38. Octavia
I’m not surprised by the loud squabbling coming from the first floor when I come downstairs for my morning coffee.
Despite arguing every second they’re together, my cousins gather in the main kitchen each weekend for breakfast, rain or shine.
Ben cooks, Nik mediates, Kirill complains, and Maksim stays out of all of it from his perch on a barstool.
These days, I find myself looking forward to the routine all week long.
What does surprise me is the way they all clam up when I set foot in the room.
“What’s wrong?” I ask carefully, sliding onto a barstool beside Maksim.
“Nothing—” Ben answers at the same moment Kirill says, “Popov sent another threat.”
“Don’t involve her in the business,” Ben snaps, flinging a glare towards Kirill before turning back to the skillet and flipping his egg.
Nik stiffens, and the muscles of his neck flex below his chain tattoo. I glance over to Maksim, but he’s already on his phone, typing away and ignoring the entire ordeal.
“Why can’t I hear about business?” I challenge, crossing my arms over my chest.
Kirill shrugs, so I look to Ben and Nik, both of whom avoid my gaze like the plague.
“It’s messy stuff,” Ben finally says, grabbing another egg from the carton and cracking it into his pan. “You shouldn’t have to worry about any of it.”
Those soldiers I caught speaking in the hall flash through my mind. It was one thing to realize my father’s men thought of me as nothing but a frivolous woman ready to be auctioned off for a power play, but the idea of my own family thinking of me like that feels so much worse.
“Popov is my grandfather,” I argue back. My hands fold into fists in my lap. “I should be kept in the loop.”
“It’s not like that,” Nik placates, stepping over and setting a steaming cup of coffee on the bar in front of me. It’s hard to stay angry when he remembers to drop in exactly two cubes of sugar and one splash of cream, but I manage it.
“The Siderov Bratva has a code,” Ben finally says, flicking off the burner. “One we live by. And part of that code is keeping our women safe and protected, even when we, ourselves, choose not to be.”
A plate appears in front of me with a perfectly cooked egg and a buttered slice of sourdough, just the way I like it.
“We will always protect you,” Ben says more gently, hand settling on the back of my stool. Maksim’s eyes glance up briefly, burning with a thought I can’t quite name.
The food is delicious, but it doesn’t quell my hunger.
Safe and protected.
The words feel like mockery after all I’ve been through.
What if I don’t want to be protected?
How does someone become a thing to be feared?
I recall the first time I managed to flip Vasiliy in training. The way his throat felt beneath my palm, powerless and at my mercy to do with whatever I pleased. The other men eye Vas with fear, but he’s never made me feel anything less than capable. That kind of power is like a drug.
Once you get a taste of control, returning to domestication feels like punishment.