest. The familiar scent of orange and cloves fills my lungs, grounding and devastating all at once. I collapse into him, sobbing harder as guilt crashes down over me in suffocating waves.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice broken against my ear. “I am so sorry.”
I don’t understand it then.
Not really.
The edges of my consciousness blur as shock and adrenaline begin to ebb, dragging exhaustion behind them like a tide. But even through the haze, his apology feels heavier than it should.Deeper. Like it carries a weight that doesn’t belong solely to grief.
It isn’t his fault.
Or maybe it is—just not in the way I think.
Secrets.
The Bratva thrives on secrets.
Even as I shake and cry in Vas’s arms, the rage doesn’t fade. It coils tighter, sharper, embedding itself into my bones. Vasily isn’t responsible for Matthias’s death—but someone is.
And Kenzi wasn’t acting alone.
