Chapter 14
Kirill
Eyes on the road.
Focus.
There’s too much going on right now…
I drive away from Teddy’s building with the taste of him still on my lips and the memory of his conflicted eyes burning in my mind.
The sports car’s engine growls low as I accelerate through the traffic, but the sound does nothing to drown out the storm inside my chest.
The boy is conflicted.
I could see it in the way he hesitated, the way his fingers lingered on my cheek when he kissed me goodbye. Telling him even the small piece I gave him—that my life is dangerous, that I make difficult and often brutal decisions—was the right thing.
Darling Teddy deserves to know he is stepping into darkness. But the thought that it might mean losing him twists something sharp and ugly inside me.
I grip the steering wheel tighter.
My pakhan side rises fast and hot, pushing aside the softer feelings I have allowed to surface…
If he walks away, I will not accept it.
I will not let the boy go. Not under any circumstances.
The fantasy surges unbidden: taking him to my apartment, binding his wrists with silk, laying him over my knee and spanking his ass until his defiance melts into submission and he agrees to be mine. Keeping him there, safe and claimed, until he understands that he belongs to me.
I’ll spank him, paddle him, tease and torment him with every toy and implement under the sun if that’s what it takes. I’ll fill his tight ass, stretch it, make him cum over and over again. But hewillsuccumb to me.
Suddenly, I slam my fist against the steering wheel once, hard enough to make the car swerve slightly. The leather creaks under my grip.
No.
I shake my head sharply, forcing the dark fantasy back into its cage. That is not how I want the boy to give himself to me. Not truly. I want him to choose me—even knowing the risks. But the possessive hunger remains, simmering just beneath the surface.
I change direction and head toward the bar where Ivan is waiting. The drive gives me time to lock my emotions away and slip back into the cold, calculating mindset of the pakhan.
The bar is quiet and dimly lit, a neutral place where men like us can speak without too many ears listening. Ivan is already ata corner table, nursing a whiskey. I slide into the seat opposite him and order the same.
“Talk,” I say without preamble.
Ivan leans forward, voice low. “I think I am closing in on the potential Russian leak to the Mexicans. My sources are starting to line up.”
My pulse quickens. “Who is it?”
Ivan hesitates, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “I would rather not say until I have full confirmation. Accusing the wrong person could have serious repercussions. It could fracture alliances we cannot afford to lose right now.”
I fix him with a hard stare. “I am not asking for accusations. I am asking for your suspicions. Speak plainly.”
Ivan exhales slowly, then meets my eyes.
“I believe the leak is coming from inside the Antonov family,” Ivan says.
The words land like a slap. I bristle instantly, shoulders tensing, anger flaring hot in my chest. One of my own. Someone I have trusted with my father’s legacy, with our operations, with our blood.
But I force myself to listen rather than react.
