Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I RINA
I wake up with a start, the morning light shining softly on my bed.
The other side of the mattress is empty, but the indentation is still there, along with the faint, lingering scent of him. My skin still feels sensitive, my mind immediately racing back to the bedroom and the missing lace currently tucked away in Mikhail’s pocket.
I really need to stop thinking about his hands. Or his mouth. Or the fact that he was an aspiring astronaut. It’s making me soft, and soft is how you get killed in New York.
I dress quickly in black leggings and a compression top. I need to move. I need to burn off the nervous energy before I vibrate right out of my skin. When I head downstairs, I don't find Mikhail. Instead, I find Kira.
She’s sitting in the sunroom, looking out at the gardens with a cup of tea in her hands. She’s dressed simply in jeans and a soft sweater looking every bit a woman who doesn't belong in this world, yet somehow manages to hold the Pakhan's heart in her palm.
Here goes nothing. Time to eat some humble pie. I hope it doesn't taste like dirt.
"Kira," I say, stepping into the room.
She turns, her green eyes wary but not hostile. "Irina. I didn't think you’d be up this early after last night. Calina told me about dinner."
"The Morozov estate isn't exactly conducive to sleeping in," I mutter, leaning against the doorframe. I take a breath, my pride fighting me every inch of the way. "Look, about before… I was a bitch. A massive, entitled one."
Kira sets her tea down, her expression softening just a fraction. "You were a girl being traded like a stock option, Irina. I think a little lashing out was expected."
"No, I was mean because I could be. Because I thought I was better than you," I say, walking further into the room. "I was wrong. You got out. You found a way to make Artyom see you as a person. I'm just trying to figure out how to survive the brother who likes to set things on fire."
Kira watches me for a long beat, then gestures to the chair across from her. "Mikhail isn't Artyom, but he is his own person and I’m sure once you figure him out… you really look deep within him, you will find him out and I’m sure then everything will make sense."
"He makes me feel like I'm losing my mind," I admit, the words slipping out before I can stop them. Great. Tell the Pakhan's wife your deepest fears. Real smart, Ira. " It’s like he sees right through the 'princess' act to the parts of me I haven't looked at in ten years. It frightens me."
"That’s because he isn't looking for the princess," Kira says.
"He’s looking for the girl who climbed out of a window.
He likes the fight, Irina. Mikhail never picks the easy path.
In the past, he deliberately picked fights with things that could destroy him just to see if he was tough enough to survive them. "
"He’s doing a great job of destroying himself then," I mutter, checking the laces on my sneakers. "I’m going for a run. Do you want to come? I could use the company."
Kira laughs, a genuine, warm sound. "I’m a nurse, Irina. I spend twelve hours a day on my feet. My idea of a 'run' is walking from the sofa to the fridge. Thanks though. But take a guard. Artyom said things are… unsettled today."
"Always," I sigh.
I head out to the grounds. A guard I recognize, a tall, silent man named Stefan trails ten paces behind me. I don't argue.
I run until my lungs burn and my legs feel like lead. I think about the message on the burner phone. I need to see Mikhail before I go. I need to check the temperature of the house, to make sure he’s occupied enough today for me to slip away.
I don’t see him for most of the day. In the evening, though, I notice something is different. The air is heavy, the servants moving with their heads down, scurrying away from the west wing.
The cellar.
That must be my husband. People running from a place, he must be in there.
He’s in the cellar.
My feet move toward the basement stairs. I tell myself it’s nothing, I'm just exploring the ground but deep down, I know it’s far from that.
The smell hits me halfway down. It’s not just the damp stone of the basement. It’s copper. Thick, cloying, and unmistakable.
Blood. Lots of it.
I reach the heavy steel door at the end of the hall. It’s slightly ajar. I shouldn't look. I know I shouldn't look. But I lean in anyway.
The room is lit by a single, harsh bulb dangling from the ceiling. In the center, tied to a heavy wooden chair, is the man from the warehouse. Or what’s left of him.
He’s a mess of raw meat and white bone. His shirt has been stripped away, his chest a map of jagged slices that are weeping red onto the concrete floor. One of his ears is missing, the side of his head just a dark, wet hole.
Mikhail is standing in front of him. He’s discarded his shirt, his back to me. His skin is slick with sweat and splattered with crimson. He looks like a demon carved from marble and gore. He’s holding a pair of heavy pliers in one hand and a serrated hunting knife in the other.
"I’ll ask you one more time," Mikhail says. His voice is conversational. That’s the scariest part. He sounds like he’s asking about the weather while he’s standing in a pool of a man’s life. "The codes. Who gave them to you? My father, or Petrov?"
The man in the chair tries to speak, but his jaw is hanging at a wrong angle, the bone visible through a tear in his cheek. He gurgles, a wet, choking sound that makes my stomach turn.
Mikhail doesn't lose his temper. He doesn't shout. He just leans in and drives the tip of the knife into the man’s thigh, twisting it slowly. The man’s scream is muffled by the blood in his throat, a high-pitched, whistling sound of pure agony.
"You're wasting my time, Viktor," Mikhail murmurs. He pulls the knife out and wipes the blade on the man’s shoulder.
"And I have a very beautiful wife upstairs who is much more interesting than you are. Every minute you spend being stubborn is a minute I’m losing with her. That makes me very, very unhappy."
He reaches out with the pliers and grips one of the man’s fingernails. With a slow, deliberate motion, he peels it back.
I should be screaming. I should be running. My father did things like this, but I never saw the aftermath. I never saw the clinical, bored way a man can deconstruct another human being.
"It was... Vladimir," the man finally gasps, the words barely intelligible through the blood. "He... he said the docks were his. That the Pakhan was a child... and you were a dog... on a leash."
Mikhail stops. He stands up straight, his chest heaving slightly. He doesn't look angry. He looks… satisfied. Like he’s just finished a particularly difficult puzzle.
"A dog on a leash," Mikhail repeats. He lets out a low, dark laugh. "My father always did have a way with words."
He turns, and that’s when he sees me.
I don't move. I can’t. My heart is a frantic bird against my ribs, my breath coming in shallow gasps. Mikhail stands there, half-naked and covered in another man’s blood, looking like the monster everyone says he is.
He’s a madman. He’s a butcher. And I’m still standing here staring at him. I can’t look away.
Mikhail drops the pliers. They hit the concrete with a heavy clink . He walks toward me, his boots sticking to the floor with a sickening, tacky sound. He stops inches away, the scent of copper and sweat overwhelming.
"Enjoying the show, Irina?" he asks. His eyes are dark, the pupils blown wide. He looks wild, untethered. "Or did you come down to offer a 'correction' of your own?"
"I was looking for you," I say. My voice is steadier than it has any right to be. I look at the man in the chair, then back at Mikhail. "He told you what you wanted?"
"He did." Mikhail reaches out, his hand hovering near my face. He pauses, seeing the blood on his knuckles, and pulls back. "My father arranged the warehouse. He’s been moving against Artyom from the inside. He’s been using us as a shield while he builds his own empire on the side."
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to talk to Artyom," Mikhail says, his voice turning cold again. He looks at me, his gaze sweeping over my running gear, his eyes narrowing. "Now.”
"Mikhail—"
"Wait in our room," he interrupts. He steps closer, his heat wrapping around me. He leans down, his mouth near my ear.
He pulls back, his hand finally coming up to cup my jaw, leaving a faint smear of red on my skin. He doesn't seem to notice. Or he doesn't care.
Mikhail gives the man in the chair one last, dismissive look, then turns and walks toward the stairs. "Lev! Clean this up. And make sure the doctor gets here before he bleeds out. I might need him to repeat that for Artyom."
I stay in the doorway, watching him go. The heavy scent of blood is still in my lungs, and the image of Mikhail’s splattered skin is burned into my retinas.
I’m not afraid of him. That’s the terrifying part. Seeing the brutality, seeing the gore... it didn't make me want to run. It just made me realize how far he’ll go to protect what he thinks is his.
He’s going to fight his war, I think, my hand going to the burner phone in my pocket. And I’m going to fight mine.
I wait until I hear the door slam. The house is quiet again, but it’s the silence of a grave.
I have a few hours.