I cock a brow. “You’re comparing my training to fucking?”
“Exhausting. Messy. You think you’re gonna die halfway through.” She peeks at me under her arm, eyes sparkling with mischief. “And then you feel great after.”
I step in closer, voice dropping. “Difference is,malyshka,when I fuck you, you won’t want it to end.”
Her breath catches. She laughs, but it’s shaky. “Cocky.”
“Confident,” I correct, dead serious.
Her eyes linger on mine longer than they should. Something flickers in her face—old Mary, messy Mary, the girl who would’ve laughed this off a week ago. But there’s fire now, too. Fire I put there.
I tear my gaze away, walk to the stand by the wall, and glance at the clock.6:03 AM.
“Shower. Breakfast. Then I take you to work.”
She groans again, flopping back onto the mat like a corpse. “Work. Right. Because I’m totally gonna survive my nine-to-five after this.
I don’t tell her what’s really clawing at the back of my skull.
Step away.Two fucking words, and they rot in my head like poison.
Chert.
Igor’s a fucking fool. Too stupid—or too paranoid—to know who’s loyal to him. I bled for him. Buried men for him. Half the empire he sits on was built off my back, off the men who follow me without question. Lev. Dima. Boris.
And Igor knows it. That’s why he keeps me close but never lets me rise higher. He’s scared. Scared that the empire loves me more than it fears him.
He should be.
Pakhanisn’t supposed to doubt.Pakhanisn’t supposed to look over his shoulder every time his most loyal man walks into the room. And yet here we are.
I’ve had men—big men, respected, killers in their own right—ask me why I haven’t taken the throne already. Why I still take orders from a man who can’t tell the difference between his enemies and his soldiers.
The answer’s simple. I never wanted it. I’m not a king. I’m the blade the king sends into the dark. Cleaner. Fixer. Reaper.
But now? With Timofey making plays, with assassins slipping too close, with Mary’s life hanging in the balance? Maybe my hand is being forced.
The feeling sits in my chest, heavy. I drag a hand down my face, jaw tight, fighting the urge to put it through the nearest wall. My ears pick up her movement instead—small, clumsy sounds in the quiet gym. She’s at the bench now, yanking her bag from the locker.
She leaves the mat and shuffles toward the showers, mumbling curses under her breath. I watch her go, every sway of her hips, every line of sweat cutting down her back. For a second, I think about following. Stripping her down and pushing her under the spray until she screams my name for a different reason.
But I don’t. I stay rooted, fists jammed in my pockets, staring at the scuffed floor of the Charleston gym like it might give me answers.
I’m about to head for the other showers when the door slams open.
Lev strolls in first, tossing his helmet onto the bench like he owns the place. His lip’s split, cheek purpled from last night’s ambush. He’s grinning like he enjoyed it.
“Morning, sunshine,” he drawls. “We here for Round Two, or do we actually get to hit back this time?”
Dima comes in behind him, shoulders stiff, face carved from stone. There’s a bruise blooming under one eye, darker than I’ve ever seen on him. He doesn’t say a word, just cracks his knuckles like he’s already picturing Timofey’s men lined up against the wall.
Boris is last, phone in hand, smirk plastered across his bruised face. His left eye is swollen half-shut, blackened around the edges, but he still looks like he just won a poker game.
Lev jerks his chin at me. “So, boss. Do we get to return the favor? Or are we still playing Igor’s little patience game?”
Dima mutters low, voice like gravel. “If we wait, we bleed.”
Boris chuckles, thumb swiping across his screen. “Guess who’s on the guest list for theStarlight Children’s Charity Gala,Friday night?” He taps the screen, mock-reading in his best announcer voice. “Imperial Hotel Ballroom, black-tie, hosted by none other than Timofey Volkov. Oh, and look at that—Caleb Whitfield. Front and center.”
