Liev marches up the stairway, back taut and fists clenched. He doesn’t say another word to me. He slips into a sedan that’s waiting in the drive and disappears into the night.
Nika murmurs a few parting words: an explanation that he’s going to brief security on how to handle the new addition, what to watch for, and what’s coming.
Once my pulse stops pounding in my ears from the adrenaline rush of sin and sacrifice, I stand outside the door where Alyona is. She is locked up, but close enough that I can feel her presence through the wood like a live wire under my skin.
She’s pacing. Her steps are fast, her stride is short, walking the length of the room before turning. No doubt weighing the consequences of staying my captive or trying to climb out of a window. My hand lifts, hovering inches from the handle, and I force it back down.
If I go in there, I will not stop.
This is the only way to keep her alive, even if it costs me everything else. I stand there in the quiet, breathing hard, knowing that the line I’ve drawn will not hold forever.
Chapter 12
Alyona
Istand at the window longer than I mean to, watching the grounds stretch out below me. They’re manicured and ancient at the same time. The moss-laden oaks cast long shadows over paths that have been walked on for centuries. Eight miles outside of Savannah is not where I’d expect the Bratva stronghold to be. But it is; at this gorgeous old plantation home.
For years I’ve seen Kazimir Baranov on magazine covers or muted TV screens giving chilling interviews. He’s a man of luxury and innovation: perfectly tailored suits, hair back in a severe bun, sleek cars that make people look twice. But this estate feels…comforting.
The window is cool beneath my fingertips, and the room behind me feels way too large for one person. It’s too quiet in here; the A/C is completely silent. It’s nothing like the humming box in the window back at my apartment, which I haven’t been to in two days. Baranov sentsomeonethere, though, because the dresser in this room is full of my clothes.
There is a pile of lacy underwear and bras on the bed. The thought of Kazimir’s large hands going through the delicate fabric sends a shiver down my spine.
I shake it off and turn back to my room.
It isn’t so much a bedroom as a contained world. A studio tucked into the older wing of the house, with a sitting area arranged around a wide stone fireplace that looks as though it belongs in another time. The hearth is cold and unused this late in summer; the mantel is bare except for a single framed sketch I don’t recognize. Time rather than neglect has worn the stonework smooth in places. Everything smells faintly of lemon oil and something floral; clean but not harsh.
I don’t want to like it.
I want to catalogue its flaws the way I do everything else that makes me uncomfortable. I do it with everything connected to the Bratva, but the truth presses in anyway. I’ve been treated well here, almost absurdly so.
A soft knock sounds at the door before it opens and a woman I haven’t met yet steps inside with a small tray balanced in her hands. She’s older than me. Her hair is pulled back neatly, and her movements are unhurried and confident in a way that suggests she’s been here a long time.
“Miss Demsky,” she says gently. “Something cool to drink?”
She sets the tray down on the low table near the sofa. Condensation is already beading on the glass, and I feel something loosen in my chest at the simple kindness of it. My mind is clouded with possibilities. Has Kazimir told them to treat me this way? Was it his idea to send lemonade and cookies? Is the staff justthatgood?
“Thank you,” I say, meaning it.
She hesitates, then smiles. Her eyes are warm. “If you need anything, anything at all, you only need to ask.”
After she leaves, I sit and take a sip; the citrus sharp and refreshing against the lingering tension in my throat. I check my phone again, though I already know what’s waiting there.
Jak’s words are burned into my brain from the first time I saw them earlier this morning.
Two months off. Full pay. Don’t argue. We’ll talk later.
Relief and guilt tangle together so tightly that I can’t separate them. I know exactly who made that happen, and it sits heavy in my stomach. Gratitude turns into obligation before I can stop it.
I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask for any of it. But the benefits keep arriving, stacking up around me. It’s proof that I’m already deeper than I want to admit. I’m allowed to have my phone, but my father made it clear that I was to use it wisely.
Another knock comes, firmer this time.
A man I recognize only in passing opens the door, his posture formal. “Miss Demsky. Mr. Baranov would like to see you.”
My spine straightens instinctively. “Now?”
He nods. “If you please.”
