Chapter 24
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
JONAH
Thinking about the knives has become a habit I can't break. I keep thinking about the way Viktor’s hand felt on my wrist, guiding the blade until it felt like a part of me. About the way his hand steadied my wrist until the blade stopped trembling.
He told me I could go back to the hospital.
My stomach loosens at the thought of leaving, then tightens again, hard enough that I have to swallow.
I want to ask him if this is a goodbye, but the fear of the answer keeps me silent.
I don't know if I'm being set free or if I'm being discarded.
The uncertainty is a dull blade at my throat.
The house has been busy the last few days. The office is always full of men and the smell of coffee, but the mornings are still ours. Bringing his breakfast in at eight, I watch the war stop for a few minutes.
These mornings have become a routine I didn’t know I needed. Usually, we eat in the office with Nikolai’s keyboard clicking in the background, but on Saturdays, the house is quieter. There are fewer men in the halls. The place feels less like a war zone and more like a home.
Walking into the dining nook today, I set the tray down.
Before I can even step away, Viktor reaches out and pulls me onto his lap.
Nikolai is still there, sitting at the far end of the table and staring at his phone like his life depends on it.
He’s trying to pretend he doesn’t see Viktor feeding me a piece of toast, or the way Viktor’s thumb is currently hooked into the waistband of my pants.
I shouldn't like it. I should feel small and embarrassed to be handled like this in front of Viktor’s right hand and best friend, but having his full attention feels like a drug.
It steadies my hands. It makes the trailer park and my old life feel like they happened to someone else.
Like I’m finally taking up space because he decided I should.
“We’re going out,” Viktor declares.
Swallowing the bite of toast he just gave me, I look at him. “Where to?”
He grins. “Look at you. Practically jumping through the roof. We have some deliveries to make. Then we go shopping.”
Shopping. I never go shopping. For a beat, I think of the job I’ve likely lost and the income buried with it, but Viktor doesn't seem to care. “Come on then, krasavchik. Get dressed.”
Taking a quick shower, I put on the clothes he laid out for me. Viktor loves sweatpants on me, probably because they’re so easy to remove. My ears flush at the thought. My body is already warm, anticipating the way he’ll eventually pull them down.
When I walk back into the kitchen, three guards are standing by the island with coffee in hand, chatting in Russian. They stop the moment they see me. I feel very small, knowing they all know who I am and what I am to Viktor. The thought burns under my skin.
“Are… are these people all joining?” My hands are fidgeting. I can’t stop them. “I mean. I can stay here, I don’t have to...if it’s too many. If you don’t want to—”
Damn it. I’m rambling.
“Of course they are.” Lev’s voice breaks the tension like a snap. He grins, handing me a coffee to go. “But they won’t be in the same car. Except for Artyom. He’s Viktor’s driver.”
A short man in a black suit lifts a hand in greeting, giving me a crooked smile. I turn just in time to catch Viktor watching me. His eyes track me slowly.
“Ready, krasavchik?”
“Da,” I mutter.
The entire kitchen breaks out laughing. Why the fuck did I say that? Viktor’s smile widens. Something flashes in his eyes as he crosses the room and hooks an arm around my waist, pulling me close. Breathing in his cologne and the cold tang of his holster, I don’t have the courage to pull back.
“We’ll work on your Russian too.”
It feels weird to be back in town. It has only been a few weeks, but it’s like I never really left.
Or maybe I was never here the way I am now.
Everything about the place feels different when you arrive in a Maserati, kept close by a man like Viktor.
If he could have leashed me, he would have.
I think I would've let him. My chest tightens at the thought.
It isn't fear exactly. It is something closer to relief than fear ever was.
By the time we stop in front of a music store, we’ve already visited a dozen shops.
Viktor bought me sweatpants; expensive, stylish ones I’d never be able to afford.
Along with suits, shoes, and a winter coat with real fur.
I don’t ask how much any of it costs. The price doesn't matter when you're using someone else's blood money.
“What is this place?” I ask. It's a stupid question. It's pretty damn obvious.
“In front of a music store,” he deadpans.
The door swings open and an old man with a large mustache smiles at us. “Viktor Morozov. Privet. It is an honor that the family cleared my schedule today. I haven’t seen you since you were a boy. Come in. And your friend too.”
“Thank you, Anatoly.”
The way Viktor says it makes it clear this isn’t just a shop. It’s territory.
Inside, the place is like heaven. Instruments are everywhere. Cellos, violins, drums. Behind the glass panels are trumpets and flutes. Anatoly rushes around with trays of coffee. “I understand you want to buy a piano?”
“Da.” Viktor looks toward the back where the piano rooms sit. “My boy wants one for the winter room.”
Anatoly’s eyes widen. His gaze darts between Viktor and me. “Of course. Shall I guide you? Or would you prefer to look alone?”
Viktor lifts his chin a fraction. “We’ll choose.”
Anatoly tugs at his mustache and clears his throat. “I will leave you to it. If you need any advice, I’ll be in the shop.” With a quick bow, he leaves the room and closes the door behind us.
Viktor turns to me. “Look around, Jonah. Tell me which one is yours.”
My fingers curl into the hem of my shirt. “I can’t accept this, Viktor. These pianos are not for people like me.”
He rolls his shoulder once, unconcerned. “We’ll get you piano classes too.”
I shake my head. “I can’t take that from you.”
Viktor crosses to the sideboard, pours himself vodka from a crystal decanter, and lifts the glass like the decision is already made. “But I can give it, krasavchik.” He tips his chin toward the room. “Go on. Feel which one speaks to you. If you want, I can call the old man back in.”
The space opens in front of me. Rows of polished instruments under soft lights—black and dark mahogany and warm brown—their lids propped like open wings.
Some are slim and upright, others wide and grand, their keys pale as bone.
The air smells faintly of wood polish and old music.
I take a slow step forward, my hand hovering, afraid to touch and needing to all at once.
I sit at the first piano. Just to try, I tell myself. I’m only doing this because Viktor insists. But the moment my finger hits the keys, I feel that same love I always feel for the instrument. The notes press behind my ribs. Something old stirs. Something I thought I’d buried.
“Hm. Not convinced.” Viktor’s voice comes from just behind me. His chest brushes my back, his breath moving through my hair. “You?”
I open my eyes. “Maybe not.”
“Try the next.” His knuckles graze the back of my neck as he leans over my shoulder, warm and close.
Moving to the second piano, I notice it is made of dark wood and has a deep resonance. I play a few chords. The sound fills the room. “Better.” His thumb settles under my jaw.
My pulse jumps. I keep playing, my skin prickling as he steps closer. I sense him before his hand finds my throat. Before his thumb presses beneath my jaw and fixes me in place. “You look good here.” His thumb stays under my jaw. “Like you belong at something beautiful.”
Heat climbs up my spine. My hands stumble on the keys. “Keep going.” He leans closer. “I’m listening.”
I shift to another piano. This one is glossy black. The keys are soft under my fingers. The vibration hits my ribs first. My breath stutters before I realize it. The moment I touch it, Viktor exhales like he’s been waiting for this exact sound.
“That’s the one.” He doesn't hesitate.
I play again. He steps so close the heat of his chest touches my back. His mouth grazes my neck. It is barely a kiss. It's more like a claim he can’t hold back.
“You’re good.” His mouth brushes my ear. “You know that?”
“I’m not,” I breathe.
“You are.” His teeth nip lightly at my skin, sharp enough to make my fingers slip over the keys. I moan into the quiet room, the sound of my pleasure lost in the notes. “You’re good at everything you do for me.”
My breath shudders. I try another chord just to stay grounded.
His hand circles my throat gently and then he tips back my head to claim my mouth.
His lips are soft. The faint scent of vodka makes me dizzy.
“Play it again,” he says against my mouth.
“I want to hear how it sounds when you know I’m touching you. ”
I do. It sounds different. It's like my heartbeat got caught between the notes. His lips trail up to my ear. “Khorosho, zolotse. That’s mine.”
I swallow. “Are we buying this one?”
“We’re buying whatever makes you sound like that.” His hand tightens briefly at my throat and he kisses the corner of my jaw. “And we’re taking it home.”
The words land with the heavy finality of a closing vault.
He isn't just buying an instrument; he is buying the silence of my old life and replacing it with a melody he controls.
I don't care that the price is my soul because as his hand tightens at my throat, I realize I’d rather be a prisoner in his palace than free in a world where he doesn't exist. I just want to hear him call me mine one more time.