I exhale slowly, forcing the fury down, pressing it deeper, letting it burn under my skin.
She thinks Anatoly’s love can shield her. That sweet words and fake concern—two calls a day, like clockwork—can keep her safe while she sharpens the knife behind his back.
And Filipp? Filipp plays his part, too. The dutiful son. Asking about Papa’s health, sending flowers, pretending he gives a damn that Anatoly survived the last attempt on his life.
Too bad for them, I have longer memories than my father does.
“She’s playing for time,” Arseny says, tapping the screen. “Delaying the succession.”
Succession.
It’s war.
And every day Anatoly stays seated asPakhan—every day he breathes—is a day Tatiana can’t replace him with a puppet she can control.
“I’m not killing her,” I say flatly, reading the thought straight off Timur’s face.
He shrugs, unapologetic. “You might not have to.”
He’s right.
With the evidence piling up, it won’t be my bullet that ends Tatiana. It’ll be the Circle’s decision. The Bratva’s elders. Old men who smell weakness the way wolves smell blood.
And when they move? It’ll be clean. Final.
I lean forward, resting my forearms on my knees, staring out the windshield as the house looms closer.
Another dinner. Another night pretending we’re a family.
But not for long.
This is the part they don’t teach you about power:
You don’t win by being the loudest. Or the fastest. You win by letting everyone else bleed out first.
51
Bella
“I’m impressed with your recovery,” Dr. Katya says, jamming yet another needle into my arm with what I can only describe as professionally sanctioned sadism. “The human body is remarkable.”
“So is my pain threshold,” I mutter, watching my blood fill the fourth—or possibly fifth?—vial. “Are you collecting samples or preparing for a vampire convention?”
Her dark brown hair is tied back in a low, severe bun, tiny gold hoop earrings barely peeking out. Thin gold-rimmed glasses perch on her sharp nose, and her tailored black pants and navy silk blouse somehow make her lab coat look like part of a power suit.
Dr. Katya’s lips twitch almost imperceptibly behind her glasses. “Blood work is essential for—”
“Monitoring my recovery, preventing infection, checking organ function, and making sure I’m not secretly harboring alienDNA,” I finish. “I’ve memorized the speech. Two weeks of daily samplings will do that.”
She caps the vial smoothly. “Your sense of humor remains intact. Another positive sign.”
“Are you impressed enough to let me walk out of here without a wheelchair escort?”
Her mouth twitches. “No.”
My stomach growls loud enough to register on the Richter scale. “My appetite is strangely increasing. Any chance my medical confinement includes food that doesn’t taste like seasoned cardboard?”
“I’ll have Nurse Ivanov bring something.” She pockets the vials in her tailored black pants and begins the familiar ritual of checking my vitals. Cold stethoscope against my chest. Blood pressure cuff strangling my good arm. Penlight blinding me, one eye at a time.
