Chapter 17
Zoya
Ifix my pace to his and count. Eighty-three paces to the bend in the hedge. One hundred and twenty to the cedar. Two hundred and ten to the start of the track. I file it all away, my lungs burning in the cold, my thighs warming with the steady climb.
The path narrows where the hedges pinch, and damp earth kicks up underfoot.
I catch the faint hum of a camera on the corner of the south wall.
Another at the gatehouse hub, half-hidden by ivy.
I keep going, breath steadying into a rough rhythm.
The wind slices my cheeks raw and bright.
I like it. It strips away the stale air of that suite and fills my lungs with something that feels like freedom, even if it isn’t.
Roman’s pace never falters. He runs like he does everything—precise, measured, with the brutal confidence of a man who has never once doubted his body, or that I, will obey.
“Left,” he says as the track forks.
I follow, eyes darting to the wall beyond the trees. Razor wire glints on top. Discreet posts at intervals. Electric? Likely. The hum I hear could be from that or the cameras. Either way, not friendly.
We hit a rise and crest it together. From here, I get a clearer line on the gatehouse. Two men inside, both vigilant.
“Eyes front,” he repeats.
“Do you ever get tired of your own voice?” I say, picking up the pace. “It’s very… supervisory.”
He cuts me a cool glance. “Do you ever get tired of mistaking stubborn for clever?”
“Never.”
I edge one step towards the thicker section of trees where the ground dips. It’s small, nothing dramatic. A toe over an invisible line.
“Don’t even think about it, or the leash becomes physical.”
My breath catches at the threat. I don’t doubt for a second he would.
I rein it in, folding that urge to test into something more useful. Counting. Mapping. I push my breath through my nose, steady and controlled, and fix on the rhythm of our feet as we take the curve.
A stand of laurel hugs a secondary gate I didn’t clock before.
Not the main entrance—smaller, half hidden by hedging and a lichen-stained wall.
There’s a keypad in the brick pier, shielded by a metal hood.
I file it away. Keypad, laurel, hedge seam.
Eighty steps from the cedar bench. One hundred and ten from the south corner camera.
“Enough. Time to return,” he says.
“Tired.”
“Concerned.”
The way he clips it out makes me think it isn’t about me trying to escape. “What’s happened?” I ask.
“Movement. Someone is here.”
I frown. How did he know that from here?
We turn back and head straight back across the lawn towards the house. I don’t argue. Someone could be Nik here to grab and then auction me off. I have to wonder if Roman would bid on me. It’s a comforting thought even as it sends ripples of unease over my skin.
As we reach the back door of the sprawling mansion, Roman stops and positions me between his body and the door.
“Dad,” he says as an older man approaches.
Peeking out from around Roman’s massive bulk, I take him in. The Voronov pakhan.
The coldness in his eyes gets to me. Completely dead.
“Roman,” he says, his voice heavily accented. “Get her inside. We need to talk.”
Roman doesn’t question it. He doesn’t need to, because his pakhan—dad or not—has spoken.
Roman shifts, a living wall between his father and me, and the message is clear: move. I step inside, the boot room smelling of damp and polish, my breath still sharp from the run. Roman shuts the door with a quiet finality that makes the hairs on my arms rise.
“Upstairs,” he says, eyes on me, voice a command wrapped in silk.
We lock gazes, but the challenge dies on my lips when a security detail looms into view.
He is a byk if I ever saw one, and I move instinctively closer to Roman.
The security guard grunts at me and moves off, expecting me to follow.
When I don’t, he stops and turns around, gripping my wrist tightly.
Roman acts in an instant. His hand clamps down on the other man’s wrist as he pulls his weapon from the chest rig. The guard’s hand peels from my skin, and I clutch my arm to my chest as Roman slams the man’s hand against the wall, pressing the barrel to the palm of his hand.
He pulls the trigger.
The guard’s blood explodes across the pristine wall, arterial red on stark white.
My jaw locks open, vocal cords seizing as the wet splatter hits the wall. Air rasps through my windpipe like sandpaper, but no sound emerges—just the thundering pulse in my ears drowning out everything but the ringing in my ears.
The guard’s face contorts, but the sound that escapes his clenched teeth is barely a whimper—a man trained to swallow agony.
“Touch what’s mine again,” Roman growls, “and I’ll take the whole hand.” His eyes lock on mine, savage and possessive. “He won’t hurt you again, malyshka.”
“He didn’t—”
“Katya,” he says calmly, and the woman appears like a ghost. “Take Miss Antonova back to her room and then deal with Ymir’s… injury.”
“Yes, Mr Voronov,” she murmurs, bobbing into a curtsey.
“Roman,” his dad says, stepping forward as Roman holsters his gun. “Library. Now.”
Roman nods grimly, and without a look back, he follows his father through a door near the boot room.
Katya makes a noise in her throat that I assume means, “Come.”
I go, the blood draining from my face as I go a bit lightheaded. I’ve never seen… Daddy protected me from the worst. I heard things, I visualised, but I’ve never seen someone shot so brutally, so casually before.
Katya leads me out into the entrance hall, and we head for the stairs. I’m still clutching my wrist. “Ymir hurt you?” she asks.
I stare blankly at her for a moment and then shake my head, dropping my arm. “Not really.”
She mutters something and then pulls out a small, flat silver flask from her apron. “Here. You look like you could use a drink.”
My gaze drops to it. “No, I’m okay.”
“Drink,” she says in a tone that I daren’t disobey.
I take it from her and remove the lid. The strong smell of vodka hits my senses, and I press it to my lips, taking a small sip.
I make a noise of appreciation as I recognise the smooth, slightly sweet taste of Grey Goose. Swallowing, I let the alcoholic burn drift through my veins, and then I take another, long sip. “French,” I say with a slow smile.
Katya takes the flask back with a grim smile. “Don’t tell the pakhan. He finds it offensive.”
“Let me guess, Beluga Epicure?”
She snorts in amusement. “You know your vodkas.”
“You seem to forget who my father was.”
She narrows her eyes. “I knew exactly who your father was, Devochka.”
Katya throws back the bolt on my room door and ushers me inside. I’m not sure how I should take her comment about my dad.
I step over the threshold and stop. The room feels smaller than it did an hour ago. Blood exploding across white plaster imprints itself behind my eyelids and won’t shift.
I turn to Katya. “What did you mean, you knew exactly who my father was?”
She scoffs and shuts the door with a heavy click. “He was what he was, Devochka. Generous, cruel, soft, ruthless. Depends on the day and who stood in front of him.”
It lands like a truth I’ve always known but never named. I swallow, swallow again when it doesn’t go down. “The guard. Ymir. You’ll… fix him?”
“Da.” She jerks her chin. “He won’t touch you again.” Her gaze flicks to my wrist. “Let me see.”
I show her the skin. Red marks in the shape of fingers bloom, a faint sting under the surface. She grunts, pulls out a tiny brown bottle and a wad of gauze from her apron pocket. “Arnica,” she says. “For bruising.”
“You carry Grey Goose and arnica on your person? What else have you got in there?”
She grins. It’s slightly sinister, and goosebumps ripple over my skin. “I am not just a housekeeper,” she retorts, dabbing with surprising gentleness.
I almost laugh. It comes out as a thin breath. She steps back and studies me like she’s counting bones.
Katya’s eyes sweep over me. “He does not like to be disobeyed,” she says tersely.
“Which one?” I ask, my voice coming out thinner than I want.
Her mouth twists. “Both.”
I swallow, throat tight. “He shot his own man.”
“For touching you,” she replies bluntly. “You think that is not a message?”
It is. It’s a raised flag, blood-red and fluttering.
“You run well for a printsessa. Keep fit. It’s good.”
“Thanks,” I say drily. “Do I get a sticker?”
“You want a sticker? Ask Mr Voronov. Maybe he gives you a whole gold star, or maybe a car.”
“I had a car.” The words slip out, bitter. “He hijacked it.”
“Borrowed,” she corrects. “It is in the garage with the others.” She opens the door a crack, slips through, and bolts it on the other side. I breathe out slowly and pace, counting steps, just to silence the high-pitched ringing in my head.
My pacing takes me to the ducks. I touch the smallest one, cool and smooth, and think of Dad.
Of the red ledger and those letters that refuse to rearrange into sense.
76-T-MK. The numbers itch under my skin like a rash I can’t reach.
Sunday chess. Mum’s favourite book. War and Peace.
The Master and Margarita. MK. Margarita.
T as in Tchaikovsky? Tolstoy? I dig my nails into my palm.
Too many threads, not enough knots. I move to the window and stare out over the grounds.
There is a flurry of activity. Is this in response to their man half-down?
Or is something else coming? Roman’s dad, whose name escapes me, even though I have heard it somewhere in the past, coming here to talk to Roman is probably not in itself a major occurrence.
But the way the guards are currently manoeuvring suggests an event outside of the norm.
I press my palm to the cold glass and count bodies, routes, angles.
Whatever that meeting is downstairs, it shifts the ground under my feet.