The word hits hard in the center of my chest.
Dog.
My body stops before my mind processes the command. That's the training: a superior gives an order, and the body obeys. Boris outranks me. Here, blood and title are the only laws.
I freeze a few paces behind Ivan.
Yet something within me pushes back.
Not anger. Not pride.
Something older. The memory of the lock sliding into place in the penthouse. The sound of Ivan's nightmare. The realization that I am the only thing standing between him and the glass.
Ivan doesn't turn around or acknowledge Boris's command. He stands still long enough for me to hear the hum of the air conditioning.
Then, he speaks.
"Inside."
One word. Calm. Final.
He turns just enough for me to see his profile. His eyes meet mine—direct, unblinking.
It isn't a suggestion. It's an override.
I move.
Boris's expression shifts quickly—surprise, then a flash of genuine anger. He opens his mouth, but Ivan is already walking toward Sergei's study, and I am already in position at his flank. Boris has missed his chance to enforce his will.
"Ivan," Boris snaps. "Your father will not appreciate?—"
"My father can tell me himself what he appreciates."
We pass Boris without slowing.
I feel his stare on my back; it burns. He called me a dog. He tried to leash me.
Ivan broke the leash in front of witnesses.
This isn't kindness; Ivan doesn't do kindness. This is a display of territory. Ivan is making it clear that what belongs to him—including me—cannot be touched by anyone else.
The guards near the study step aside, and one of them opens the door.
Ivan walks through.
I follow.
The study resembles a cavern, with bookshelves lining the walls from floor to ceiling, filled with volumes that exude the scent of dust and old leather. In the center stands a massive mahogany desk, an island amidst a sea of dark wood, flanked by two chairs.
Behind the desk sits the Pakhan.
Sergei Baranov rises.
He is taller and broader than Ivan, possessing a gravity that seems to bend the room around him. His iron-gray hair is cut military short, and his face is a map of survived violence. His eyes mirror Ivan's—pale ice with a terrifying depth.
He looks at his son, and something passes between them—a silent frequency that only they can hear.
Then his gaze shifts to me.
