The toasts continue. Viktor stands—a hard-faced man with cold eyes who watches Drogo like a hawk. Then Dmitri. Then Konstantin. Each one more elaborate than the last, more performative, testing the waters to see how the room reacts. I stop listening after the fifth one because they all sound the same: lots of words about legacy and strength and family that really just mean power and violence and control.
That is when I notice Klaus watching me. Not watching Drogo—watching me. His eyes track my every movement, every breath, every time I shift in my seat. It is not the way Drogo looks at me, hungry and possessive and loving. This is different. Clinical. Like he is studying me, cataloging myweaknesses, figuring out exactly how to use me against his son.
It makes my skin crawl.
The gifts start arriving. Envelopes of cash—thick ones, rubber-banded stacks of hundreds and thousands. Jewelry boxes containing diamonds and emeralds and rubies that would make a jewelry store weep. A set of car keys. A property deed. Things that cost more than most people make in a year, handed over casually like party favors.
I smile. I nod. I thank them gracefully like Drogo taught me. And internally I am calculating how many of these gifts are genuine respect versus how many are hedging bets in case Drogo actually manages to kill Klaus and take over.
Probably fifty-fifty, if I am being generous.
"Alena, my dear," Klaus says, his voice cutting through the murmur of conversation. "Would you show us the ring? I am sure everyone is curious to see what my son chose for his bride."
There it is. The moment Drogo warned me about. I extend my left hand, holding it up so the black diamond catches the light. It is beautiful—dark and unusual and perfect. Exactly the kind of ring a horror writer would choose. Exactly the kind of ring that says this is not your typical love story.
The room murmurs appreciation. Klaus reaches out and takes my hand—his grip firm, his thumb brushing over the ring—and holds it just a fraction too long. His eyes meet mine, and I see something there that makes my stomach turn. Not lust. Worse. Ownership. Like he is reminding me that Drogo might have put the ring on my finger, but Klaus is the one who allowed it.
A glass on the far end of the table suddenly flies off the edge, shattering on the marble floor. Everyone jumps. Thetemperature drops another five degrees, and I swear I hear a whisper—low, angry, protective—somewhere near my left ear.
Klaus releases my hand quickly, his smile never wavering. "Old buildings," he says with a laugh. "Always settling."
Yeah. Sure. That is exactly what that was.
Drogo's hand finds mine under the table, squeezing once. You okay? I squeeze back. For now.
The night continues. More vodka. More toasts. The knife ritual where Drogo cuts a massive loaf of bread with an engraved dagger and we share pieces—symbolic of him providing and protecting, because apparently we have time-traveled to the fifteenth century. Music starts playing from speakers hidden somewhere, low balalaika melodies mixing with modern remixes that make no sense together but somehow work.
And through it all, Klaus watches me. Not constantly. Not obviously. But enough. His eyes find me when he thinks I am not paying attention, when I am talking to one of the few women who dared to approach me, when I am laughing at something Konstantin said. Every time I catch him, he smiles that warm, paternal smile. But his eyes stay cold. Calculating.
By the third hour, I have counted seventeen times he has looked at me with that expression. Seventeen times too many. The ghosts are getting more aggressive too—another glass falls, this time directly in front of Klaus's plate. A candle goes out in a gust of freezing air that has no source. The chandelier above our table flickers violently enough that people start glancing up nervously.
Drogo leans close, his lips brushing my ear. "Are you okay?" he whispers.
"Your father keeps staring at me," I whisper back. "It is getting worse."
I feel him go rigid. "How many times?"
"Seventeen. That I have caught."
His jaw clenches so hard I can see the muscle jump. "Stay close to me. Do not leave this table for any reason."
"Wasn't planning on it," I mutter.
The music shifts—the slow balalaika fading into something faster, heavier, with a driving beat that pounds through the floor like a second heartbeat. Several men stand immediately, pushing chairs back with sharp scrapes against marble, clearing space in the center of the room. They form a circle, and I watch them stomp once in unison—a sound like thunder that makes the crystal glasses rattle.
Klaus leans forward, his smile sharp as a blade. "Drogo," he says, loud enough for every person in this room to hear. "Show your bride how a real man moves. Lead the dance. Prove you are worthy of her."
It is not a request. It is a challenge thrown down like a gauntlet, and everyone here knows exactly what it means. Dance well, prove your strength, or be humiliated in front of the entire Bratva.
Drogo stands slowly, rolling his shoulders once—a movement so subtle most people would miss it, but I know what it means. He is preparing. Not for dancing. For war disguised as celebration.
He catches my eye for just a second, and the look he gives me makes my stomach flip. Dark. Intense. Promising violence and pleasure in equal measure. He empties his vodka in one go and then he turns and walks to the center of the circle like he owns it—like he owns this entire damn room—and every eye follows him.
His suit jacket comes off first, tossed to Konstantin without looking, and he rolls his sleeves up to his elbows with deliberate slowness. The movement exposes those tattooed forearms—full of veins, Cyrillic script, and all that ink that marks him as Bratva. The dim light catches on his skin, and I can already see the shift in his posture, the coiled power in every muscle.
The men begin—stomping, clapping, building a rhythm that pulses through my chest. Drogo joins them, and holy hell, I was not prepared for this. He moves with controlled aggression, every step precise, every kick sharp. His whole body is a weapon—controlled, disciplined, absolutely devastating. When the fuck did he learn to dance? He couldn’t even pull off the macarena!
Then he really starts. High kicks that show impossible flexibility and strength, his leg snapping up so fast I barely track the movement. Squats that drop him low—thighs flexing, ass tight in those fitted pants—before he explodes back up like a coiled spring released. Spins that are controlled and brutal, his body rotating with perfect balance while his eyes stay locked on one point: me.
