5. Vadim
5
VADIM
It's almost four o'clock when Demyon walks into my office with bags under his eyes.
"Good news?"
"The best." His voice carries a rare note of satisfaction. "The docks were still active when we hit them. Found shipping containers full of women being processed for 'distribution.' Over a hundred of them."
I look up from my papers. "How many of Kirsan's men?"
"Twenty-three. All eliminated." Demyon's face hardens. "Bastards had no idea we came down on them until it was too late."
My fingers trace the bandage on my hand. "And the women?"
"Mostly Tuvans, some Kazakhs." Demyon's jaw clenches. "And more Kirghiz than we usually find."
I lean back in my chair, studying the ceiling. Over a hundred women saved. It should feel like a victory. But it doesn't, and I know why.
I can't help think about the women used as human shields by Sayanaa's men. The ones that were executed before I had a chance to rescue them.
"What about you?"
"Nothing but bad news." I trace the rim of my empty glass. "Starting with the fact that Olga has thrown in with Kirsan."
" Chto? " Demyon straightens. "How can you be sure?"
"Because she helped Lacey escape Pankration the same way she helped my mother escape thirty-six years ago." The words taste bitter. "Through the conservatory's back door. The one blind spot in all our security cameras."
"And delivered her straight to Kirsan and his psychotic daughter." Demyon's face darkens with understanding. " Suka. "
"That's not even the worst part." I lean forward, hands clasped. "Sayanaa knew exactly how to get under my skin. She knew I'd trace her call, knew I'd come charging in like a fucking idiot the moment she threatened Lacey."
"She laid a trap for you."
"And I almost walked right into it."
Demyon sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Sayanaa's craftier than her father. Maybe we've been underestimating her this whole time."
I don't respond. My mind keeps drifting to the marks on Lacey's neck—marks I put there. The image haunts me: purple bruises blooming across her delicate skin.
My stomach churns at the memory.
I think of her hand sliding into mine as Serena left. That simple gesture felt different. It felt almost mechanical. Just her fingers intertwined with mine, but without any of the emotional comfort either of us have come to expect.
"The reports can wait until tomorrow," I tell Demyon, my voice rougher than intended. "I need..."
I trail off, not sure how to finish that sentence. Need what? Forgiveness? Absolution? Sympathy that I don't deserve?
Demyon nods, and his eyes soften.
"I found something else, by the way." He rises from his seat. "Thought you might want to have it."
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out something that catches the light. It takes me a second to recognize it, but my heart plummets the moment that I do.
The necklace.
The one that belonged to Lacey's mom.
The delicate chain is broken, the metal twisted where it was clearly ripped away with force. One of the diamonds is cracked, and another one is missing.
My fingers close around the broken pieces, and I feel rage building in my chest. The sharp edges of the broken chain dig into my palm through the bandage where Lacey bit me.
I remember how Lacey's eyes lit up when I first gave her back this treasured piece of her mother. Now it lies broken in my hand.
Just like everything else I touch.
"Where?" My voice comes out rough.
"At the docks" Demyon's tone is carefully neutral. "Looks like someone crushed it deliberately."
Sayanaa. I think, and I feel anger coursing through me at what she's done.
It has to be her. Who else but her would do something so calculatingly cruel?
All to hurt Lacey.
Just like I did.
"Thank you, Demyon," I mutter. "That will be all."
I find Lacey in our bathroom, wrapped in a silk robe as she brushes her hair. The sight of her makes my heart stutter. Steam still lingers from her shower, creating a soft haze around her.
Every stroke of the brush reveals flashes of the marks I left on her neck. Guilt and desire war inside me at the sight. She's here, she's safe, she's mine —but I nearly lost her.
And that thought alone is enough to make my chest squeeze.
There's something different about her now. Maybe it's the way the evening light catches in her damp hair, or how the robe clings to her curves. Or maybe it's because for the first time since I've known her, I understand just how easily she could be taken from me.
She catches me staring in the mirror and a small smile curves her lips. "Hey."
Such a simple word, yet it carries so much weight. Her voice is soft, almost tentative. The brush pauses mid-stroke.
I watch her in silence. Each strand of her golden hair hides more of the marks I left on her skin.
"Vadim?" Her voice pulls me from my thoughts. She's watching me in the mirror, concern etched across her features.
I try to look away but can't. The bruises draw my gaze like a magnet. Even though she's told me it wasn't my fault, that she pushed me to it, it can't absolve me of my sin.
She sets down her brush and then, as if she can read my mind, tells me. "Stop torturing yourself about something you can't fix."
But how can I not? The evidence of my savagery is painted across her skin. I step closer, my hand reaching out to ghost over the marks. She shivers but doesn't pull away.
Her permission for my touch doesn't absolve me.
I trace one particularly dark bruise with my fingertip. She tilts her head, exposing more of her neck to me—an act of trust that makes my chest ache. How can she still trust me after what I've done?
"I should have been stronger," I murmur. "Should have resisted."
Shame and self-loathing wash over me. Everything Sayanaa said rings with a terrible truth—I am pretending.
The guilt threatens to choke me.
My jaw clenches so hard it aches as I force myself to meet her steady gaze in the mirror. Those amber eyes that see right through my facade to the monster beneath. The monster I tried so hard not to become, only to fail when it mattered most.
Slowly, her hand rises up and covers mine.
The tenderness in her gesture nearly breaks me. After everything I put her through, she still looks at me with such concern. Such trust.
My voice catches. "I'm glad you're back."
The words feel inadequate compared to the storm of emotions raging inside me. Relief that she's safe. Guilt over what I did. But most of all, this overwhelming need to hold her, to feel her against me and confirm that this is still real.
I want to feel the familiar comfort of her touch.
I want to know that whatever we had is still there.
That I haven't lost it forever.
I step into her space, unable to resist any longer. Her lips part beneath mine, soft and yielding. My hands slide down to her waist, pulling her closer as the kiss deepens.
She makes a small sound in the back of her throat—half moan, half whimper —and it sends my pulse racing through my veins. Her fingers tangle in my hair, nails scraping lightly against my scalp.
The silk of her robe is smooth under my palms as I pull her flush against me. Her body molds to mine perfectly, like she was made to fit there. When her tongue touches mine, I growl low in my throat.
But something feels wrong about this.
Something dark is looming in the background. Something that should stay dead is slowly coming to life.
The kiss grows hungrier, more desperate. Like we're both trying to prove to ourselves that there's still something salvageable between us after everything that's happened.
Her hand slides down my chest, past the top of my pants until those delicate fingers are brushing against my cock through my slacks.
But at the touch, the darkness in me uncoils and surfaces like a shark in a freezing sea. My mind flashes with images of my hands pinning Lacey beneath me on the stairs until there's no escape. Her wet dress hiked up around her waist while I fuck her mercilessly. Her screaming that she hates me with every thrust as she shattered around my cock.
I jerk away from her as if burned. My heart pounds against my ribs, guilt churning in my stomach. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, lips parted and swollen from our kiss.
Her amber flecked eyes are staring at me, but all I see is the ring of bruises around her throat.
The darkness that uncoiled is clawing at my chest, urging me to step forward and take what rightfully belongs to me.
With every second, that darkness strengthens, until I force myself to take a step back.
And in that moment, one thing becomes crystal clear.
Something has changed between us. If I let anything escalate, then I risk losing control again.
And this time, it will be my fault.
Wordlessly, I keep stepping back from her. She doesn't try to stop me. Doesn't call my name. The silence stretches between us like a physical thing, heavy with unspoken words. There's understanding in her eyes, maybe even relief.
The truth hits me like a punch to the gut: she's afraid of me.
Of course she is. How can she not be? She saw the monster lurking beneath my carefully constructed facade.
She'll never admit it, of course. She'll keep insisting that she pushed me to it, and that she wanted it.
But I see the truth from the way her fingers tighten around the brush handle as if it's a knife to keep her safe from me. From the slight tremor in her hands as she looks at me.
And from the relief in her eyes after I pulled away.
Once I'm in the hallway, I lean against the wall and close my eyes.
The distance between us now feels vast—an unbridgeable chasm created by violence and pain. And I know the awful truth.
She may be back here physically.
But I've lost something far more precious.
I've lost her love, and I don't know how I can ever get it back.