Chapter Vadim
Vadim
The need to beat someone to a pulp was still there. Even as I pulled out of her.
I went to the drawer and retrieved tissues to clean up, ignoring her head dangling off the edge of the desk beside me as though she hadn’t a care in the world.
“Get your clothes on and wait here. Radovan will be up to take you home shortly,” I said, keeping my voice even.
“Yes, Pakhan,” she said.
Insolently.
I was going to kill her.
She slid off the desk and began gathering her clothes from the floor. I slammed the drawer shut and locked it, the sound sharper than I intended.
This was what I got for taking her out. For showing her a little appreciation. For giving her additional resources. Not one but three credit cards and an evening in my city.
I was stuck with her until she gave birth.
I left while she was pulling her dress over her head. She had turned to face the window and didn’t look back as I walked out.
Bogdan was in the corridor. His relaxed posture evaporated the moment he saw my face.
“Give Radovan the keys and tell him to drop—Mrs Dragunov home,” I said, handing the keys over. “We’re going to the pit.”
He followed me into the elevator without a word.
The doors closed.
I cracked my neck.
Someone was going to have a very bad night.
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The pit took lives.
Not every night. But enough that everyone who entered understood the possibility.
The fighting was unregulated—no rounds, no referee, no bell to save you.
The betting was profitable precisely because of that.
Men wagered on outcomes that had no rules governing them, which meant the odds shifted on instinct and reputation and the look in a man’s eyes when he stepped through the cage door.
Tonight my eyes were not reassuring.
A perfect outlet for me.
The cage door slammed shut, locking us in.
I eyed the hefty fucker up. He looked spooked—which was either good instincts or bad luck, and either way wasn’t going to help him.
“Forget that I am the Pakhan tonight,” I said, slapping my bandaged fist into my palm. “Don’t hold back. Because I won’t.”
The crowd responded. Cheers, whistling, empty cans thrown at the cage from the watching men, the charged atmosphere of a room that could smell blood coming and approved.
“Go on, brat,” Konstantin called from outside the cage. “Show them you haven’t gone soft.”
I smiled.
I began to circle. The fighter across from me had found his nerve—squaring up, weight distributed, fists raised. Credit to him.
“Come on,” I said. “Hit me.”
He jabbed. I ducked. Fast for his size—faster than he looked, which was the most dangerous kind.
“Hit me, pussy,” I said, raising my fists.
His blow came from nowhere. Fist connecting with my jaw, my head snapping to the side, the clean bright shock of impact moving through my skull.
The crowd erupted.
“That’s it,” I laughed, rolling my neck. “There you go.”
The hit emboldened him. His defensive posture loosened. He thought he had found something.
He moved again.
This time I lunged sideways, pivoting low, and came up with the uppercut. His head flew back. Before he could recover I was already on him—pummelling, relentless, no space between the blows.
Left, right, left, right, left, right.
He staggered. Tried to raise his hands.
I landed a right hook to his kidneys.
He went down.
I dove on top of him and kept going. The crowd noise became something shapeless, a wall of sound. There was nothing in my head except the impact — fist on face, blood, bone, the wet sound of it, the particular satisfaction of a body that needed to hit something finally hitting something.
Blood. Bone. Spit. All of it spilling out beneath me.
Someone called my name from behind the cage.
I didn’t stop.
Arms locked around mine from behind. Bodies hauled me back, multiple sets of hands, the grip of men who knew better than to be gentle about it.
“I think you won, Vadim,” Konstantin drawled from outside the cage, entirely unmoved. “You made me good money.”
I shook the hands off.
Looked down at the man on the floor.
Looked at the cage door.
“Send the next one in,” I said, cracking my neck.
I wasn’t done yet.
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I paused at the top of the stairs.
Forced myself not to look down the hallway.
The contract was built to preserve my lifestyle and protect my progeny. She had read it, signed it as a competent adult, and could damn well live with it. As could I.
I strode to my bedroom. Tikhon kept his distance, following behind me but remained close to the stairs.
No one had breathed a word on the drive back. Bogdan stared out of the window the entire journey with the focused neutrality of a man who had learned exactly when to be invisible.
I stripped out of my clothes and went to the bathroom to inspect the damage.
One cut lip. Bruised knuckles, the right hand worse than the left.
The pit had vented some of it—the specific pressure that built when something refused to resolve itself the way it was supposed to.
But coming home with her at the end of the hall had dragged it back up before I’d even reached the gates.
I turned the shower on and stepped in without waiting for the temperature to settle.
The cold hit first. I let it.
Work.
Heir.
Nothing more and nothing less.
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Radovan hovered in the doorway until I glanced up.
“What is it?” I asked, resuming spreading butter on my rye bread.
The same butter dish. The same kitchen counter. I noted the detail and said nothing.
“Mrs Dragunov—”
My head snapped up. He paused, shifting his weight beside the door.
“She seems to be applying for jobs.”
“What kind of jobs?”
“I couldn’t determine that. I saw her updating her résumé and browsing a recruitment site.”
She already had a job. Producing my heir.
“She’s on lockdown until I say otherwise,” I said, pouring my tea.
He nodded and departed quickly.
I took a bite of bread and opened my calendar. Her cycle had been mapped—period, projected ovulation, the window of optimal opportunity. Another twenty-four hours before I reminded her exactly why she resided under my roof.
I messaged Grigori. Told him to bring her brother back to Chernograd.
If she caused any further problems, the boy might prove useful.
For the last week she had been avoiding me.
That would end soon enough.