Behind me, the blade leaves his hand.Thunk.Same place as before.
“That dagger means someone on the inside hasn't written you off yet. That you're not done. Not to everyone.”
“Perhaps.” Another strike. The wood complains. “And perhaps not.”
Viktor stretches his arm, rolling his shoulder like the motion cost him something. His injury is still there, a jagged reminder under his skin. “Weakness. We all have it, Jonah. Even me.”
The word settles in my chest. I know what it means. I have lived it. But coming from him, it sounds like leverage. Is that what I am? Leverage? Or is it something else?
“This whole life, it's a game played in rooms like this. You win some rounds. You lose others. You never know who's watching, who's waiting, who's already decided where you fall.”
Another flick.Thunk.
“The stakes are high. Sometimes losing isn't the worst outcome.”
I swallow, fingers hovering uselessly over the keys. My throat is tight. My heart is beating too fast. I have to know.
“Have you ever killed someone?”
He turns then. His mouth curves into something knowing, cruel enough to make my stomach dip. “What do you think, krasavchik?”
“I—” I hesitate. Heat crawls up my neck. “Yes?”
He laughs, not denying it, and somehow that's the answer. I've spent my life trying to keep people away from the grave, and now I'm sitting in a bed with the man who sends them there. My skin is humming, reaching for him, and I don't even feel the shame yet. Only the heat.
“Was life always like this for you? This lifestyle?”
“Da.” He strikes the knife and leaves it buried. He turns to me and takes my hand, leading me back to the bed. “Always. And you? Have you always wanted to become a nurse?”
“Mom’s illness definitely helped. I wanted to be the one thing the sickness couldn't touch.”
Viktor sits me down and drapes the sheets around me.
“Sergei took the power of my family when Father died. He took my rightful chair and crowned himself Pakhan. We've been at war ever since.”
“Why not kill you?”
“Because, like I said, he doesn't want my blood on his hands. No, he wants me weak.” He sits beside me. By the time he pulls the sheet over himself, his breathing has gone uneven.
“I thought you didn't want to tell me anything?”
“I didn't. But then I changed my mind.” His gaze holds mine. “I told you, this way you're more dependent on me. I like you dependent on me, krasavchik. I want to be the only hand you reach for when the world goes dark. Now you've become my accomplice.”
He is handing me these secrets like a collar, marking me so that no one else in this house will touch me, because he isn’t trying to save me and is instead making himself my only shield because he knows I have nowhere else to go.
The word should make me recoil, but instead, it feels like a brand. He’s taking my innocence and replacing it with something dark and heavy, and I’m letting him. I’m not just a nurse anymore. I’m his. I’ve traded my conscience for the weight of his hand on my neck, and the worst part is how much I prefer the weight.
“Besides, we're getting out of here. And my ego wants to show you why the families fear the name Morozov when I'm not a caged animal.”
“When you get out of here, what are you going to do?”
For the first time since he stopped throwing his daggers, something like danger breaks across his face.
“Kill those who put me here.”
He pulls me in hard. One arm locks around my waist, crushing me to his chest. His hand slides to the back of my neck. His fingers dig in. Taking ground. Taking me.
His mouth finds mine, the kiss rough and hot. His hands shake against my back as he tangles them in my hair. He pulls back just enough to press his forehead to mine.
