He leads me to the corner of the room where another door waits. A keypad I didn't notice lights up as he enters a code. There’s a soft click. I follow him inside and stop short.
The room is filled with knives. Blades and edges are mounted on the walls. Two pistols sit on a workbench and a case rests on the top shelf. Everything is arranged with precise care. It looks like a shrine to violence. It looks like the heart of the man I’m falling for.
I swallow hard. My eyes move over the steel and the matte finish of the guns. “You know,” I say, the joke dying a little in my throat. “When I asked about the safe, I was thinking along the lines of an expensive watch. Something I could hock.”
Viktor turns to me, his palm resting on the edge of the workbench. “And now?”
“Now I think I’d have better luck stealing from a museum. Or a small army.”
“A thief after my own heart.” He reaches for a small dagger with a leather grip. A symbol is etched into the blade. “This was Babushka’s,” he says quietly. “She taught Father with it. Then he taught me.”
He turns the blade so I can see the sigil carved into the steel. A bear’s head over Cyrillic script.
“Our—”
“Your family mark,” we say at the same time.
Viktor’s eyes flash. His gaze drops to my mouth for a split second before returning to mine. He doesn't correct the slip. He just lets the weight of the word settle between us.
“The Morozov bear,” he confirms. “It’s the only brand that matters.”
“That’s right, krasavchik.” He runs his thumb along the flat of the blade, not the edge, like he’s greeting something familiar. “She could hit a target blindfolded. From twenty feet. Father said she taught him discipline by throwing at his feet until he learned to stop flinching.”
I don't know whether to laugh or stay very still. He looks at the blade with more affection than most people look at their children. He glances at me, then sets the dagger down carefully before reaching for another. “Don't be fooled by its size. This one’s deadly.” He holds it out.
“Viktor—”
“Take it.”
“I’m not?—”
“I’m asking you to hold it.”
I reach out. My fingers falter. “Babushka used to say you can't understand a man until you see what he puts in his own palm.”
The Morozov sigil catches the light. His fingers close over mine, guiding my grip. The cold steel is a shock against my skin, but his hand is hot over mine. It’s a terrifying combination. “I’m not giving you this to fight with. I’m showing you where I come from. Who raised me. What they expected. And what they tried to take.”
My throat tightens. He gently takes the blade back and locks the cabinet. “Right now,” he adds, his voice lighter, “you bring me back to bed. I feel like my legs are about to give out.”
They do. I barely catch him before his knees buckle. “You stubborn man,” I mutter into his hair as I help him back onto the mattress.
“Perhaps,” he says, settling. “That’s because you belong to me. That means I’ll kill anyone who tries to take you.”
“Your uncle?”
“Dead soon.”
“When did your parents die?”
“Mother when I was thirteen. Lev was eleven. Father when I was fifteen. We came here after. Sergei had already taken his throne.”
“But you were named the next leader.”
“I was. So for years we kept things separate. Business was too good. His greed has no limits.” He pulls me close, humming when I press my leg over his. “He failed. Now, close your eyes. Mine are already drifting.”
Viktor makes me feel safe in ways I never imagined. He makes me feel seen. But as I lie there, my thoughts won't still. He says I belong to him. I don't know what that means when the blood is washed away and the war is over. I’m a nurse from a trailer park. He’s a prince of a dark empire who keeps daggers in his bedroom.
I wonder if I’m just a part of his recovery. Something he needed to survive the basement, but something he’ll outgrow once he’s back on his throne. The thought is a dull ache behind my ribs. It hurts more than the fear ever did.
