Kira’s fear settles over her the moment she steps onto the jet, tightening around her until she can barely breathe, and even though I know I should give her space, the sight of her curled in on herself forces me to reach for her, steadying her hand with mine as the engines rise beneath us. She tries to pull away but ends up gripping me harder when the plane lifts, her nails digging into my palm with every tremor of turbulence, her pulse quick and unsteady, her body leaning instinctively toward my warmth despite everything standing between us.
I feel her fight it, feel the embarrassment heat her skin, feel that sharp, unwelcome pull in my chest grow heavier as she holds on to me like I’m the only solid thing in the air.
By the time the jet descends hours later, she’s exhausted, still tense but breathing a little easier, and the moment the doors open, all the fragile quiet between us shatters. We step out into the cold New York early morning and into the waiting cars, the drive to the Morozov estate fast and silent, the trees blurring past the window until the iron gates rise into view and the mansion appears.
My father is waiting, sitting upright, dressed perfectly, not a trace of illness anywhere on him. When he lifts his glass in greeting, he smiles as if he’s already won.
A cold, heavy fury hits me like a strike to the gut.
“You look well,” I say, voice cutting through the room. “Very well, actually. So forgive me if I’m confused about the message I received.”
Vladimir rises slowly, gripping his cane like it’s part of a performance.
“Son,” he says with false weakness. “I’m glad you came.”
“You’re not dying,” I spit.
He shrugs. “Not today.”
My jaw clenches so hard I feel my teeth grind. Behind me, Kira stiffens, as my father’s eyes slide to her, running over her face, her body, taking in every detail like she’s something he ordered and is inspecting for flaws.
My vision goes dark for a second.
“Don’t look at her like that,” I say, stepping slightly in front of her.
He smiles, small and poisonous. “So this is the woman who makes my son defy me.”
“She is my fiancée,” I say. “And you don’t talk to her like that.”
His brows rise. “Fiancée?”
I feel her reaction behind me—a tiny inhale, a tremor.
“Yes,” I say, voice steady. “We’re getting married.”
“When?”
“Within the week.”
A stunned silence hits the room. Kira’s breath catches, sharp, shocked, almost panicked—but she doesn’t say a word.
My father studies me for a long moment, then laughs under his breath. “Oh, Artyom,” he says. “You’re a terrible liar when you’re emotional.”
“I’m not lying.”
His eyes slide to Kira again, colder this time, calculating. “If that is true,” he says softly, “then I suppose we’ll see what kind of woman you’ve chained yourself to.”
I take a step toward him, stopping only when Kira’s hand brushes the back of my arm—a silent plea not to explode. For a moment, the room holds its breath as Mikhail watches silently from the doorway, ready to intervene. And my father smiles again, satisfied.
“Welcome home,” he says.
But all I can think about is the way Kira’s body pressed into mine when she flinched at my declaration, the heat of her breath behind me, the panic in her eyes, and how, despite all that, she didn’t step away.
And for the first time since I became Pakhan, since I took this crown from a man who never deserved it, I realize something terrifying and absolute: I said it because the thought of losing her has become something I cannot fucking tolerate.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Kira
