31. The Devil Kneels Rafael
A rkadi told me everything.
The pictures. The cameras. The filthy obsession of a man who thought he could claim my woman.
I told Arkadi to keep the body. I’m not done yet. A bullet in the head is too merciful. It’s not revenge. It’s not justice. Torture is too light a word for what I’m planning. Dismantling him piece by piece. He touched what’s mine, dared to invade her world, her innocence. He thought he had the right to want her, to watch her.
I’ll take that right from him along with his fingers, his tongue, and his manhood. He will come back from the dead just to beg me to stop.
I also ordered Arkadi to search everywhere for the footage that prick took of my Mila, and make sure they are so well erased it’s like they never even existed.
But this isn’t just about him.
Mila.
My Mila. She’s been through hell, and I wasn’t there to stop it. She’s hurting, and I can see it, feel it. It seeps out of her. I told Arkadi to plan a funeral for her mother—something small, something calm—so she can say goodbye. But it doesn’t feel like enough. Nothing feels like enough.
Last night I was a selfish bastard. I should’ve held her, comforted her, but when she came to me, when she pressed her body against mine, I took her. I didn’t stop to think about her pain or her grief. All I could think about was her skin under my hands, the way she trembled for me, the way she tasted when I kissed her.
She was the best I’ve ever had. Not just her body, but her. She’s mine in a way no one else has ever been. And now, after just one night, everything is upside down.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was filthy, raw, perfect. She gave herself to me, and I took everything she offered—and more. She’s in my blood now, in my veins, and no amount of violence will be enough to take her out of me.
I should feel guilty. I should hate myself for taking advantage of her when she wasn’t in the right state of mind. But I don’t. I can’t.
I don’t regret a second of it.
Nadia storms into my office, her heels clicking against the floor like a goddamn alarm. She doesn’t knock, and the second she screeches my title, my blood runs cold.
“Pakhan—” Her voice cracks, her hands on her knees, gasping for air like she sprinted through the house. She’s too old for this, and I’m too angry to care why she’s here until she blurts it out, tears streaking her face.
“It’s Mila,” she sobs. “You need to go to Mila. She’s in the bedroom—with a pistol. I—I’m afraid she doesn’t have good intentions.”
My heart plummets like a stone and everything around me blurs into nothing. I don’t hear Nadia crying. I don’t feel my legs moving as I brush past her, storming up the stairs.
What the hell is my Mila thinking?
I throw open the door to our bedroom, and there she is. Sitting on the edge of the bed, staring into the mirror. A pistol in her hand, pointed at her chest.
The sight stops me cold.
Her face is blank. No tears, no fear, just… nothing. But her hands are steady. Too steady. And I feel something rip open inside me.
Where the fuck did she find a gun? How long has she been planning this? Does she think I wouldn’t follow right after her?
“Mila,” I growl, my voice low, threatening, but laced with desperation. She turns her head, just barely, meeting my eyes. There’s no life in them.
“Give me the pistol,” I demand, taking a step forward.
She shakes her head. “Don’t come closer, Rafael,” she warns, pressing the barrel harder against her chest.
My blood freezes. “ Kroshka, don’t. Don’t do this.”
“I don’t want to live like this anymore,” she whispers. “I feel… dirty. Evil. Gross.”
Her lips tremble, though she’s fighting it, holding back her tears.
“I beg you, Mila. Give me the gun,” I hiss, stepping closer. If it means saving her, I’ll beg. I’ll fall apart in front of her. I don’t give a fuck.
“I can’t live with this darkness anymore… this darkness inside me.” Finally, her tears start falling.
I drop to my knees, lifting my hands, exposing my throat, my pride, my everything. For the first time in my life, I submit. To her. For her.
“Look at me, Kroshka . Please. ”
She does. But it’s like she’s staring through me, into nothingness.
“You’re not dark. You’re not evil. You’re pure, Mila. So fucking pure,” I tell her. “Don’t do this. Don’t you fucking dare leave me.”
“I burn everyone I love,” she says.
“That’s not true,” I argue. My hands are still raised, my knees digging into the floor. “Put it down, Mila. Please. Put the fucking gun down.”
Her voice rises, raw and angry. “I don’t want to punish you with my presence anymore, Rafael! I know you can’t move on unless I’m gone, and you won’t let me go! I’m doing us both a favor—freeing us from these chains we’re bound to.”
“Don’t you fucking dare. We belong together, Mila. Even in death, I’ll follow you. There is no life—no world—where we aren’t bound. Do you hear me? You are mine.”
She shakes her head, her hollow stare cutting into me.
“Then shoot me first,” I say, offering myself to her. “Put a fucking bullet straight through my heart before you put it to yours. Kill me first. I can’t imagine a world without you in it—to tease me, to torment me, to love me. Make me bleed, burn me, scar me. Unleash every ounce of the hurt I caused you onto me. Drown me in your rage, your pain, just don’t fucking leave me.”
Her hand trembles for the first time, her breath hitching. “Why are you doing this to me?” she screams. “Why can’t you make this easy?”
I choke on my words. The truth is stuck in my throat like a blade. I’ve never even admitted it to myself before. Never thought I would. But looking at her now, I don’t have a choice.
“Because I’m fucking in love with you!”
The words rip out of me like a confession, raw and violent, tearing me apart. “I love you, Mila. Do you hear me? I fucking love you. I’m so sorry for making you feel like anything but the goddess you are. You are the goddess of light, of innocence, of pureness, and I am the devil kneeling at your feet.”
She stares at me, her lips twitching, then lets out a broken laugh. A smile crosses her face—a haunting one.
And then she lifts the gun higher, presses it to her chest again, and pulls the trigger.
The sound is deafening. My world shatters.
Blood pours out of her like a goddamned river, soaking through her shirt, painting her skin crimson. My Mila. My perfect Mila.
I crawl to her, gathering her into my arms. She’s limp, her head lolling against my chest. “Stay with me, Mila,” I roar. “Stay with me!”
Her breathing comes in short, sharp gasps, her chest heaving against my hands. Then her body stills, her eyes fluttering closed. No. Fucking no. A guttural scream rips from my throat, shaking the walls of the room.
The sound of pounding footsteps barely registers. Anatoly and Arkadi burst in, their faces pale as death. Maybe they know what will become of me if she doesn’t survive this. “I’m getting the emergency unit ready,” Arkadi barks before disappearing.
Anatoly moves to take her from me, but I snarl like a caged animal, clutching her tighter. “Don’t fucking touch her!” Her blood is soaking into my clothes. I won’t let her go.
My legs move on their own, carrying her down the hall, down the stairs, through the mansion. Anatoly follows close behind, his voice urgent as he makes some phone calls. My ears are ringing. My heart is pounding. My Mila is dying, and it’s all my fucking fault.
By the time I reach the emergency unit—kept here because we can’t take our injuries to a hospital without inviting too many questions—the medical team is already there, scrubbing their hands and prepping equipment. I kick open the door to the sterile room, ignoring the startled glances.
“Pakhan, you have to put her down,” Dr. Mark says, his hands dripping with antiseptic.
I lower her onto the gurney. But when the doctor looks at me expectantly, motioning for me to leave, I grab him by the collar, slamming him against the wall. “I’m not fucking leaving,” I snarl, my face inches from his. “You hear me? Scrub me down, bleach me, I don’t give a shit. But I’m not leaving her.”
Dr. Mark swallows hard, his eyes wide. “Fine. Fine, but you need to be sterile.” He gestures to a nurse, who immediately steps forward with gloves, scrubs, and antiseptic wipes.
“Put these on,” he says. “Scrub your hands and arms. Cover your clothes with this gown. Don’t get close to her.”
I release him, snatching the items from the nurse and doing exactly as he says. My hands are shaking so badly it takes longer than it should.
The team moves quickly once I’m ready, cutting away her shirt to reveal the wound. The sight of it makes my stomach churn.
The bullet is embedded deep, and the doctor calls for forceps, barking orders I barely register. I can’t look away. Her chest still rises and falls, and for the first time in years, I pray. I pray she survives this. The team works frantically, stitching her up, pumping her full of anesthetics and fluids.
I press my fist to my mouth, biting down hard to keep from screaming again. Tears burn my eyes, spilling down my cheeks before I even realize I’m crying.
This is my fault. Every drop of blood. All of it. If she dies— no. She won’t.
Two agonizing hours. Every minute feels like a year. When they are finally done, and Dr. Mark moves over to me, I’m on my feet instantly, shoulders squared.
“She’s very lucky,” he says. “The bullet lodged in the soft tissue near her shoulder. It missed vital organs. She’ll need monitoring for a few days, but she’ll recover, quickly so.”
I let out a shaky breath. Relief hits me, leaving me dizzy. My hands tremble, and I press them against my sides to steady them. God—or whoever the hell is up there—I don’t pray, but thank you. Thank you for sparing her.
She’s lying there, pale, her hair spread out on the pillow, her breathing steady but shallow. My kroshka . The only person who’s ever made me feel this raw, this exposed. I sit beside her, my fingers brushing her cheek. Her skin is cold to the touch and it sends a ripple of rage through me. How dare she do this to herself—to me?
When she wakes up, she’s going to pay. I’ll punish her for even thinking about leaving me, for the terror she put me through. But beneath the anger is the crushing truth: this is my fault. I pushed her. I toyed with her emotions instead of being a man and admitting the truth. If I hadn’t played these mind games, she wouldn’t have spiraled like this.
I force myself to leave her side before I lose it completely. The door closes behind me, and I hear Layla’s frantic pacing before I see her. She’s wearing a path into the floor, her face lined with worry, her hair pulled into a messy bun. Anatoly sits on the couch nearby, his jaw tight, his eyes darting between Layla and me.
Layla whirls around when she sees me. “Where the fuck is my sister?”
She couldn’t have picked a worse time. She’s been coming over constantly at random times for these past couple of days, waiting to see when Mila will finally talk to her again. My patience is paper-thin and her shrieking feels like nails dragging down my spine.
“She shot herself,” I say bluntly, no sugarcoating, no softening the blow.
Her knees give out, and she crumples to the floor, staring up at me with wide eyes. “She what? Why aren’t you at the hospital? Did you even take her to the hospital? Where is she?”
She scrambles to her feet, about to run past me, but I grab her arm and hold her back. “She’s here,” I assure her. “She had surgery. She’s going to be okay.”
Layla exhales sharply, her knees buckling again. “Why? Why did she do this?”
I hesitate. The words taste like poison on my tongue. “She blames herself for your mother’s death,” I say finally. “She thinks we’d all be better off without her.”
Layla freezes, her face contorting in horror. “What? Is that why she didn’t want to see me?”
I nod.
She breaks. Her hands fly to her face as a sob tears out of her. I glance at Anatoly. He’s watching her, his expression a mix of agony and longing. I know he has feelings for her. He’d never act on them without my approval, and right now, he’s silently begging me for it.
I give him a curt nod.
He’s on his feet in an instant, moving to Layla and scooping her into his arms. She doesn’t resist, her cries muffled against his chest as he carries her out of the mansion.
I turn back toward Mila. I’ll sit by her side all night if I have to. She’s mine, and I’ll be damned if I let her slip away.