"Only on paper," he says. "Only on paper."
The door clicks shut.
With it, my strength disintegrates. Legs giving out, I slide down the glass wall until I’m sitting on the floor of the shower, hugging my knees to my chest. The water beats down without mercy.
I’m the Director of Operations. An accomplice to the Bratva. All while wearing my captor's T-shirt.
I touch my swollen lips. I can still taste him. Taste his kiss. Feel his heat.
I scrub my mouth with the back of my hand, trying to erase the memory of his tongue, of the wine, of the kiss that felt less like punishment and more like ownership.
It doesn't work.
He’s in my head. He’s in my blood.
Now I have to go to work and pretend he isn’t destroying me.
10
KONSTANTIN
The interior of the car is hermetically sealed against the world, silent save for the low, aggressive hum of the engine.
One hand rests on the wheel, my grip loose but controlled. Beside me, Helena stares out the window, dressed in her corporate armor: a sharp charcoal pencil skirt, a high-necked silk blouse, heels that could puncture a lung. To the outside world, she’s the untouchable Director of Operations.
But I know the truth.
My gaze drifts to her waist where the white blouse tucks into her skirt. Beneath that expensive fabric, on the skin of her hip, a bruise blooms in the shape of my thumb.
A souvenir from the docks. A reminder of how hard I gripped her when I carried her to the car two nights ago. A brand. Mine.
The road snaps back into focus as my jaw tightens until my teeth ache.
Two nights.
Forty-eight hours since I woke with her in my bed, and the memory still tastes like ash. Weakness lasted only a few hours in the dark—long enough to forget she’s the daughter of the man who helped order the hit on my family. Long enough to hold herhand, breathe in the scent of her hair, and sleep beside her like a man instead of a monster.
That was a mistake. Weakness is a crack in the foundation, and cracks bring down empires.
Since that morning, I’ve been cold. I’ve buried myself in the work, pushing her away, forcing her to run the office while I watch from the shadows. I needed to reset the board. To remember who I am.
I’m not her lover. I’m the executioner sent to burn her legacy to the ground. I’m the son of a dead King, fighting to reclaim a stolen crown.
We turn off the highway, leaving the gleaming glass skyscrapers of the financial district behind. The scenery shifts rapidly, decaying into the industrial sector where clean streets are replaced by rusted corrugated iron, barbed wire, and the heavy, metallic smell of the river.
"Where are we going?" Helena asks. Her voice is steady, but her fingers tighten on the strap of her purse. "This isn't the way to the tower."
"The tower is for clean hands. Today, you need to see where the real work happens."
The SUV rolls to a stop at the heavy steel gates of a sprawling warehouse complex near the rail yards. Above the entrance, a faded sign readsMorozov Industrial Processing. The cameras lining the perimeter, however, are anything but outdated—state-of-the-art lenses swiveling smoothly to track our arrival.
The guards spot the car. Then they see me.
The gates open instantly.
“Welcome to the Meat Grinder,” I say.
“The what?”
