His cheekbones were sharp, carved hard beneath skin that had seen too much weather, too many fights.A shadow of stubble clung to his jaw—five days’ growth, uneven in places where old bruises had once bloomed and faded.It gave him a roughness he wore like armor, like he’d walked out of a war and hadn’t bothered cleaning himself up.
His hair was darker than sin.Black, thick, and too long by most standards, it fell loose and wild, fanning out against his shoulders as though it refused to be contained.It only made him look more dangerous.More untamed.Standing across from him, I was his opposite in every way—my own hair a pale gold, almost bright under the light, an inheritance from a woman neither of us spoke about anymore.
He took after our father.
There was no denying it.Rasputin carried Viktor in the set of his jaw, in the breadth of his shoulders, in the way he stood like the ground beneath him belonged to only him.Strength bled from him without effort.Violence sat just beneath the surface, quiet but ready.
I had taken after my mother.
My features were softer, my movements measured, my anger buried deep enough that most never saw it coming.They called me disciplined.Controlled.
He called me cold.
And maybe he was right.
Because standing there, looking at him, I knew something I would never say out loud.
He would have been the better heir.
Rasputin was built for it.For command.For war.For the kind of leadership that demanded blood and never hesitated to spill it.He didn’t think twice, or weigh decisions until they suffocated him.He acted.He conquered.He took.
I calculated.
And in our world, calculation could look a lot like weakness.
His lip twitched, like he could hear the thoughts I wasn’t speaking, and he knew exactly where my mind had gone and found it amusing.
We sparred like this constantly.Not always with fists—but with looks, with words, with the kind of tension that hovered just beneath the surface.Anyone watching might have mistaken it for rivalry.For something fractured.
They would’ve been wrong.
Because beneath the jabs and the bruises, beneath the unspoken competition and the expectations that hung over us like a noose—there was nothing in this world I trusted more than him.
No one who had my back the way Rasputin did.
No one who would burn it all down if I asked.
He was chaos.
I was control.
And somehow, together, we worked.
“It does not matter what I want.”
Rasputin’s smile faltered slightly.Just for a second.Then it returned.Wider.Sharper.
“That’s the problem with you,” he said quietly.“You don’t want anything.”
He stood, brushing dirt from his hands.
“Men like you don’t rule,” he added, glancing back at me.“They maintain.”
Viktor turned away, letting us know that the conversation was over.
I watched him go.Felt the weight of his words settle onto my shoulders without resistance.
Because Rasputin was wrong.
