Chapter 10
The lines are drawn, the pieces moving
ROMAN
She is everything I’ve ever imagined.
Everything I’ve plotted in silence, bled for in shadows, and built this empire to claim.
“How is your head, maya Valya?” I ask her, always keen as to her condition, as we stroll down the outer hallway of our room.
“It’s fine, Roman. Stop fussing.”
I crook a smile. She walks ahead of me, barefoot on the polished floors, clad in a form-fitting black dress with long sleeves and a hem that falls just shy of her shins.
It flares subtly at the end, moving like a shadow with every step.
She wears the necklace I gave her, a single strand of white pearls with a delicate amethyst teardrop.
Her golden curls cascade down her back, wild but soft.
She moves like an untamed creature—and God knows I don’t want her tamed. Simply ruled. I will harvest that wild spirit and make it my own. Like breaking a mare until it develops a deep bond of trust for its master. And only its master.
We reach the west sitting room. The fire’s already lit. The windows display the sea—endless gray, the whitecaps breaking like snapping teeth against the cliffside. And above the fireplace: the frames I’d directed Zina to place, each one a carefully-planted seed.
Valentina sees them.
Her pace slows, brows drawing together, that lovely mouth tightening. Suspicion. Recognition. Confusion. A trifecta I crave.
She steps toward the mantle and reaches for the first photo—her lying in the snow, cheeks flushed, laughing while making a snow angel. Zina did excellent work bringing my visions to life with the help of AI generation and high-tech printers.
She asks, quietly, “When was this taken?”
I don’t hesitate. “Last winter. You stormed out after accusing me of cheating at chess. I told you to cool off, and you did. Quite literally. You refused gloves, fell face-first into the snow, and made that angel out of pure spite.”
A small twitch of her lips. Not a smile. But not nothing.
She sets it down. Moves to the next.
This one’s more posed—her in a long white coat with leather gloves and a fur collar, hair pinned, standing with her back half-turned to the camera as she looks out over the sea. Regal. Composed. Isolated.
Her eyes linger. “I don’t remember this day.”
I step closer, just behind her shoulder. “You were restless that week,” I say smoothly. “Said the manor felt too quiet. I brought in a photographer to cheer you up. You hated the idea until you saw the wardrobe.”
She picks up the third. It’s the two of us seated across the chessboard. She looks exasperated. I look amused. She’s halfway to knocking over a bishop.
“You and your chess matches,” I murmur, watching her face.
“You do far better with social games. Charming as hell, Valya. Your reputation? It’s legendary.
You capture a room the moment you enter—everyone drawn to you like moths to a funeral pyre.
You can ruin a man with those royal eyes… or resurrect him.”
I illustrate a faux memory of how she would win every murder mystery-themed party we’ve held.
Returning the picture frame to the mantle, she eyes me from the side. “Only two years after a marriage of convenience. But you seem to enjoy watching me and studying me.”
I meet her eyes reflecting the firelight. “Every move. Every breath. Even when you thought you were alone.”
Suspicion creeps into her expression. “Why aren’t there more of these?” she asks. “Portraits. Pictures of us. If we’ve been married two years…”
“There are more,” I say smoothly. “In my private wing. I keep those for myself. The appropriate and less appropriate ones.”
She looks at me again. I don’t blink. Don’t shift. She’s still testing.
So, I offer her a version of the truth, laced with poison and silk.
“The first time I saw you,” I say, closing the distance between us and settling my thumb against her lower lip, “was at the Volkov’s winter gala.
You wore a deep crimson gown, like blood on snow.
And an intricate gold mask. A flame slipping through a room full of ice-veined predators.
I knew then you’d never belong to anyone but me. ”
She stills.
Her lower lip does not tremble beneath my touch, impressing me. She remembers none of it, but her instincts are screaming, some of this is real. That night was. She was nineteen. That night, she was mine.
Her lips part with unanswered questions, her eyes flicking to the room, expecting more clues. I lean in just enough for her to feel my warmth. “The world outside this manor doesn’t deserve to see you. But I do.”
She doesn’t answer.
But she doesn’t pull away when I kiss her.
I push open the chapel door, letting the warm flicker of candlelight spill into the hall. The reverent air smells of pine and wax, like even the silence remembers its purpose here.
“I had this restored last winter,” I tell Valentina, guiding her inside. “Figured God and I ought to renegotiate terms.”
She gives me a sideways look, amused, but before she can speak, I glance up and notice the familiar figure sitting on the front pew clutching his rosary beads.
“Ahh, yes. I assumed you’d be here,” I say, eager to introduce my wife to my most trusted staff member and old friend. Equal to Zina, of course.
Father Mikhail slowly stands and turns. A soft gasp leaves Valentina’s throat. Because one side of his face is burnt and twisted. He wears his collar beneath a heavy coat and military boots, and his friendly eyes miss nothing.
We meet him at the halfway mark of the chapel.
“Valentina,” I say, watching her take him in, “this is Father Mikhail. Spiritual advisor, licensed psychologist for my staff, and ex-special forces. Don’t let the cassock fool you—he can kill a man with his rosary.”
With a knowing smile, Mikhail folds his hands behind his back, eyeing Valentina. “Welcome. News of your unfortunate accident has spread. We will do everything in our power to help you rekindle your memory.”
I match his shrewd gaze. We’ve gone to hell and back together. Even Father Mikhail, bound to his saintly duties, will break the Ninth Commandment for me. His oath to me in repaying a debt is stronger than religious legalism.
Before Valentina can answer, the chapel door creaks again, revealing Zina, her crow Shalun perched on her shoulder like she’s some Slavic war witch.
“Any changes to the dinner menu?” she asks in a brisk voice, her subtle heels clicking on the polished wood floor. No acknowledgment of Mikhail, which is how I know she’s aware of him.
“Not yet,” I say, folding my arms, turning to Valentina. “Do you have any special requests, Moya Koroleva?”
She shakes her head, offering Zina a soft smile. “Whatever you and the chef decide, I’m sure it will be wonderful.”
“Good,” she sniffs, adjusting her silk scarf.
Mikhail smirks at her. “You might want to send Shalun outside. My cat’s nesting here again.”
As if summoned, the beast himself stirs from beneath the altar, stretching out of her dull orange-colored fur. She’s slow and elegant, like she knows she owns the room. Poppy pads toward Mikhail, tail flicking like a threat.
Shalun immediately lets out a shrill, anxious caw from Zina’s shoulder, wings flapping in agitation.
Her head snaps toward Mikhail. “Maybe your demon cat should be banned from civilized spaces.”
He shrugs, calm and unruffled. “She was here first.”
“She chases Shalun.”
“He’s faster.”
She narrows her eyes. “You would defend a spiteful orange furball with a murder streak.”
“And you,” he replies smoothly, “would defend a feathered menace with a superiority complex. Like owner, like bird.”
She hisses. “You insufferable two-face.”
“Tyrannical old hag.” He grins.
I chuckle, shaking my head, and lean close to Valentina, nudging her shoulder with mine. “Go on,” I whisper in her ear. “Enjoy the show. It only gets better.”
Mikhail straightens his coat with priestly solemnity, eyes flicking toward me. “May I make a suggestion for dinner?”
Zina scoffs. “Only if you plan to add your conniving cat to the menu.”
Valentina lifts a brow, smile growing. “Maybe we should just lock them in a confessional until they finally shag and get it over with.”
The silence is immediate. Both of them stare at her like she’s just performed an exorcism with a dirty joke.
Stunned, I turn to her and grin. For the first time in years, someone’s managed to shut them both up. I stare at her like she’s holy. I’m not just possessive. I’m fucking in love.
A subtle vibration resonates in my wrist, and I glance down at the digital chip in my arm. Something I had embedded a few years ago. Cutting-edge technology. It holds a thousand secrets—ones only unlocked by my DNA. I recognize the subtle summons from my father.
I knew it was coming. I clear my throat. “Enough mischief for tonight.” I nod toward Zina and Mikhail. “One of you, escort Valentina back to her room. I’ll meet you both for dinner shortly.”
Zina steps forward, and Mikhail falls in beside her. Their eyes center on my wife.
I turn back to Valentina, voice low. “You should rest. I plan to keep you quite busy later.”
Her cheeks flush, warmth spreading like wildfire. Before she can answer, I press a searing kiss to her lips—brief, but charged. A promise for more. Then I step away.
“I’ll see you soon.”
She watches me go as I depart from the chapel, the heavy doors thudding behind me.
I make my way through the dim halls with their thick rugs and heavy curtains. I slip into my office—a sanctuary welcoming me with the scent of leather and old bourbon. I’ve forged invisible blades here, plotted bloodshed.
I settle into the worn leather chair, the chip in my wrist buzzing insistently. I tap it. The screen lights up: my father. I answer in Russian, my voice clipped, formal. “Roman,” he says, all business, tone colder than the Alaskan weather. “Where are you?”
“Why? Disappointed I didn’t make the wedding, Otetz?”
“There was no wedding,” he says, voice lowered, brows drawn into a dark frown.
I don’t respond.
“There was a crash,” he says, voice grim.
“The Volkov limousine met some unfortunate trouble on the way. Valentina is missing. Your brother, Anton, and I are exhausting every resource to find her. Her father, Victor Volkov, is also involved. The vehicle was inspected, and sabotage was confirmed. This was no accident.”
I lean back, eyes on the window where the last light fades behind spruce and snow.
“Ransom?” I prompt.
“No ransom demands have been made. But we suspect a rival clan,” he says, steepling his fingers, assessing me. “One that fears the alliance between the Volkovs and the Makarovas. They want to stop the contract. They see our power threatening Russian interests overseas.”
Of course, no rival clan has Valentina. Only I would perform a move so bold.
Not born out of envy or revenge, but for taking what is rightfully mine.
I’d be a fool to ignore how the mere knowledge of her disappearance could shatter the fragile balance, tipping the scales toward chaos.
The tension between the clans will fray further, drawing in syndicates hungry to topple both the Makarovas and the Volkovs.
Perfect for me.
The Makarovas are a fortress, stronger and better protected, in no small part because of the fear of my name. But the Volkovs? They’re vulnerable now, and the sharks will smell blood, circling in the dark.
Other clans and syndicates will point fingers, trying to uncover who’s behind this and why. You don’t just kidnap the Princess of the Alaskan Peninsula without consequences. And those consequences could be the spark that ignites a war. The stakes are clear. The game has changed.
“I will offer my services and resources,” I say, buying time. “I will keep you informed if I learn anything.”
“I am sending you a new contract. And you will gather what information you can when you deal with the threat.”
I lean back in my chair and shake my head with assurance and purpose. “I will take no contract at this time. I have business to attend to.”
My father’s voice hardens. “You don’t turn down blood, Roman.”
I meet his challenge. “I’ve earned the right to pick my blade. It is still warm with blood from my recent contract.”
A vein throbs in his brow, betraying his anxiety, and his jaw is tight. There’s a long silence, then: “You’re not your own master. You know that.”
“Maybe it’s time I become one,” I say, resolve hardening like ice. “Send me the information about the contract, Отец. If my business resolves soon, and my schedule allows, I will handle it.”
I end the call, leaving only the quiet hum of the manor and the weight of what’s to come.
I run a hand through my hair and stare out at the darkening forest. All I see is Valentina’s face.
The lines are drawn, the pieces moving.
And I will wear the crown when the board shifts. With my Queen at my side.