CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
JONAH
Thinkingabout the knives has become a habit I can't break. I keep thinking about the way Viktor’s hand felt on my wrist, guiding the blade until it felt like a part of me. About the way his hand steadied my wrist until the blade stopped trembling.
He told me I could go back to the hospital. My stomach loosens at the thought of leaving, then tightens again, hard enough that I have to swallow. I want to ask him if this is a goodbye, but the fear of the answer keeps me silent. I don't know if I'm being set free or if I'm being discarded. The uncertainty is a dull blade at my throat.
The house has been busy the last few days. The office is always full of men and the smell of coffee, but the mornings are still ours. Bringing his breakfast in at eight, I watch the war stop for a few minutes.
These mornings have become a routine I didn’t know I needed. Usually, we eat in the office with Nikolai’s keyboard clicking in the background, but on Saturdays, the house is quieter. There are fewer men in the halls. The place feels less like a war zone and more like a home.
Walking into the dining nook today, I set the tray down. Before I can even step away, Viktor reaches out and pulls meonto his lap. Nikolai is still there, sitting at the far end of the table and staring at his phone like his life depends on it. He’s trying to pretend he doesn’t see Viktor feeding me a piece of toast, or the way Viktor’s thumb is currently hooked into the waistband of my pants.
I shouldn't like it. I should feel small and embarrassed to be handled like this in front of Viktor’s right hand and best friend, but having his full attention feels like a drug. It steadies my hands. It makes the trailer park and my old life feel like they happened to someone else. Like I’m finally taking up space because he decided I should.
“We’re going out,” Viktor declares.
Swallowing the bite of toast he just gave me, I look at him. “Where to?”
He grins. “Look at you. Practically jumping through the roof. We have some deliveries to make. Then we go shopping.”
Shopping. I never go shopping. For a beat, I think of the job I’ve likely lost and the income buried with it, but Viktor doesn't seem to care. “Come on then, krasavchik. Get dressed.”
Taking a quick shower, I put on the clothes he laid out for me. Viktor loves sweatpants on me, probably because they’re so easy to remove. My ears flush at the thought. My body is already warm, anticipating the way he’ll eventually pull them down.
When I walk back into the kitchen, three guards are standing by the island with coffee in hand, chatting in Russian. They stop the moment they see me. I feel very small, knowing they all know who I am and what I am to Viktor. The thought burns under my skin.
“Are… are these people all joining?” My hands are fidgeting. I can’t stop them. “I mean. I can stay here, I don’t have to...if it’s too many. If you don’t want to?—”
Damn it. I’m rambling.
“Of course they are.” Lev’s voice breaks the tension like a snap. He grins, handing me a coffee to go. “But they won’t be in the same car. Except for Artyom. He’s Viktor’s driver.”
A short man in a black suit lifts a hand in greeting, giving me a crooked smile. I turn just in time to catch Viktor watching me. His eyes track me slowly.
“Ready, krasavchik?”
“Da,” I mutter.
The entire kitchen breaks out laughing. Why the fuck did I say that? Viktor’s smile widens. Something flashes in his eyes as he crosses the room and hooks an arm around my waist, pulling me close. Breathing in his cologne and the cold tang of his holster, I don’t have the courage to pull back.
“We’ll work on your Russian too.”
It feels weird to be back in town. It has only been a few weeks, but it’s like I never really left. Or maybe I was never here the way I am now. Everything about the place feels different when you arrive in a Maserati, kept close by a man like Viktor. If he could have leashed me, he would have. I think I would've let him. My chest tightens at the thought. It isn't fear exactly. It is something closer to relief than fear ever was.
By the time we stop in front of a music store, we’ve already visited a dozen shops. Viktor bought me sweatpants; expensive, stylish ones I’d never be able to afford. Along with suits, shoes, and a winter coat with real fur. I don’t ask how much any of it costs. The price doesn't matter when you're using someone else's blood money.
“What is this place?” I ask. It's a stupid question. It's pretty damn obvious.
“In front of a music store,” he deadpans.
The door swings open and an old man with a large mustache smiles at us. “Viktor Morozov. Privet. It is an honor that the family cleared my schedule today. I haven’t seen you since you were a boy. Come in. And your friend too.”
“Thank you, Anatoly.”
The way Viktor says it makes it clear this isn’t just a shop. It’s territory.
