Igor #2
Then they're there. My mood blackens instantly.
My brothers stand in the grand entryway.
Big. Radiating the same lethal energy I do, but with none of the discipline.
Both with the same dark Aslanov hair and near-black eyes.
Ivan leans against the banister, grinning like a wolf.
Illya stands next to him, arms crossed. "Well, well," Ivan drawls.
"Igor’s back. And he brought a souvenir. "
I drop the tree. It hits the marble with a thud.
"Ivan," I say dryly. "Illya. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"You didn't tell us," Ivan says, pushing off the banister. He eyes Aria with blatant curiosity. "We had to hear it from Babushka."
"She talks too much," I say.
"She said you finally locked it down," Illya says, shaking his head. "We thought she was losing her mind. So we came to see for ourselves. And here you are, the head of the Aslanov family. Carrying a tree like some love-struck idiot on the street. Smiling. When’s the last time he smiled, Illya?"
“The last week of never.”
“I smiled plenty when I kicked your asses. Two of you couldn’t take me with a hand tied behind my back. Besides, she knows I didn't tell you. She enjoys stirring the pot."
"Why the secret?" Ivan asks, stepping closer, his gaze raking over Aria’s soft curves with mocking assessment. "Afraid we'd object to you marrying the help?"
My jaw tightens. Before I throw him out a window, Aria steps forward.
She doesn't retreat. She doesn't look at the floor. Leaving the shelter of my arm, she meets Ivan’s gaze head-on.
"The 'help' kept your grandmother alive for eight months while you were busy womanizing and drinking, Ivan," she says, her voice cool and steady.
"So, I can handle being your sister-in-law.
The job description seems similar: helping weak people feel strong. "
Ivan blinks, his mouth opening and closing like a landed fish. Illya snorts, hiding a laugh behind his hand.
I stare at her. Her chin is high, the heat rising in her cheeks not from shame, but defiance.
Pride, hot and fierce, swells in my chest. There she is. The steel I suspected was buried beneath the soft sweaters and nurse's scrubs.
"Close your mouth, Ivan," I say, my voice low with amusement. "She knows exactly who you are. And she is right."
Ivan recovers, a grudging grin spreading across his face. "Okay. Fair point. Welcome to the asylum, Aria."
"Don't gloat," I tell them, steering Aria toward the dining room. "You are next on Galina's list. I was just the first on the list."
Illya’s face goes slack. "You're joking."
"Come," I say, steering Aria toward the dining room. "If you are here, stay for a drink. But mind your damn manners."
We move into the dining room. Aria sits at the table, her shoulders drawn in, a lone flower in a room full of wolves.
My phone buzzes against the wood.
I glance at the screen. Lepin.
My expression hardens. This is business. I answer, switching to Russian, my voice dropping. "What is it?"
I turn away from the table, pacing toward the window, away from the noise of my brothers. Behind me, a chair scrapes. A shout.
"Got her." Ivan’s voice calls out with a laugh.
I turn. My blood freezes. Ivan has her. He’s hoisted her out of the chair, one arm clamped around her waist, a hand over her mouth. He’s playing the role of the old-school barbarian raider.
But Aria isn't laughing. This isn't a game she knows.
She goes rigid, her wide hazel eyes swallowing her face. Her expression freezes over. Her jaw locks, a muscle ticking along the bone. The scream is trapped in her throat, a visible strain against her skin, but she refuses to make a sound.
A red haze drops over my vision.
"Easy, little bird," Ivan jokes, oblivious that he is holding a statue made of trauma and steel. "It's just tradition. The bride-napping."
"Otpusti yeyo," I say.
The words come out as a blade of ice. Let her go. Ivan grins, tightening his grip. "Not until you pay the ransom, brother. You know the rules." He starts dragging her toward the study. Aria’s eyes lock on mine. Her chin is up. She is enduring.
I hang up on the latest Lepin update. He could take my whole kingdom, and I wouldn’t give a fuck. Not when my queen is at risk. The phone cracks on the floor when I drop it. I don't care.
"Ivan."
He doesn't hear me. He hustles her into the study and kicks the door shut. The sound of that latch clicking is a thunderclap. I move. Illya steps back, his smile vanishing. He knows that look.
"The price is steep, brother!" Ivan yells through the door. "This one is worth at least a case of the '78."
I reach the door. I don't negotiate. I don't play. I kick it open. The wood splinters around the lock. The door slams against the inner wall with enough force to shake the room.
Ivan spins around. "Jesus, Igor, take it ea—" The words die in his throat.
I step through the woodchips and sawdust. My eyes zero in on Aria. She is standing against the desk, gripping the mahogany edge so hard her knuckles are white. She is shaking—a fine, violent tremor running through her frame—but she is standing.
Silent. Composed. Breaking, but refusing to shatter.
I cross the room, ignoring Ivan. He doesn't exist. I reach her, checking the violence in my hands, forcing my fingers to be gentle as I cup her face.
"Are you alright?" My voice is rough, strangled by rage.
She nods once. A sharp, jerky movement. She swallows hard, forcing air into her lungs, and meets my gaze.
I pull her away from the desk and into my arms. I wrap my coat around her shoulders, shielding her, burying her face in my chest. She clutches my shirt, her fingers digging in, holding on for dear life. But there are no tears.
Then, I turn to Ivan. His joking demeanor is gone. The blood has drained from his face. He’s stepped on a landmine, and the realization dawns in his eyes.
"Igor, I—" he starts.
"Get. The. Fuck. Out."
The command is quiet. Absolute.
"It’s a tradition. A joke."
"Did she look like she was laughing?" My voice drops an octave.
"I said, get the fuck out. Go back to your home, or I will shoot you where you stand.
In fact I might shoot you anyway. You put your hands on my woman.
My fucking woman. You scared her. And you thought taking her from me was something to play with. "
My hand itches, jumping to the gun beneath my jacket. It’s never far from me, but I’ve never considered using it on my brother before. Aria puts a hand on my chest. An angel soothing a devil… saving him.
Ivan swallows. He looks at me, then his eyes flick to the woman standing rigid in my arms. He nods once, curtly, and walks out of the room. Illya follows him. The front door closes.
Silence returns.
I lead her out of the study. Not stopping until we’re back in the master suite—our sanctuary. I guide her to the plush armchair by the window and pour a finger of brandy.
My heavy frame, built for breaking things, crouches on the floor before her. A king on his knees.
"Here. Drink."
Her hands are shaking. I cover them with mine, steadying the glass as she sips.
"It's just brandy," I soothe. "It will help."
She swallows the fire. The rigid set of her shoulders eases a fraction. She looks at me, really looks at me. Her eyes search my face and land on the rage I haven't fully extinguished.
"He won't touch you again," I say. It’s not a promise. It’s a. "I got you. It’s another wedding vow.
“You broke the door.”
“It stood between us. Remember this. If someone takes you from me, I’m coming for you. Nothing will stand in my way. The next man, if any is that dumb, dies. Brother or not.”
Her hazel eyes hold mine so long, I shift from foot to foot.
Finally, she sets the glass down. Her breathing slows.
I look at her, and a tumbler clicks into place in my chest. I married her because I wanted her.
Because I was obsessed with her body, her face.
Because Galina insisted I needed a wife, and Aria was the only one I could tolerate.
I thought I was choosing a convenient bedwarmer. A nurse to keep the peace.
I was wrong.
Most people think strength is noise. They think it’s shouting, fighting, and throwing punches like my brothers.
But I know what real strength is. Real strength is silence.
It is standing in the middle of a nightmare, terror clawing at your throat, and refusing to make a sound.
It is enduring the fire without letting it burn you down.
That look in her eyes downstairs. The terror was there, yes.
But underneath it was steel. She isn't Galina’s choice anymore.
She isn't a business arrangement. She is mine.
I lean forward, resting my forehead against hers.
"I know," she whispers, before pulling me close. Her hummingbird lips flutter beneath mine in the first kiss she’s ever initiated. She pulls back, and I let her withdraw only to better see her face, and then I take everything she offers.