DROGO
The tablet slips from my hands. Crashes to the floor. Screen shatters into a spider-web of cracks, but I can still see the photo through the broken glass—Alena in a hospital bed, arm in a cast, bruises blooming purple across her face, bandages wrapped around her ribs. The timestamp reads: Today. 6:47 AM.
The caption underneath—sent by Klaus like a fucking news update—reads: Car accident. High BAC. Totaled her Mustang. She's stable.
Stable.
Like that's supposed to make it okay. Like that's supposed to stop my heart from slamming against my ribs so hard I can't breathe. My hands start shaking—not from fear, from rage so pure it's almost clean.
She got in a car crash. Because of me. Because I left her thinking I'd abandoned her after finally having her. Because she's been drinking herself unconscious for six months trying to numb the pain I caused. Because she was crying so hard she couldn't see the road.
I did this.
I pick up the tablet. Hurl it across the penthouse. It hits the window—safety glass, doesn't break—but the tablet explodes into pieces. Plastic and circuit boards scattering across the floor like shrapnel.
"FUCK!"
The door slams open. Two guards rush in, hands going to their holsters. "Boss? Vsyo v poryadke?"Everything alright?
I don't answer. Just walk past them. Fast. Purpose in every step.
One grabs my arm. "Ser, vam nuzhno—"Sir, you need to—
I shake him off. Keep walking. Down the hall. To the elevator. Punch the button for Klaus's floor. The guards follow, talking into radios in rapid Russian. Warnings. Alerts. I don't care.
The elevator opens directly into Klaus's penthouse suite. He's in his chair by the windows, morning light streaming in, coffee on the side table, oxygen tank humming quietly. He turns when I enter. Smiles.
"Good morning, son. I assume you saw—"
I'm across the room in three strides. Grab him by the collar. Yank him out of the chair. His oxygen tubes rip free. He gasps, hands clawing at my wrists.
I slam him against the window.
"She got in a car crash!" My voice is a roar. Raw. Breaking. "I did that! Because of you!"
"Drogo—" Klaus chokes.
"She could have died!" I pull him forward, slam him back again. Harder. "You made me leave her! You made me disappear! And now she's in a fucking hospital because she can't handle—"
I can't finish. Can't say the words. Because she can't handle me abandoning her. So I hit him instead.
Fist to his jaw. Bone crunching under my knuckles. I feel nothing when his nose cracks—just the satisfying give of bone under pressure, the warm spray of blood across my hand. Clinical. Efficient.
Klaus's head snaps to the side. Blood sprays from his mouth.
I hit him again. And again. His cheek splits open. Nose breaks—second time I've broken it. Blood pouring down his face, soaking into his white shirt.
He's laughing. Even through the blood and pain, he's laughing.
"There he is," Klaus chokes out through broken teeth. "My son—"
I punch him in the gut. He doubles over, coughing blood onto the floor.
Hands grab me from behind. The guards. Three of them now. Pulling me back. I elbow one in the face. Feel his nose crunch. He staggers, blood streaming.
Twist out of another's grip. Fist to his throat. He drops, gasping.
The third gets an arm around my neck—chokehold, trying to cut off air. I throw my weight back, slam him into the wall. His grip loosens. I spin. Grab his collar. Headbutt. He crumples.
