Chapter 26
Ayla
Vaska.
He left me with Vaska.
Alone.
I watch the door shut after the last of Maksim’s men.
Vaska stands beside me and watches me like he’s deciding which version of himself to give. Something in between cruelty and kindness that feels worse, because it’s harder to predict.
“Come on,” he says, casual, like we’re two normal people in a normal house. Like Maksim didn’t just throw a knife into a man’s shoulder ten minutes ago because his eyes stayed on me for too long.
I don’t move right away.
My pulse is still buzzing under my skin. My irritation is sharper than my fear, which is saying something, because fear is practically my religion at this point.
I force my feet to go anyway.
Because in houses like this, standing still gets you noticed.
And being noticed gets you tested.
Vaska leads me down a hallway that’s too wide and too quiet, the kind of quiet that doesn’t soothe—it warns. The floors are polished wood, the walls dressed up in expensive art that feels like a lie. Everything is curated.
Everything is a mask.
I catch glimpses of other rooms as we pass—dark sitting areas, a dining space that looks like it’s never been used for anything resembling food, heavy curtains drawn like the house is hiding from daylight.
I keep my gaze forward. Don’t touch anything. Don’t slow down. Don’t act like a guest.
Guests get invited. I’m not invited.
I’m kept.
Maksim is keeping me. And kept things only last as long as they are needed
Vaska leads me back to the living room and gestures me in with one hand.
I’m still deciding what to do with myself when Vaska speaks again.
“Sit wherever.”
He makes it sound like a choice.
Like I’m not in a place where every chair has an invisible price tag.
I pick the far end of the sectional—the one that gives me a view of the room, the exits, the hallways. I lower myself like I’m calm. Like I’m not counting angles.
My phone is in my pocket. I can feel it like a heartbeat.
But I don’t reach for it.
Vaska drops into the chair across the coffee table legs relaxed, elbow resting on the arm, posture loose.
Too loose.
It’s a trick. A predator pretending he isn’t one.
He studies me the way a man studies a weapon he doesn’t know if he can use.
Assessing me.
I hate that more than when men look with hunger.
Because hunger is simple. It’s stupid.
Assessment is intelligent. And intelligence is dangerous.
For a few seconds, nothing happens.
No interrogation. No sudden violence. No “tell me what you’re doing here.”
Just the hum of the air conditioner and our breaths.
Vaska’s gaze stays on me.
“Don’t look so offended,” he says finally.
“He didn’t leave you because he doesn’t care,” he adds, voice low enough that it’s only for me. “About his little pet.”
My jaw tightens before I can stop it.
I don’t answer.
Because if I answer wrong, it becomes a conversation I didn’t agree to have.
Vaska’s mouth twitches like he can read that thought anyway.
“He left you here,” he continues, “because he thinks this is safer than the townhouse.”
I almost laugh.
Because the townhouse felt like a cage. This feels like a fortress. A fortress Maksim should be in. He should rule from here.
I would.
I angle my head, just slightly. “So I’m safe.”
It comes out flat.
Vaska’s eyes flick over my face like he’s measuring my tone.
“Safe,” he repeats, and there’s something in it—something that sounds like the word means different things to different men.
His gaze drops to my hands in my lap. Then back to my eyes.
“And irritated,” he adds.
I hold his stare. “What gave it away?”
He leans back a fraction, like he’s amused by me, familiar.
“Your mouth,” he says simply. “It’s trained to be polite. But it wants to bite.”
A chill runs under my skin at how accurate that is.
I swallow it down.
Because biting has consequences. And I can’t afford consequences yet.
I glance toward the hallway for half a heartbeat. I need to go.
My phone burns in my pocket. Gabriel is waiting.
Vaska notices the glance anyway. His eyes follow mine, then return.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he says, voice still calm.
Not a threat. A fact.
My fingers curl against my thigh, slow enough no one else sees it.
I look at him again, steady. “Am I being watched?”
Vaska’s smile is thin. Knowing.
“Yes,” he says. Then he adds, as if he’s giving me a gift— “By more than one person.”
My pulse trips.
Because that means cameras. That means eyes in the walls. That means even my pocket could be a confession if I’m careless.
I keep my face blank anyway. Keep my spine straight. Keep my breathing even.
Vaska reaches forward and sets his gun on the coffee table between us.
Placed down like an offering of safety. Like he’s telling me, he could be kind if he wanted to be.
I don’t touch it. I don’t trust whatever test this is.
Vaska watches me not touch it and gives a quiet huff, like he expected that too.
Then he settles fully into his chair, gaze locked on mine, and for the first time it feels like the room around us falls away.
It’s just me.
And him.
In a house that belongs to a man who calls me Beda like I’m his, but refuses to touch me.
Vaska’s voice drops even lower.
“So,” he says, calm as a blade. “What do you like to do for fun?”
“Fun?”
He nods. “Yes, Ayla, fun. You’re not just bakery girl are you? You have hobbies I’m sure.”
I huff out a laugh. “Hobbies… I don’t have time for them.”
“Fair. After all you work three jobs.”
I freeze for half a second then nod.
“I do.”
He pulls his knife out of his boot and twirls it between his fingers. “But not anymore, hm.”
“Not anymore.” I echo.
“Must be nice being free from the responsibility now that you have the Pakhan on your side, but you miss your old life a bit… the thrill, the petty theft, the delinquent friends.”
I fold my arms across my chest and smirk. The Pakhan, like it’s a gift to be around Maksim Korsakov.
“What are you saying?”
He smirks, his knife pausing between his middle and pointer finger. “I’m saying, I know the circles you ran in, but are you allowed to still play?”
My eyes narrow. “Play?”
He nods, his eyes lighting up.
This.
The quiet tension.
The eye contact.
The space between me and the only man in this place who might actually choose to hear me… before he decides whether I’m worth keeping. But he wants to make a dance of it.
I don’t answer yet.
I just let my fingers loosen on my thigh and hold Vaska’s stare like I’ve got teeth too.
“You want to spar.”
He chuckles darkly. “Yes. Do you prefer your own knife?”
Oh. Maybe this will be fun.
I slide my hand down slowly, deliberately, letting him watch every inch of the movement so he knows I’m not reaching for anything stupid.
My fingers find the familiar leather-wrapped handle tucked inside my right boot.
The knife comes out smooth, familiar weight, the blade catching the low lamplight in a single cold line.
Vaska’s smirk deepens—slow, approving.
I twirl the blade once, loose-wristed, the way I used to when Gabriel first forced me to defend myself at thirteen. Then I settle it point-down against my thigh, present.
“We doing this here?” I ask, voice light but edged. “Or will Maksim care if we ruin the furniture?”
Vaska laughs; low, quiet, the sound of someone who doesn’t laugh often but means it when he does. He leans forward, elbows on his knees now, knife still spinning lazy circles between his fingers like it’s an extension of his hand.
“Maksim,” he says, tasting the name, “would care very much if we ruined this furniture. He’s particular about things that belong to him.” His eyes flick to me, deliberate. “Including people.”
The jab lands exactly where he wanted it. I feel my mouth tighten.
He sees it.
“But,” he continues, rising smoothly to his feet, “he’s not here. And I’m curious how sharp that delinquent mouth really is when it’s allowed to bite.”
I stand too. Slower. Keeping the coffee table between us for now.
“You’re doing this because he told you to test me,” I state. “See if I’m loyal. See if I’ll fold under pressure.”
Vaska tilts his head, amused all the way down to the bones. “You think I need orders to play with a pretty little orphan?”
I falter, he catches it.
Orphan. That means he ran my background, got the story Gabriel’s planted to make sure there’s no ties to him. Good.
He steps around the table.
I match him—circling the other way. We’re orbiting now, the gun forgotten on the wood between us.
“I think,” I say, “you’re doing exactly what the Pakhan expects. Keep the pet entertained. Keep her from getting ideas.”
He stops. So do I.
Then he moves—fast, fluid, a feint with the knife that isn’t even aimed at me, just close enough to make me react. I twist, blade coming up instinctively, but he’s already inside my guard, forearm catching my wrist in a grip that’s firm but not bruising.
Yet.
“Wrong,” he murmurs, breath warm against my ear. “I’m doing this because you’re fun. And because I like seeing how long it takes someone to figure out if they’re caged or not.”
I wrench my arm free—harder than necessary, and slash low, not deep, just enough to nick the inside of his forearm when he doesn’t quite pull back in time.
A thin red line wells up immediately.
Vaska looks down at it. Then at me.
Then he brings his arm to his mouth, slow, deliberate, and licks the blood off the cut. Tongue flat against skin. Eyes never leaving mine.
My stomach flips; half revulsion, half something darker. He smiles around the taste of it.
“Nice,” he says softly. “Clean. Quick. You’ve done this before.”
I don’t answer. My pulse is loud in my ears.
He lowers his arm. The cut’s already clotting—shallow, showy, nothing serious.
“You remind me of him, you know,” he says, quieter now. The game pauses, just for a breath.
I blink. “Maksim?”