Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
ALEKSEI
As she walks out of the main building of the vineyard, she’s still wearing that fake smile for her parents’ sake as she says goodbye.
It slips the second she’s out of their line of sight. By the time she hits the path toward the parking lot, her shoulders are rigid, her steps clipped. That small hand grips the strap of her purse like she’s holding herself together with it.
The cameras her parents installed catch everything: the breeze tugging strands of hair across her cheek, the moment she pauses halfway to the car and looks back at the rows of vines like she’s saying goodbye. Like she knows this chapter’s closing.
And she doesn’t even realize who’s already writing the next one.
I know all about her parents’ troubles, even better than she does. Past-due invoices, the bank calling each week, the money they owe that loan shark who will kill them all if they don’t pay. I’ve made it my business to know everything.
The second she blinks too fast and lifts her chin, something locks up in my chest.
She thinks she’s hiding the pain, but she isn’t. I see it all. Every fracture, every sharp little edge she pretends isn’t there.
Those pieces are already mine, and soon, the rest of her will be too.
Don’t worry, detka. I have the perfect solution to all your problems.
A smirk cuts across my lips.
This woman…blyat, the things she drags out of me. Every shred of savagery claws its way to the surface when she’s near. If I’m not careful, this thing I feed on, this loathing, could shift into something else. Something harder to kill.
Fiona Clark is my sweetest poison. My greatest challenge. My most dangerous enemy. And when I take her, when I own her, she will beg for an ounce of mercy I will never give.
Toggling to the exit camera, I follow the dust that rises behind her tires. Another keystroke throws her onto a different monitor: the state road, a wide shot from a traffic mast.
I sit back, my office dim except for the multiple screens in front of me. Floorboards creak in the hall, then two soft taps sound at the door, and I know it’s my maid, Galya.
“Come in.”
She slips inside, her smile warm, though it does nothing but irritate me. “Your brother Kirill is here, sir. Little Lev too.”
“Send them in.”
They’re already at the threshold when she steps aside. Kirill crosses first, wearing that arrogant grin he saves just for me. The one that says he knows exactly where my security feeds are pointed and who I’ve been watching.
Lev follows close behind, gripping his father’s hand tightly, his other hand grasping the strap of his backpack.
His eyes flick up to the ceiling, then the floor, then finally land on me.
But not for long. He never stares. He takes everything in quietly, like he’s recording it all in that brilliant brain of his.
“Hi,” he says at last, voice soft and unsure.
I crouch until we’re level. “Privet, soldatik.” Hi, soldier.
Kissing the crown of his head, I move to the bookshelf along the wall and pull out the hardcover book on constellations I ordered last week. His current fixation.
“Eto tebe.” This is for you.
Reaching out, I hand it to him. His fingers hover, then he takes it carefully, as if it might break if he breathes too hard. He runs his thumb over the cover like he’s reading it through touch.
Kirill stands beside him, watchful and protective. A permanent shield. He’s been like that ever since his ex walked out when Lev was barely three. She couldn’t handle the diagnosis. Couldn’t stomach the reality of raising an autistic child. Some mother.
The only reason Kirill didn’t put her in the ground for it is because she’s the daughter of someone powerful, someone we couldn’t afford to provoke. But I would’ve done it. No matter what.
“Spasebo,” he says softly after Kirill bends and whispers the reminder in his ear.
He doesn’t look up. Just runs his hand over the book again, like it might vanish if he stops touching it.
But I don’t need eye contact, a smile, or some classic version of gratitude.
Not from Lev. It’s in the silence. In the way he holds the book close to his chest—not like a child with a toy, but like someone who’s finally found something meant for him.
He doesn’t have to say “thank you” because I already know it’s there, where it matters most. In his heart.
“Of course.” I give him another kiss on his head.
“Go sit and read,” Kirill tells him, roughing his dark hair. “Papa will be done soon.”
He takes small steps toward his favorite spot: the armchair by the window, overlooking the garden at my estate. He pauses, taps the armrest once, takes two steps back, then sits. One of his small rituals that keeps the world safe for him.
When he’s happily reading, Kirill cocks a brow. “Do you do anything other than stare at her all day?”
“I do other things.”
Sometimes…
“Like what?” His laugh is low, needling, as he drops into the chair across from my desk.
“Edi na khuy.” Go fuck yourself.
He tsks, grinning wider. “Not in front of my son.”
Kirill glances over at him, then back at me with that same sneer tugging his mouth.
I sink back into my chair, the glow of the monitors around me as I glare at him. “You have to know the enemy inside and out.”
As I flip to another feed, there she is again, caught in the grainy lens, waiting for the light to change. Zooming in on her face, I catch the tightness in her jaw.
What’s running through that sharp little mind of hers?
Is it me? The ghost of my hands still on her?
The vineyard crumbling under her parents’ feet?
Or is it something else? Something I haven’t uncovered yet?
Kirill’s chuckle yanks me back to reality. “Are you sure that’s all she is? Just the enemy?”
“Of course.” The words grind out between my teeth.
Of course that’s all she is. A venomous woman who should thank me for what I did for her instead of wanting me to rot.
But even if I told her the truth, she would only perfect her hate. That’s who Fiona Clark is. She paints the world in black and white, and men like me—men who crawl in the shadows—might as well be the devil himself.
And this devil is going to enjoy proving her right.
Kirill’s laugh rumbles deeper until my temper claws to the surface. “You can’t even focus on what we’re talking about without staring at her. I think you’ve been infected.”
“You’re not funny.”
“I think I’m hilarious.” His grin fades as he leans forward, eyes narrowing, voice dropping low.
“But I almost wonder, why not just kill her? It’d be easy.
Quick. A needle in her neck…” His glance flicks toward Lev before settling back on me.
“Then carve her into pieces small enough for the pigs to feast on.”
My smile bends. “Too easy.” I tip back in the chair. “There are worse things than death, moy brat. A lot worse.”
What I don’t say—what I will never say—is that the thought of anyone hurting her rips through me like barbed wire. I tell myself it’s because I want to be the one to break her. But the truth tastes too much like protection, and I despise myself for even entertaining it.
Kirill folds his arms across his chest, studying me with that sharklike curiosity. “Are you ever going to tell her the truth?”
My gaze drags back to the screen, to her car slipping around the corner of her block. “Maybe. But not yet.”
“What are you planning to do with her?”
“You’ll see.”
My hand curls against the desk as the feed shifts to her car door opening and her body comes into view, every curve crafted to tempt me, whether she knows it or not.
“Moya okhotnitsa thinks she’s the hunter.” My finger hovers above the screen, tracing the outline of her face. “But she will be the one who gets caught.”
Kirill’s mouth quirks. “How precious. You already gave her a pet name.”
“That’s not—”
He lifts a palm with a scoff. “Khvatit vrat.” Stop lying.
“Edi k chortu.” Go to hell. My glare cuts harsher than the words. “Why are you even here? To test my patience?”
He shrugs. “Can’t a brother visit?”
“You never visit unless it’s for a reason.”
“Never is dramatic. Even for you.”
“Khvatit nesti khuynyu.” Stop spouting bullshit. “Why are you here?”
He leans back like he’s settling in, but his eyes turn calculating. That look tells me everything I need to know before the next few words leave his mouth.
“I found something. On Fiona.”
The words slam through me. “So, are you going to tell me, or do you need an invitation?”
“Check your email.”
“You couldn’t just call?”
“And give up seeing the look on your face when you realize you missed this?” He straightens his back. “What kind of brother would I be?”
“A dead one if you keep talking.”
He chuckles while my fingers fly across the keys until I find his email with multiple attachments.
The first few are familiar—surveillance stills, faces I recognize.
The Volkovs. Our enemies. The family who’s been playing the long game, waiting for us to slip so they can rule instead.
They don’t want war. Not yet. They know we would burn them alive.
Konstantin keeps saying it’s not time. That patience is strategy. But I have never been patient. I want their blood, want to carve them down to the bone and leave their tiny empire in ruin.
Then I open the next file with photos, and everything inside me locks as I read through what Kirill found.
“What the hell is this?”
“I was just as surprised as you.”
How could I have missed this? But it all makes sense now.
“Does Konstantin know?”
“Not yet.”
“Slovichy!” My fist pounds on the desk, pens rattling across the mahogany. “Ya ikh vsekh ub’yu!” Bastards! I’m going to kill them all!
My jaw grinds as I flip from picture to picture.
This changes everything. They want her. And they think I’d ever allow this? That they have a chance?
Never. They don’t know who they’re dealing with.
The Volkovs think they’re going to be kings. But I was born to be something worse.
It’s in my blood, this need to dominate, to crush, to be the best. Our father made sure of it. He didn’t raise sons. He forged weapons. Failure wasn’t punished; it was erased.
And love? Love was weakness. Love was leverage. Love was a lie.
Power. That was the prize.
And I intend to take it. Starting with her.