34. Octavia
My thumb brushes the smooth mahogany edge as I study Dad’s speculative expression across the table. Furrowed brows shelve those hooded, green eyes, forming a pronounced divot in the center of his tanned forehead. The polished wooden bishop flips over in the crook of my palm.
It’s been a month since I made the deal to train with Vasiliy, and I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’ll never feel like the girl I was in New York.
The realization arrived with a surprising measure of peace.
Each time I clawed my way out of bed and got dressed for training, the load I was carrying felt a little lighter.
These days, I actually look forward to Vasiliy appearing in the morning with a fresh cup of coffee and two hair ties to braid my hair with.
I can tell Dad’s pleased with the progress as well. It’s not so hard anymore to leave my room and look him in the eye. He’s not disappointed, Vasiliy must have said a hundred times. He’s only worried about you. I’m not sure when I actually started to believe the words.
I used to believe dancing was the only thing keeping me alive. But that Octavia, the one who was the first to enter the studio and pin up her hair, died in the dark corner of the cage. Her cheek was unmarred. She could only dream of killing the men who haunted her nightmares.
“Octavia.”
Dad’s mouth moves around each syllable of my name before tugging down into his trademark frown.
“Hm?”
“Pay attention to the board,” he responds, gesturing to the checkered squares spreading between us.
“I am paying attention.” I hold up the polished wooden piece resting in my loose grip. “See? I’ve got your horsey.”
“Knight,” he sighs, rubbing his temple in exasperation. “They’re called knights, love. We’ve been over this.”
“Whatever,” I toss the black horse into the air and catch it by the head. “Doesn’t matter what you call it. I have it, and you have nothing,” I respond with a cheeky smile.
Today marks our fourth chess lesson, and I have a feeling it might be the day I finally win one of these things.
I’m still not sure why Dad wanted to teach me chess, of all things, considering all of the badass activities we could be bonding over together.
I mean, the man runs a criminal empire, for Christ’s sake.
I was hoping he could teach me something more fun, like getaway-car driving or how to build a pipe bomb.
Come on. I wouldn’t actually do it—I’m just curious.
He leans forward, picking up one of those teeny-tiny pieces and pushing it forward into a new square. Boring move. Maybe he yearns for a senior-living facility. We all want what we don’t have, right?
“Octavia.”
“What?”
“It’s your move,” he responds with an amused smile.
Gah. I pick up my tower-guy and knock out one of his bigger pieces with a destructive flourish, collecting it for my graveyard. When I finally look back up, one of his eyebrows is raised.
“What?” I gasp, recognizing the expression. “What’s wrong? What did I do?”
That annoying smirk returns to his lips when he moves his candlestick-thing into a pathway I didn’t anticipate, capturing my shiny king. His calloused, tattooed fingers pluck my piece from its square with unnecessary delicacy as he says, “Checkmate.”
“Mother of—”
“You weren’t paying attention, love,” he admonishes softly, setting the piece down.
“Yes, I most certainly was.” I’m tired of losing this dumb game. “You know what? Vasiliy and I are going to watch a chess documentary tonight, and we’ll hold a rematch this time tomorrow. Prepare to cry.”
He grins, sitting back into his seat and folding his arms. “You can spend all night watching videos, and you still won’t win tomorrow. Want to know why?”
“Fine,” I hiss, folding my arms to mirror him. “Why can’t I win?”
His fingers drum patiently against his desk. “You never play the long game.”
I just knew it was going to be some vague load of philosophical crap. “I play to win.”
“And yet, you never do. You’re always so concerned with the large pieces that you never assess the systematic threat. You think you don’t have time to look at the bigger picture, but if you did, you would’ve seen me coming from ten different directions.”
“I see.” I wave a hand. “Chess is like life. You’re just trying to push a corny metaphor on me. You know where the long game goes, because you spent twenty years looking for me, hm?”
He chuckles. “You sound so much like your mother, sometimes.”
I freeze on the spot. We haven’t spoken about her since that day at the safehouse, but part of me is hungry for more details. Anything to color in the rough sketch sitting in my mind.
“How so?”
He gazes towards his office window. The sunset tints the pale drapes with a soft blend of orange, making the severe space feel cozier than usual.
“She had the same endearing impatience. Everything spiked her curiosity, and no door was truly locked. On her first night in this house, she snuck into every single room. She had drawn out a complete map of the compound before the sun even rose.”
“Did you confront her about it?”
His head shakes, eyes focusing somewhere far away. “Not until a year later. I didn’t want to scare her off. Thought she would jump ship…” He trails off, eyes darting back to me. “Well, I suppose I was right about that part.”
“I still don’t understand,” I mutter. “It seems like she took off without a plan. I mean, I’m grateful she didn’t let my grandfather murder me that day, don’t get me wrong, but…” My head shakes.
I pluck one of the chess pieces into my hand, desperate for something to fiddle with.
“I think, arranged marriage be damned, she and I were well matched,” he speculates, surprising me. “She took all the risks, whereas I took none. She questioned everything I overlooked. I think, in another world, we could’ve made a great partnership. Just like you and Morozov.”
“What?” I stutter, shocked by his final words. The statement catches me off-guard. Vasiliy and I have been politely tiptoeing around each other ever since that heated kiss we shared in training a month ago. There hasn’t been another occurrence, despite the challenge he laid out for me on the grass.
Domination is earned.
Earn it again. I dare you.
I experience a resurgence of that strange electrical pulse every time I recall those words. I’m not sure how I feel about it, so I’ve been doing what I do best. Avoidance for the win.
“First of all, there is no me and Morozov.” I can taste the ashy lie on my tongue. “Second, I’m pretty sure Vasiliy is just as impatient and reckless as I am.”
Dad’s brows lower knowingly. He can taste the lie, too. “I don’t know about that, love. He seems pretty damn patient when it comes to you.”
The chess piece falls from my hand, rattling onto the table below.
I don’t know what scares me more: the fact that this man already has such a perceptive view of me, or that his observations ring strikingly true.
Vasiliy is patient with me. Impatient with everything and everyone else, but patient with me.
My lips open to fill the silence, but nothing leaves them.
Thankfully, I don’t have to fill the pause, because a knock at the door steals both of our attention. The hinge creaks, and the door cracks open to reveal Alex’s face.
“Sorry, kroshka,” he nods to me apologetically. “I need to borrow him for a moment. A call came in from the dock transport team.”
“That’s okay.” I pop up from my chair, stretching out my sore legs. “We’ll rematch tomorrow.” I lean down for a quick hug. “Prepare to cry.”
His laughter follows me all the way out of the door.
I’m expecting the hall to be empty when I walk through the Gothic archway back into the common space of the compound.
As far as I can tell, this place serves as a home base of sorts for my father’s men.
Many of them have rooms in the barracks next to the gate, though some return to their own homes and families each night.
I usually enjoy the comforting chaos that squabbles across the grounds, but my stomach drops when I hear the voices around the corner.
“You’re not going to toss your hat into the ring? She’s feisty. You just know she’d be a good fuck.”
“Not even if the Pakhan himself ordered it. I’m not interested in Morozov’s spoiled goods,” another voice replies matter-of-factly.
My anger sparks.
“Speak for yourself, Paxton. I’d fuck a toad if it got me in line to be the next Pakhan.”
I’ve met and enjoyed the company of several soldiers, especially the quiet ones who tail along to the shooting range with Nik and me every week, but I don’t recognize these voices. My back presses tighter against the wall as I wait for them to disperse.
“I wouldn’t call her a toad. She’d be pretty, if it wasn’t for that nasty scar on her face.”
My cheek burns, but I don’t allow myself to touch the jagged mark. Control the rage. They don’t deserve my reaction.
Does the scar bother Vasiliy?
“Easy fix. Just turn her towards the wall before you…”
I step around the corner.
The man who’s speaking, a stout, hairy guy I’ve only seen in passing, cuts off mid-sentence, and three other pairs of eyes widen on the spot.
They’d only fulfill the chore of fucking me to become my father’s heir. It’s something I haven’t thought much about, ever since that first day at the safehouse when Dad promised not to arrange my marriage. A spike of ice forms in my gut that has nothing to do with the crude insults.
Do they not even consider me a candidate for my own birthright?
I stare each of them down, burning their features into my memory. They don’t look so cocky now that I’m standing in their space. They look frightened.
I love that.
Without speaking a word, I walk directly through the stunned bodies and up the decorative staircase, replaying that terrified expression in my mind all the way back to my room.