“Where is he?” I ask into the noise, and the question snaps the room taut.
Viktor gives me the most careful, polite shrug he can manage.
“I told him about you and your brother’s attachment.”
His words are clinical, and the edge of my jaw flexes, the only outward sign of the storm coiling under my skin.
Adrian shifts at my side, eyes flicking between Viktor and me—irritation playing on his face.
The two Russian men behind Viktor are statues of muscle and patience, and their presence sits on my shoulders.
“He wanted to kill the slut himself,” Viktor adds.
“I’ll fucking murder everyone in this room.”
Viktor’s grin widens. “There he is. The real Nikolai. I wondered when he’d show up.”
My hand slides to the gun at my hip. The metal is cold and familiar under my palm, but before I can pull it, at least fifteen barrels are aimed back at me—eyes hard, fingers trembling on triggers.
“Careful, Nikolai. Don’t show you’re so easily played. You are not in charge—yet.”
I felt the itch to end it all, the clean burn of a single bullet, the satisfaction of irreversible consequence. I could kill him.
I’d die for it.
But there’s no point living in a world without my princess anyway.
I stare into my father’s eyes, Viktor’s gaze holding mine for a long, impossible beat—long enough for threats to pass unsaid between us. Then, deliberately, he turns and walks away. No words. No flourish. An order by omission.
Adrian catches my hand mid-step, sliding a folded slip of paper into my palm with the neutral expression of a man who’s practiced hiding emotion his whole life.
His eyes flick to Viktor’s shadow stretching along the marble. “He thinks he’s the only one playing the game.”
He lets go of my hand, stepping back like nothing happened.
“But you taught me better,” he adds under his breath. “And you’re more dramatic about it.”
Then he turns on his heel and follows Viktor, expression blank, shoulders straight, a perfect soldier pretending loyalty.
Chapter 68
Aurelia
The drive from the city is a blur. I don’t remember the lights, the turns, or the way the heater blasted useless warmth at my shaking hands. I only remember the hollow, suffocating ache of one thought repeating, bruising deeper each time:
How did Nikolai take me leaving?
How did he look when the car pulled away?
Forty minutes later, the tires grind over gravel and the car rolls to a stop in front of a squat, unmarked garage. The air here tastes metallic—rain striking a blood-soaked knife. A bad omen I can feel behind my teeth.
We get out.
The world is already worse now that it’s not just us three.
Dante stands in front of a black SUV, a silhouette carved out of shadow and old sin. He doesn’t walk toward me. He makes me walk to him. He always did prefer this—making my legs do the work, making me prove my fear or my obedience or my worth.
The bulbs overhead buzz and flicker, casting a pallor on his coat that turns the fabric sharp-edged. The shadows cut across his face in ways that make old memories claw their way back up my throat—his hand on my shoulder when I was little… then hishand on my wrist when I was older… then nothing but distance, lies, and disappointment.
