Chapter 7
DROGO
The show night came too fast. After the ghosts, the writing, the way she slept against my chest—now this. A stage. A spotlight. And a choice I couldn't avoid.
The room buzzed with chatter and clinking glasses, smoky haze thick under amber light. I claimed a table near the back—close enough to see everything, far enough that I could slip out if I needed to disappear.
Marcus and Lucy were somewhere up front. I'd told them I'd be late. Needed space. Needed to think.
My phone sat on the table, screen dark. One message. Received an hour ago.
I hope you make the right choice.
That's all it said. No name. Didn't need one. I knew exactly who sent it and what it meant.
The show tonight. The flight tomorrow. Heathrow. New York.
Or everyone I loved would burn.
I took a long pull from my whiskey, trying to drown the knot in my chest. It didn't help. Nothing helped. The weight was there, pressing down, suffocating—Alena’s address in his mouth, her blue door, her kitchen light, all of it weaponized against me.
I should leave. Get on that plane. Keep her safe.
But first, I had to see her. One more time. Even if she’d hate me for what came next.
The lights dimmed, and the crowd quieted. Anticipation crackled through the air like electricity before a storm.
I leaned back in my chair, arms crossed, shoulders rigid. Ready and not ready. Wanting and dreading.
The lights dropped low. A single spotlight cut through the darkness and landed on her.
Alena.
Fuck.
She was like something out of a fever dream I'd been having for seventeen years.
Long, wild hair pulled up, heavy makeup around her eyes that made them glow—golden brown, sharp, fierce.
Black feathers curled around her like wings.
That black suit clinging to sweat-slick skin, feathers catching light like dark flames.
She held that cane with the silver crow head like a weapon.
I forgot how to breathe.
The spotlight captured every movement—the way her fingers curled around the cane, those long black nails commanding attention. Her eyes scanned the room, daring anyone to look away. Then she stepped forward, slow and deliberate, claiming the stage like it was hers by right.
Because it was.
Her dance wasn’t just motion. It was violence wrapped in silk. A declaration of war disguised as art. Every step, every curve of her body, every arch of her back—it all screamed mine in a language I'd been trying not to speak for seventeen years.
My hands clenched into fists on the table.
She spun, and the feathers caught the light, spreading like wings. The jacket pulled tight across her chest, one button straining. I saw the pale skin of her throat—skin I’d kissed a thousand times in my head, skin I’d held while she cried, skin I wanted to mark so badly my teeth ached.
My cock stirred, hard and insistent, pressing against my jeans like it had every right to react. I shifted in my seat, glad for the dark, but the desire coiled tighter, hotter, refusing to be ignored.
Every spin, every arch of her back—I felt it in my cock. Hard. Aching. Knowing every man in the room was feeling the same thing.
And hating them for it.
Every man in this room was watching her.
Every. Single. One.
Their eyes on her skin. On her curves. On the way her hips moved, the way her body arched. I could feel their want like heat against my face, and it made me want to burn the whole fucking place down.
She wasn't theirs to watch. Wasn't theirs to want.
She was mine.
The thought hit like a fist to the gut. Raw. Undeniable. True in a way I’d been lying about for years.
Mine.
I wanted to storm that stage, throw her over my shoulder, and carry her out of here.
Lock her away somewhere only I could see her, touch her, have her.
I wanted to strip that suit off her myself, feel her skin under my hands, hear her gasp my name the way she did in every fantasy I pretended not to have.
I wanted to fuck her until she forgot every other man who’d ever looked at her. Wanted to love her until she understood she was the only thing that mattered. Wanted to keep her so close she’d never slip away again.
But I couldn’t.
Because tomorrow, I’d be gone. And she’d never forgive me.
The music swelled. She arched back, throat exposed, body a perfect line of power and grace. The feathers shimmered. The light caught the sheen of sweat on her collarbone.
A low groan came from my left.
I turned my head slowly.
Some bastard two seats over—mid-forties, sweating, eyes glued to the stage—had his hand in his lap. Moving.
White-hot rage exploded in my chest.
I felt the old pit fighter rise in me. The one who’d broken bones for less. No one touched what’s mine. Not with their eyes. Not with their hands.
I was on my feet before I thought about it, leaning over, voice low and deadly. “Stop that.”
He didn’t even look at me. Just kept staring at her, hand still moving.
I grabbed his wrist—hard, fingers digging into bone. “I said stop. Or I’ll cut it the fuck off.”
His head snapped toward me, eyes wide, mouth opening to protest.
I leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper that promised violence. “You think I’m joking? Keep your hands where I can see them, or I’ll make sure you never use them again.”
He went pale. Hands shot up, visible, trembling.
“Good.” I let go, shoving his arm away like it was contaminated. “Now sit there and keep your fucking eyes on the stage. No touching. No sounds. Or I’ll break every finger you’ve got.”
He nodded, frantic, and I sat back down, pulse hammering, fists still clenched.
On stage, Alena’s eyes flicked toward our section—just for a second. Like she’d sensed the disturbance. Her rhythm didn’t break, didn’t falter, but I saw it. The slight tilt of her head. The way her gaze sharpened.
She knew something happened. She always knew.
Then she spun away, reclaiming the stage, and the moment passed.
I couldn’t protect her from my father. Couldn’t keep the Bratva from knowing where she lived. Couldn’t stop the choice that was coming.
But I could stop this one pathetic bastard from jerking off to her in public.
I turned back to the stage, teeth gritted, hands shaking with adrenaline and something darker.
Alena kept dancing, unaware. Untouchable. Beautiful in a way that hurt to look at.
The music built to its climax. She spun one last time, cane raised, head tilted back—a dark queen claiming her throne.
Then her eyes found mine across the crowd.
Locked. Held. Knowing.
For one second, the whole room disappeared. Just her and me and seventeen years of things I’d never said.
Then she spun away—but the look lingered. Like she knew. Like she was daring me to finally do something.
Then the lights cut to black.
And I sat there in the dark, hard as stone, heart pounding, knowing I was about to lose the only thing that ever mattered.
Tomorrow.
Heathrow.
New York.
The right choice.
Fuck.
Because the wrong choice meant losing her forever. And I wasn’t sure I could survive that.