11 - Leonid
11
Leonid
—
I wake in a heap of warm limbs and tangled sheets. Every muscle aches. My cock is sore. My head swirls with fuzz, and it takes a minute to remember where the fuck I am.
Beside me, Frankie is curled up on Kody’s chest. She’s so much smaller than him, like a child sleeping on a giant, hugging his bicep with both arms as he holds her in place.
And the legs entwined with mine? Yeah, those are his.
Better his legs than the fully erect limb between them.
I have no interest in going near that thing. Not purposefully. Not accidentally. Not even when it’s inside the hole I want to be in.
Last night, what we did together…I didn’t want it, fearing it would trigger my demons and resurface memories with Denver I don’t want to ever relive.
But it didn’t.
It was fucking incredible.
Do I have sexual thoughts about Kody? Fuck no. I’m not my father.
But the pressure of Kody’s fingers inside her while I fucked her? That was different. It was unreal. We were connected—the three of us—in a new way, and I loved every fucking second of it.
Doesn’t mean I want to rub dicks with him, but I wouldn’t mind a repeat of last night.
As if I said all that aloud, he cracks open an eye and aims it at me.
I roll out of bed. “Nice morning wood, Uncle Kody.”
“Don’t ever call me that.”
“Someone needs to make it uncomfortable since Wolf isn’t here.”
I feel like Wolf this morning—sarcastic, offensive, playful, and ready to fuck things up.
The temperature in the room finally dropped through the night. The desk still barricades the door, and my fiery little redhead is so full of come it’ll be leaking out of her for days.
I reach toward the heavens in a full-body, naked stretch, feeling like a goddamn stud. With a satisfied groan, I step outside through the open French doors and soak in the first light of dawn.
Floating toward the railing, I grip my cock.
“Leo,” Frankie says sleepily, “don’t you dare pee off that balcony.”
Busted.
I drop my hand. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The brisk morning air gives me an invigorating rush, the breeze chilly and refreshing, not lethal. I take a deep breath, savoring the rich scents of pine and loam.
The balcony hangs over a steep ravine of moss, facing the secluded side of the main house. Frankie was right. No one can climb this high, not even with a ladder.
The estate’s primary living areas and bedrooms are located at the other end. No windows on this side. Except one. A cracked half-moon window sits beneath the eaves of the roof.
Is that an attic? I didn’t see access to it during my walk-through.
From my vantage point, I can see directly into that window. If I were standing in there, I would have a perfect view of the bed behind me.
Good thing I turned off the lights last night.
I return my attention to the island landscape and all its lush, green vegetation. Everywhere I look, life bursts forth in every direction, vibrant and full of energy.
The melodious calls of songbirds echo through the trees. The underbrush rustles with the movement of critters. Squirrels scurry along branches, and somewhere nearby, gentle waves lap at the shore.
This place is surreal.
Surrounded by the feeling of growth and renewal…I can get used to this.
The Arctic is beautiful in its own way, with its endless horizons and the silent majesty of icy hills. But it’s cruel and unforgiving.
Here, there’s a sense of possibility, of more.
I turn back to the room and catch something at the edge of my vision.
A cold, prickling sensation spins me back around, my eyes narrowing, focusing on the shadows beyond the tree line.
Still and silent, a man-shaped silhouette stands there, staring back at me.
I squint, trying to make out details, but the figure is too far away, too shrouded in the dappled shade of the trees.
Fucking unnerving the way it just stands there, like a goddamn ghost.
Or is it moving?
My heart gallops as the thing shifts, almost imperceptibly, floating backward, retreating into the deeper shadows of the forest. The way it moves, so fluidly yet deliberately, chills my blood.
What the ever-loving fuck?
I lean closer to the railing.
Slowly, it fades into the tree cover, becoming one with the shade, until it’s gone.
Did I imagine that?
Fuck .
I scrub a hand over my face. It must’ve been one of the many security guards on the island, doing their rounds. I’m just being paranoid.
But something about the way it stood, the way it watched me, lingers like a cold fist around my heart.
Dismissing the unease, I turn away, lock the door behind me, and follow the trail of discarded clothes to the bathroom.
Frankie and Kody watch me with heavy-lidded eyes, not ready to leave the bed. Bite marks and hickeys cover her tits from Kody’s barbaric mouth. More hickeys discolor her neck.
She looks well fucked and deeply loved.
After I shower and get ready for the day, I return to the room to find them both asleep.
Slipping into the closet, I pull on a T-shirt and jeans, loving the fit more than I should.
Being dependent on the Strakh family patriarch makes my skin crawl. It feels too much like the life we just escaped.
Quietly, I push the desk away from the bedroom door.
“Where are you going?” Kody’s gravelly voice drifts from the bed.
“Need to walk the outside perimeter of the guest house.”
“Thought you did that last night before you came up here.”
“I did, but it was dark. I need to see it in the daylight, make sure I didn’t miss anything.” I open the door, reengage the lock, and step out. “Then I’ll head to the main house.”
“No fistfights, assfucker.”
“No promises, cocksucker. Don’t let her out of your sight.” I shut the door on his grunt.
After my perimeter sweep, I stroll along the paths through the island’s interior with the image of that shadowy figure in my mind. I look for it amid the vibrant life around me, glancing back at the trees, half-expecting to find those haunting eyes staring back at me.
The few security guards I pass make themselves known, stepping out of the shadows to nod at me.
Their presence eases my trepidation, and eventually, I find my way back to the covered patio behind the main house.
Sitting beneath the overhang, Monty sips from a mug and types on his phone.
His head lifts as I approach, and his expression takes me aback.
Rage.
It twists his features and leaks from his rigid posture. A leak he’s struggling to contain.
His eyes, bloodshot and bruised from my fists, sink into his face like he hasn’t slept in days. But holy fuck, that glare cuts into me, cleaving and hacking with murderous intent.
The scent of alcohol clings to him, heavy and pungent, despite the presence of aftershave and cologne. He slumps over a cup of coffee, his hand trembling as he pours more whiskey into it, the amber liquid swirling in the dark brew.
His freshly washed hair clumps across his brow, still damp. His suit hangs askew on his hunched shoulders.
A mess of cuts and bruises covers one hand, his knuckles swollen and raw, adding to the image of a man who’s losing a battle with himself.
A man on the brink of self-destruction.
And hungover.
Last night was long for Montgomery Strakh, and I don’t have to guess why.
How many punches did he throw in a jealous rage? How many bottles of whiskey did he escape into?
Nothing will bring her back to him.
I feel a twinge of compassion as I engage his venomous stare. Just a twinge. Nothing more.
He hurt my girl and deserves every stab of guilt and pain that torments him.
Pulling out the chair across from him, I settle in. “You look like shit.”
He drags his angry gaze over my tied-back hair, beard, and clenched teeth in my feral smile. “You look like you’re ready to raid a village and rape its women.”
“Already pillaged and plundered this morning. Met my quota for the day.” I rest my elbows on the table, leaning in. “Let’s cut the bullshit. I see the temper you’re trying to conceal beneath that suit. I recognize it.” I hold up my hand, letting him inspect the scarred skin across my knuckles. “Guys like us can’t exorcise our demons without breaking things.” I tilt my head. “What are your demons?”
“I think you know.”
“I know one of them. I lived with him for twenty-seven years.”
He bends his fingers, stretching the broken skin as he broods and ruminates. The forced casualness in his movements doesn’t hide the ticking time bomb in his eyes.
“Do you see that sick fuck when you look at me?” I ask.
“You are his son.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No.” His gaze fixates on me, his tone biting and cold. “I don’t see him in you. Your eyes are…fucking strange.”
“Strange is better than evil.”
“You look like your mother. Tia.”
“Tell me about her.” My breath quickens at the thrill of that discovery. “Did she have my eyes?”
“I don’t remember. Never paid attention to her. Never talked to her.”
“Because she was the lowly help? The groundskeeper’s daughter?”
“No. Because she was a child .”
“That’s fair.” I sit back and drum my fingers on the table. “Let’s talk about why you didn’t sleep last night.”
Since I know Frankie is the reason, I expect him to either shut down or blow a fuse.
He does neither.
“I haven’t slept in nine months.” He clears his throat, his jaw flexing. “I failed her. I won’t gloss over my mistakes with generic words. I fucked up, and I own it.”
“You have the knuckles of a man who’s unraveling. You own that, too?”
“Takes one to know one.”
“Considering the things my father did to me and my brothers, I’m entitled to some unraveling.”
He shuts his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply. Then he meets my gaze. “I don’t talk about my feelings. I push it all down and pack it away until I break. Or break something.” He glances at his hand. “I’m not afraid of vulnerability. So if you think I’ll slink off with my tail between my legs rather than face what I’ve done, you’re wrong. I’ll show up for her, one hundred percent, even on my worst days when I’m stripped and gutted with my jealousy and guilt hanging out of the holes in my chest.”
Well, that was…candid.
Part of me wants to believe him. The other part hopes he’s lying, so I can justify rearranging his face every time he looks at Frankie.
Denver camouflaged his evil beneath a charming smile and composed demeanor.
Is Monty a monster like my father? Or is he just a miserable pantywaist with no ill intent? If it’s the latter, she’ll eventually forgive him. She’s too compassionate to hold onto her resentment for long.
But will she trust him again?
God, I fucking hope not.
We sit in a stifling standoff, neither of us speaking, until the back door creaks open.
A man with a wrinkled scowl steps outside. He’s older, distinguished, with a judgmental look in his eyes that immediately makes me uneasy.
He strides toward us with a sense of purpose, chin held high, his gait ceremonious and deliberate.
“You must be Leonid, Monty’s nephew.” He bows his head in a formal gesture, his silver hair meticulously combed back from a stern brow.
My eyes narrow. He knows who I am?
“I’m Oliver.” His voice carries a faint accent, tinged with an old-world courtesy that feels out of place. “I’m responsible for making Monty eat, though I’ve done a terrible job as of late.” He gives Monty’s thin frame a disapproving once-over.
The man’s tailored navy suit seems too courtly for the casual setting. A gold watch chain peeks from his vest pocket, glinting in the early light.
Weird.
“Are you the butler?” I ask.
“The chef.” He sniffs. “Would you like coffee? Juice? Something to eat?”
“Sure. Coffee, food, and…” I flick a hand at the whiskey. “Some of that.”
“I think we’re finished with that.” With lightning speed, Oliver snatches the bottle before Monty can stop him. Stepping out of reach, he continues as if he didn’t just cut off his employer’s drinking. “Will Frankie and Kodiak be joining you?”
“In a while.” I glance back at Monty, whose glare hasn’t softened.
“Any food allergies or special diets, Leonid?” Oliver’s pronunciation of my name is a bit too precise in that accent, hinting at a past that likely began in Russia.
“It’s Leo. And I’ll eat anything you put in front of me.”
“Very well.” He shoots Monty another glower before marching back into the house.
I shift, making the chair groan. “I get the feeling your chef spits in your food.”
“He’s a pompous old prick who doesn’t know his place.”
“Why don’t you fire him?”
“He makes the best Eggs Benedict in Alaska.”
“Or could it have something to do with his history with your family?”
Monty’s head snaps up, eyes wide, before he quickly refastens the scowl. “ Our family.”
“Sure. Your father. My grandfather. Whatever. Oliver worked for Rurik.”
“What makes you think that?”
“The accent.”
“His accent is too subtle for the untrained ear.” He absently traces the rim of his cup, studying me.
“I heard it.”
“Denver trained you well. Did he teach you Russian?”
“He didn’t know Russian.”
“Yes, he did. We were both taught at a young age.”
“Well, he kept that from us. Nothing new there. What’s Oliver’s story?”
He adjusts the cuffs of his sleeves, a peculiar habit that surfaces whenever he’s stalling. “Oliver was Rurik’s butler in Russia.” His gaze darts to the back door. “When my father fled to America, I was an infant, and he never spoke to Oliver again.”
“Yet here he is, working for you.”
“I keep track of Rurik’s known associates. When Oliver immigrated to Alaska many years ago, I hired him.”
“Why?”
“To find out if he was a threat against my family and to ensure he didn’t know who I was. When I cut ties with my parents and changed my name, I didn’t want anyone to find me.”
“You fear Rurik’s enemies?”
“I don’t fear them. But I like to know if someone is hunting me.”
“What about Frankie?” Air catches in my lungs. “Would they go after her?”
“Not without me knowing.”
“Considering she was abducted from your house, I don’t have a lot of faith in your awareness or security.”
His eyes blaze, and his fingers flex and release, a rhythm of barely restrained aggression.
For a moment, I think he might try to rip my throat out. Instead, he takes a long breath, his shoulders sagging.
“You’re right. I was complacent, overly confident in my handle on things, and too focused on my career to see the danger lurking on my island.” His voice drops to a deadly snarl, each word a weapon aimed at himself. “My failures put her through nine months of hell and caused her unfathomable pain. I can’t undo what I’ve done, and it’s eating me alive.”
He pauses, looking away as if gathering his composure.
When he focuses on me again, steely determination draws his features in harsh strokes.
“I made changes to the security protocols on the island. All new equipment, motion detectors, outdoor cameras, and a rotation of vetted guards with twenty-four-hour surveillance. I also hired a self-defense instructor to train her.” He straightens. “This is not the same place she was abducted from. I won’t let anything happen to her again.”
“Neither will I.” My breath steadies as I consider the security weaknesses I found during my tour of the estate. There aren’t many. “Frankie gave me a passcode for the door to the guest house. Is that a code she had before?”
“Yes. I reactivated it last night so she could get in. I’ll assign new ones today for all of you.”
“What code did Denver use to get in?”
“He figured out my personal code.”
“How?”
“It was the date of his assassination.”
“That’s fucked up.”
“Yeah.”
I see the torment in his expression, the anger at himself for failing, and the determination to make things right.
In that flicker of vulnerability, he appears to fight with himself to say something, his jaw working and his eyes flaring with conflict.
“I’m sorry.” He pushes the apology past his teeth, the words rough and strained with angry pain. “I should’ve killed your father when I learned what he was. Running to Rurik was cowardly. If I’d done it myself, Denver wouldn’t have been able to ruin your life.”
Dark hatred burns in his gaze. Even though some of that loathing is for me, his guilt makes me reconsider my harshness.
“You were nineteen. No one faults you for not wanting to murder your own brother.” I choke on a mirthless laugh. “If anything, my existence is to blame.”
Denver said as much in the video.
A twist of fate spared me when I confessed to my father that same week that I would be a father. I got sweet, little Tia Langston pregnant, and that revelation stayed my father’s hand.
“No.” Monty winces, his guilt deepening. “The mistakes were mine, and I’ve paid dearly for them.” He stares at his busted knuckles, the malice in his voice softening into regret. “I won’t let Frankie suffer for my failures any longer. I’ll do whatever it takes to protect her, to make things right.”
“There’s a crack in the arched window that faces the guest house.” I gesture in the general direction.
His eyes lock onto mine. Then he blinks. “I’ll let Greyson know.”
“The landscaper?”
“He’s also the handyman.”
“Does he wear a suit and gold pocket watch, too?”
“No.”
“So the window…Is it attic space?”
“Yes.”
“I want to see it.”
“It’s a mess up there. Just a bunch of old furniture and—”
“Then you won’t mind me poking around.”
“Of course.” His eye contact holds steady, his anger and hatred of me just beneath the surface. “It’s important that we keep certain conversations between ourselves. The guards, Oliver, Greyson, Aurora—there are too many ears, always listening. Be mindful of what you say in front of them.”
“What do you mean?”
“No one knows our full story. Only the four of us and Melanie Stokes have the details.”
“Do you trust the lawyer with this information?”
“I don’t trust anyone. Melanie was hired by Frankie.”
“Hang on. So Oliver doesn’t know anything? Does he know you’re Rurik’s son?”
“He didn’t learn I’m a Strakh until he saw it in the news. He didn’t even know Rurik had a second son.”
“Or a third son.” I grimace at the reminder of how Kody was conceived. “Does he know Kody’s your brother?”
“I told him yesterday when I informed him you would be staying here.”
“How long has Oliver worked for you?”
“Twenty-five years.”
“And you didn’t trust him enough to tell him your real identity?”
“I don’t trust anyone,” he snaps, short-tempered. “I kept him on my payroll because I wanted him close and…”
“He makes the best Eggs Benedict.”
“Yes.”
“But he knows everything now?”
He shifts his eyes back to the door, his voice low. “He only knows what I’m feeding to the press. While I was in Whittier, news of Frankie’s disappearance and my brother’s possible connection to it exploded in the media. Oliver didn’t know about Denver’s existence until he saw it on TV. No one did. When the story hit, I controlled the narrative as much as possible. I’m still controlling it.”
“What’s the narrative?” My mind spins.
The door opens, and Oliver emerges, balancing trays in both hands.
The aroma hits me first—a rich blend of coffee and the savory scent of meat, lemon, and eggs.
“Eggs Benedict.” He sets the trays down before us, revealing two perfectly plated servings.
Poached eggs rest atop slices of Canadian bacon and English muffins, all generously covered in a glossy, golden sauce. On the side, there’s a mound of crispy hash browns and a steaming cup of dark, fragrant coffee.
The sight mesmerizes me, each element artfully arranged. The smell is even better, a mouthwatering smack of butter, eggs, and tangy vinegar from the yellow sauce.
I dig in without hesitation, and the flavors burst in my mouth. “Holy fuck.”
The creamy richness of the yellow stuff blends perfectly with the runny egg yolk. The smoky saltiness of the Canadian bacon, the crunch of the toasted English muffin…
“Christ.” I chew greedily, savoring each mouthful, my taste buds reveling in the experience. “This is fucking amazing.”
I glance up to see Oliver watching me with a pleased expression, his grin softening his stern features.
As he turns to pour Monty’s coffee, the smile vanishes, replaced by cold, simmering anger.
He drips coffee over Monty’s eggs with deliberate rudeness, his lips pressed into a thin line. The silent fury in his eyes chills the damn air.
When he steps back, his expression returns to that of a stoic servant. He gives me a final nod before leaving, the door closing behind him with a soft click.
As I look at Monty, who remains sullen and unresponsive, I realize why he tolerates the old man’s blatant insubordination.
Guilt.
He didn’t trust Oliver or Frankie with his identity. If he’d told Oliver who he was, he might’ve had a much-needed friend for the past few months rather than sharing this massive estate with an employee who resents him.
Then again, I’m a stranger in a strange land. Maybe Monty’s distrust in everyone is what’s kept him alive.
Still, I can’t help but point out the obvious. “That man is harboring some deep-seated animosity toward you. Might want to check your eggs for rat poison.”
“He wouldn’t dare.”
“What about the animosity you’re harboring toward me? Should I check my food for poison?”
“Yes.”
A swallow of eggs sticks in my throat.
“I want you dead.” He pitches forward, his breath a surging tide of wrath. “I want to fucking bury you.”
There it is. The venom that’s been boiling beneath every glance, every word since I sat down. He’s about to pop a blood vessel.
“Why?” I smile, provoking him.
“Why?” His eyes go wild, and he slams his injured fist onto the table, unleashing his rage with a roar. “You’re fucking my wife!”