Snuffed my mother’s light in the process.
But anyway, Cy being orphaned and fostered by Dad wasn’t a coincidence and definitely wasn’t done out of the goodness of my father’s heart, if you can’t tell.
Yaroslav only cares about someone when they have a purpose.
Mom, Alina, and Cy.
Me? Let’s say he’d exchange me with one of my older brothers the first chance he gets.
If only they weren’t illegitimate children.
And if only he weren’t so set in old rules and traditional to the point of extremism.
So he’s ended up with me—his only legitimate male heir.
Thewrongone.
My brothers would make better heirs than I, but they’ll never be allowed to, and I can’t give them the chance, because they’re like those tyrant kings from ancient empires.
The moment they take over, they’ll murder all eligible heirs to snub resistance at the source.
Well, good luck wiping me out. I’m a roach no one can get rid of.
But I have this grand plan only Cy is aware of, which includes me building some connections. Now, I’m not one for plans. You ask me about strategies, and I’ll pretend to be an airhead with frat-boy tendencies.
You know, a hopeless idiot, as my dad loves to call me.
But this one plan? I’ll carry it out as if my life depends on it.
Actually, my lifedoesdepend on it, and so does Alya’s and my mom’s, so it kind of needs to succeed.
Hasto succeed.
It’ll take years, but I’m nothing short of persistent.
A sea turtle, if you will. I don’t care how long it takes. I’m crawling toward that finish line no matter how dangerous the path is.
Slam.
“Fuck!” I raise my fist, about to hit whoever’s run into me, but my hand remains suspended in midair upon seeing the one person Dad seems to have a metaphorical hard-on for.
Vaughn this and Vaughn that. Kirill’s son this and Kirill’s son that.
I swear he’d transplant me into his shell if he had the chance.
Well, Vaughn, aka Russian royalty per his gloating about aristocracy links, is Yaroslav’s dream all wrapped up in perfection.
He has perfect hair, always styled to precision, not a strand out of place.
Well-groomed, boyish features already sharpening into angular lines, high cheekbones, and the calmest, most undisturbed eyes I’ve ever seen.
Nothing like my creepy eyes.
His are a blend of brown and green, that blurred edge where earth meets trees in a forest. But it isn’t the color—it’s the look. The untouchable, holier-than-thou weight they carry without effort.
The constant reminder that guys like him exist—perfect lives, perfect scores, perfect fathers.
Probably perfect mothers, too.
