The road curves away from the city, the hum of the tires against the asphalt the only sound filling the car. Mikel drives without comment, his hands firm on the wheel, and his eyes forward. He knows better than to ask questions during moments like this. Silence isn’t an absence for men like us. It’s space to think.
The city lights fall behind us mile by mile, replaced by darkness broken only by the occasional gate light or distant farmhouse. I sit back against the leather seat, my jacket open, my fingers resting near the line of scar beneath my ribs. It’s a constant reminder of how close I came to bleeding out on the frozen concrete and how one woman refused to let that happen.
Rowan.
Her name surfaces again, as it has since the moment I left her in the apartment. I placed guards at every access point, layered security with redundancy upon redundancy, and still, I hadwalked away knowing I was leaving a vulnerability behind. That knowledge doesn’t dull the connection. If anything, it reinforces it.
She’s a liability by every metric my father taught me to respect. She’s a civilian. She lives by principles, not power, and no one claims her through fear or loyalty. She exists outside the structures that keep my world intact, which means she can be used against me without even understanding how or why. Any rational leader would create distance. Any strategist worth his position would sever the tie before it rooted itself deeper.
I do neither.
Instead, I feel the pull of her presence even from miles away, an awareness that has nothing to do with logic and everything to do with instinct. I replay the way she held her ground in that alley, her hands bloodied and voice calm while her body showed fear she refused to obey. She assessed, acted, and stayed longer than safety allowed because she had decided my life mattered.
That choice changed everything. I know what it costs to let someone matter. I was raised watching men dismantled because they loved the wrong person, trusted the wrong face, and hesitated at the wrong moment. Vulnerability is not abstract to me. It’s something I’ve seen weaponized again and again. It’s the reason my mother is buried in Russian soil. It’s the reason my father hardened into a man who ruled through distance rather than attachment.
And yet, when I picture Rowan alone in that apartment, protected but aware, composed but unsettled, my first instinct is not caution. It’s possession.
She’s mine.
The thought doesn’t arrive gently or with justification. It doesn’t ask permission. It falls into place with a certainty that feels older than reason, the same certainty that has guided every decision that kept me alive long enough to wear this crown.
Mine to protect.
Mine to shield.
Mine to decide for.
I don’t soften the thought. I examine it, accept it, and file it where truths belong. Denial has never served me well.
The car slows as the iron gates rise ahead, their black lines etched with the Sovarin crest. Cameras follow our approach. The gates part smoothly, opening onto a drive that stretches through manicured grounds and bare winter trees. The estate reveals itself gradually, never all at once. That, too, is intentional.
The family estate is not ostentatious, but it’s imposing. Stone and steel, built to endure rather than impress. Tall windows reflect the surrounding land, giving little away from the outside while allowing full visibility from within. Security lights trace the perimeter, subtle but constant, illuminating the snow-dusted lawn and the path leading toward the house.Generations of Sovarins have walked these grounds, ruled from these walls, and bled to keep them standing.
This isn’t the penthouse I use when I want distance from history. This place doesn’t allow that luxury.
Mikel brings the car to a stop beneath the covered entry. He steps out first, scanning instinctively before opening my door. The cold air hits my lungs as I rise, cleaner than the city, scented with pine and stone. I straighten slowly and adjust my jacket before stepping inside.
The doors open into a foyer that echoes softly with my footsteps. Marble floors stretch beneath a vaulted ceiling, the Sovarin crest inlaid at the center, worn smooth by time rather than neglect. The walls hold portraits I no longer study. Men who ruled before me stare down from heavy frames, their expressions severe, their gazes trained forward as if daring history to challenge them. And it has.
The house is quiet, but not empty. Guards remain stationed at calculated intervals, visible without being intrusive. They acknowledge me with brief nods as I pass, disciplined enough to remain silent. I don’t stop. I move deeper into the estate, along hallways lined with dark wood and muted lighting, until I reach the wing that belongs to me.
My office sits at the far end, doors carved thick and reinforced, the space beyond designed for command rather than comfort. I push inside and close the door behind me, the lock engaging with a solid click that seals the room from the rest of the house.
The office smells faintly of leather and old paper. Shelves line the walls, filled with records, ledgers, and objects my father collected but rarely discussed. A wide desk anchors the center of the room, its surface clean, ordered, and untouched since I left earlier this evening. The windows behind it overlook the grounds, offering a clear view of everything approaching long before it reaches the house.
I cross the room and set my jacket aside, the movement pulling against my ribs. I brace one hand against the edge of the desk, breathing through the discomfort until it eases.
From here, I manage an empire that consumes men whole. From here, I decide who thrives and who disappears quietly. From here, I should be thinking about captains, supply routes, and the fracture lines forming beneath Arkady Voronin’s polished concern.
Instead, my thoughts circle back to a trauma surgeon with storm-gray eyes who doesn’t belong to this world and yet has already changed it.
Rowan is a vulnerability. I know it. I accept it. And I will burn anything that tries to use her against me.
I straighten and take my seat behind the desk, the leather chair creaking softly beneath my weight. My fingers rest flat against the desktop for a moment before I reach for the tablet waiting at the corner. I summon Polina.
The door opens without ceremony, and she steps inside with her tablet already active, her hazel eyes scanning data even as she moves. Her fitted jacket is unzipped, and her dark hair isbraided loosely at the nape of her neck, the faint signs of someone who has been working continuously without stopping to acknowledge the passage of time. She closes the door behind her and takes a seat across from the desk, her posture relaxed yet engaged.
“Operational status is stable,” she begins, her tone clipped without being rushed. “No disruptions significant enough to draw attention. Supply movement is within projected margins. Cash flow is clean.”
