♞Chapter Thirty four♞
Mikhail
We’re sitting around a table in Roman's mansion like this is just another normal day. Like Lola didn’t just claw her way into the underworld and make a fucking throne out of blood and sheer will in under a week.
She sits across from me at Roman’s kitchen table, barefoot, legs up on the chair, one hand lazily cradling a coffee mug while she scrolls through files on her phone.
She’s glowing. Dangerous. She got what she wanted—a seat at the fucking table.
Obmanshchitsa. The Deceiver. Feminine form.
Perfectly fitting. She’s not just forging anymore.
She’s rewriting narratives. Fake identities.
Faked transactions. Fake lives. And fake deaths, if needed.
She was born for this. In a matter of days, she’s turned Roman’s operation into a tighter, cleaner, deadlier machine.
Roman's thrilled. He got me back in, and it came with a bonus—her. I always knew I’d end up back here. No matter how many times I ran, the Bratva was always home. Its rot is stitched into my skin. But something was missing. A hollowness I couldn’t name.
It was her.
She’s the difference between breathing and living.
She goes where I go. I go where she does.
That’s the deal. We’re a team, by oath and by nature.
I function better when she’s within reach.
I think clearer. Move faster. Kill smarter.
Even if I hate the idea of her being surrounded by this chaos.
I fought her on it. Pushed back. Told her that I bleed so she doesn’t have to.
But Lola's not the type to watch from the sidelines. And deep down, I knew I was already losing that battle. Because she’s already in, whether I like it or not.
The Bratva already considers her one of us.
And as much as it kills me to admit, I’d rather have her inside, armed and protected, than naive and in the dark.
Especially since I plan to marry her. When that happens, with my ring on her finger and my name in her blood, she’ll be involved either way.
Bratva rules don’t spare wives. The only thing working in my favor is that she wanted in on her own terms.
She chose the danger. She chose me. And I’ll be damned if I let anyone, even Roman, treat her like anything less than she is. Because if hell is where I belong, then she’ll rule it beside me. And anyone who tries to pull her down? They’ll learn real fast that her man is the danger.
And she’ll have no one but me. Always.
Roman stomps down the stairs like war itself. Slung over his shoulder is a writhing, kicking, cursing mess of limbs—Ayla. He hauls her in like a sack of trouble, fury carved into every muscle of his face. She pounds her fists against his back, clawing, screaming something about human rights.
He drops her onto one of the chairs at the long dining table, her body jolting from the impact. “You’re eating. Now. Your little hunger strike ends today, princess. This ain’t a protest rally.”
Ayla glares up at him, breathless, tangled hair in her face. But despite the tremble in her hands, she doesn’t cower.
“I’ll eat when I’m home,” she snaps. Her voice is small, but sure. “With my family.”
Goddamn.
Roman doesn’t do guilt. Doesn’t do please or why. If someone isn’t a soldier or a threat, they’re nothing. He doesn’t give a fuck if collateral damage eats, breathes, or rots.
Unless...
Unless it’s not just collateral to him. He’s standing too close. Looking at her too long. That vein in his neck? That twitch in his jaw? Yeah. That means something.
“Jesus,” Lola mutters beside me, arms crossed, watching the train wreck unfold with a scowl etched into her face.
My girl doesn’t tolerate weakness, in herself or in the men who pretend to be monsters. She’s pissed. And not because Ayla’s resisting, but because Roman’s poking at a girl who still believes in things like kindness and safety.
Ayla probably volunteers at shelters and cries during documentaries. Too bad she was born into a world that bleeds instead of bends.
Roman grabs the plate of untouched food on the table and slams it in front of her. “You’re under my roof. You eat when I say.”
“I’m not your prisoner!”
“Oh, sweetheart,” he growls, leaning down so close she can probably taste the venom in his words, “You’re exactly that.”
Roman’s still standing over her like he wants to shake sense into her—or protect her. It’s hard to tell with him. He doesn’t love people. He claims them. Buries them in control. Calls it protection. I sip my coffee slowly, meeting his eyes across the table.
“Should’ve just shoved the food down her throat, Roman,” I joke dryly. “You’re losing your edge.”
He flips me off without looking. And I chuckle. Ayla’s eyes go glassy at my words.
“You scared the shit out of her, you brute,” Lola hisses in my ear. I look down at her, brows raised. But she’s not kidding.
Roman’s nostrils flare. He lets out a dark, frustrated growl and drags the chair beside Ayla back with a loud scrape.
He grabs the plate he slammed down earlier.
What the fuck. He reaches over, cups the back of her head—no, her hair—grips it harshly in one hand, immobilizing her, and starts feeding her.
With his other hand. No utensils. Just fingers, bread, and sliced fruit shoved between her lips.
And it’s not gentle at all. I’m pretty sure his fingers are reaching the back of her throat.
She just takes it. Swallows. Looks down. Fucking terrified. Lola, mid-bite into her toast, freezes. Her eyes go wide, her mouth still half-open. I stare too, slowly chewing, watching something unfold that I can't make sense of.
This isn’t the Roman I know. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t comfort or hand-feed anyone. He’s violence in a suit. And yet here he is…handling her like he owns her. Maybe, in that twisted brain of his, he thinks he does.
A few minutes pass. Silence. Chewing. Watching. Ayla turns her face, lips pressed tight. “I’m full,” she mutters. Roman's hand slides out of her hair. His fingers twitch. He glares at her. With two fingers, he jerks his hand toward the stairs. Go.
Ayla bolts. She’s up and off that chair like it burned her, racing up the steps two at a time. Lola leans across and presses a kiss to my cheek.
“I’m going after her,” she says, already sliding from her seat.
Roman doesn’t reply. His eyes are still locked on the stairs, particularly on Ayla’s ass, up until she disappears at the top.
Roman rubs a hand down his face, and mutters something under his breath that sounds like a curse or a prayer.
I’m not sure what the fuck just happened.
But I know one thing for sure. He’s in deeper than he’ll ever admit.