My mouth goes dry. "And you think that someone is you?"
She gives me a look that feels ancient and knowing, inhuman in its certainty.
"At times you wonder if I’m human," she says, like she’s reading my thoughts. "I’m not sure I am. But I do know this—" She presses the cold bottle of water into my palm, anchoring me. "Besides Nico, I’m the only thing standing between you and the kind of monster you could become after what you learned."
The words slam into me with terrifying clarity. She’s right. Silence stretches. Charged. Electric. Her mouth curves, wicked and knowing. "Trust me, I’ve been there."
I know exactly what memory she’s pulling up, her father, cold as iron, telling her the only value she had wasbetween her legs. The first time she told me that, something in me had snapped. How wrong that motherfucker had been.
Every part of Oksana is valuable.
Her mind? Brilliant.
Her instincts? Razor-sharp.
Her shot? Deadly.
Her loyalty? Rare.
Her presence? Steadying.
Her rage? Beautiful.
Her discipline? Terrifying.
Her chaos? Addictive.
She’s power wrapped in skin. A strategist. A killer. A storm. A woman the world should bow to, not break.
A real queen.
Myqueen.
Before I can speak, she takes my wrist—not gentle, not rough, exactly the way she touches everything—and drags my attention back to her eyes.
"You’re standing on the edge of becoming something new," she says. "Something dangerous. What you do with that? That’s on you. But I’m not afraid of it. I’m not afraid of you."
My breath punches out hard.
"And if the world is lucky," she adds, dropping her voice to a sinful purr, "I might even keep you from turning into the kind of monster your father tried to shape."
The words land like a vow. Like a brand. Like a crown.
For the first time since Nico said my father’s name, the hollow in my chest fills with something other than rage: Her.
She's right; she is the one person, besides Nico, that can keep me from turning the world red.
She tips her head. "So yes. You’re becoming something sharp. Something royal. Something ruthless."
Silence pools thick between us.
"And you like it," I say.
Her smile is pure sin. "I didn’t say I didn’t."
Two days later…
Gustave’s namelights up my phone like a red alarm and stays there, pulsing, while the jet eats miles of night on our way from New York to Mexico. I flip the screen face-down on the armrest and let it buzz against the leather until voicemail drags his fury away. It starts ringing again nine seconds later.
