His mouth touches the spot below my ear. “Da.”
I tilt my head just enough to look at him. “So?”
He watches me for one beat longer, then nods once.
“I’ll send someone.”
Something in me settles deeper at that. Not because he handled it.
Because he said yes like it was obvious my people matter too.
He steps back and reaches for his jacket.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s eat.”
I look at him over my shoulder. “And then?”
His gaze drags over me once, slow and unreadable.
“And then,” he says, “tonight, you’re mine.”
***
By the time the bike slows in front of Exile, my heart has already started to pound in my chest.
Tonight is the night.
All day, Maksim drilled the vows into me until they lived under my tongue. He showed me the cracked crown on his shoulder while I stood between his knees, his fingers warm on my hip, his voice rough as he told me mine would be smaller. Cleaner. Placed on my shoulder blade where it could belong to him without belonging to the world.
I knew there would be witnesses. I knew there would be a mark. I knew what I was walking into.
And still, when Exile comes into view, I realize I should have understood how big this would be.
The club is lit in red neon, the sign bleeding into the dark, but there’s no line outside. No women in tiny dresses teetering on heels. No men lingering at the curb with cigarettes burning between their fingers. Just black cars and Bratva men posted like sentries.
My stomach drops.
Maksim kills the engine. The silence after the bike feels thick, like the city itself is holding its breath. He plants both boots, steadying the weight of the machine, then reaches back for me. I swing off behind him, my boots hitting the pavement, and his hand closes around my waist to keep me steady while the bike leans. Only when I’m clear does he kick the stand down.
He takes my helmet off and hooks it over the bar. His gaze drags over me, slow, heat crawling up my neck.
“It’s like a party,” I murmur, more to myself than to him.
His mouth curves. “You’re catching up.”
The doors open before we reach them. Vaska stands there waiting, expression carved from stone, but there’s something in his eyes that says he’s been expecting this moment long before I ever saw it coming.
Inside, Exile barely looks like itself.
The music is low, more pulse than song. Amber light glows over the bar, over the gleam of bottles, over the hard faces turned our way the second Maksim walks me in. Conversations cut off. Glasses still. Men step aside without being asked.
Every eye in the room lands on me.
My skin goes tight.
Maksim keeps his hand on my back and guides me through the center of it, through the silence, through the weight of their attention, until we reach the bar. This isn’t a celebration first. It’s witness first. Ritual first. The celebration comes after.
He turns me. His body settles behind mine, close enough that the heat of him presses straight through me. Solid. Immovable. A wall at my back.
