TWENTY-FIVE
JONAH
The first thingI hear when we step back inside the house is laughter drifting from the kitchen.
“Vitya!” Lev pops his head around the door, a wide grin splitting his face. “Come watch me beat Niko’s ass.”
“Come on, krasavchik.” Viktor squeezes the back of my neck, steering me into the room.
On the island sits an open bottle of vodka, two glasses, and a row of daggers lined up like playing cards. Stacks of hundred-dollar bills sit beside them. The sharp bite of alcohol hits first.
“Oh. You’ve come for the show?” Nikolai doesn’t look up. He flicks a dagger without even glancing at the target. It crosses the room and hits the far wall with a clean thud.
Lev lifts his glass in a mock salute. “Show-off.”
“You’re drunk.”
Nikolai reaches for his glass, draining it in one swallow before nudging another dagger into place with two fingers. “I’m talented.”
Lev points at the knife. “There’s a difference.”
Viktor steps beside me. His hand brushes mine. “They’re unbearable when they drink.”
Nikolai glances over. “There he is. The prodigal son.” His eyes slide to me, narrowing slightly. “And the reason he’s been impossible since he returned.”
Heat climbs into my face. Lev grins, leaning against the counter. “We were debating whether Jonah knows how to throw yet.”
Viktor’s gaze flicks to me, slow and assessing. “He doesn't.”
Nikolai tilts his head toward the knives. “Teach him. If he’s staying.”
“He is.” Viktor grabs two glasses, pouring vodka like it’s a final answer.
“So he’s staying.”
My heart hits hard against my ribs. Staying. The word feels like a heavy weight settling into my stomach. It isn't just about a room or a bed anymore. It’s about the gravity of the man holding me.
Nikolai whistles. “Then he should throw once.”
Lev hands me a practice dagger. “Aim anywhere that isn't me.”
I look at Viktor and he nods. “Go on.” My grip tightens on the cold steel. I throw, but the knife hits the wall handle-first, dropping to the floor with a hollow clang.
Nikolai claps once. “Better than Viktor’s first throw.”
“Niko,” Viktor warns, his voice turning low.
“What? You were barely ten years old and you hit Sergei’s car. You took the paint right off the door while the old man was still screaming in the foyer.”
Lev laughs. Viktor doesn’t join him. He stoops to pick up the dagger I dropped, his movements unhurried. He weighs it once and then launches it. The blade hits dead center.
Nikolai snorts. “Show-off.”
Viktor doesn't look back. He takes another dagger and throws. Bull’s-eye. A third follows with the same result, thehandles vibrating in a tight cluster. A fourth and fifth strike the wood, the rhythmic thud filling the kitchen until the air feels crowded with the sound of his precision. He’s not just practicing. He’s showing me exactly what it looks like when he decides where something belongs.
He stands there for a beat, his chest rising and falling while he stares at the cluster of steel. Finally, he looks at me. His eyes are fixed on mine, a hint of pride hiding behind his gaze.
“That’s enough for tonight.”
