Chapter 8 #4
“We’re being sent to Greece. Classified op. Target: Al-Chapo. Alive or dead.”
I begged her not to go. I didn’t care about duty or honor or missions. I cared about her coming home.
She laughed—bright and fearless, exactly like the girl who burned eggs with me in that cold kitchen. The same laugh. Unchanged.
“I’ll be fine,” she promised. “I’ll come home.”
She never did.
The memory shattered as reality snapped back into place—sharp, brutal, unforgiving—and the absence she left behind felt just as vast as it had the day I lost her.
Ruslan was already halfway up the stairs.
I hurried after him, heart racing.
“Are the rumors true?” I asked, daring the words out. “Did you really kill Al-Chapo?”
He stopped on the landing.
Then he turned—slowly.
“Yes,” he said simply. “And I inherited what remained of his empire.”
The air seemed to tighten, as though the house itself had drawn a breath.
His eyes sharpened. “Why are you asking?”
I hesitated, then met his gaze.
“Because twenty specially trained CIA operatives couldn’t take him down,” I said quietly. “I’m trying to understand how one man did.”
He studied me—long, searching—then turned away without another word and continued walking.
I followed.
He led me to a pair of massive double doors—larger than any I’d seen in the house—carved with an intricate double-headed eagle clutching thunderbolts. Power. Dominion. Warning.
He pushed them open.
The suite beyond was vast and imposing—dark wood, steel accents, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the ocean like a throne room backdrop.
The doors shut behind me.
The silence thickened.
“Undress.”
The single word sliced through the room like a blade.
My stomach dropped.
“E-Excuse me?” I whispered, blood roaring in my ears.
“You are my wife.” Ruslan said calmly, already removing his suit jacket with unhurried precision. “This marriage will be fulfilled.”
He looked at me then—really looked—like one inspects property.
“From tonight onward, you will present yourself to me every evening.”
A pause. Measured. Calculated.
“If I wish to see you, you stay. If I do not, you leave.”
His mouth curved slightly—not a smile. A warning.
“That,” he finished, “is the extent of your choice.”
Heat flooded my face—rage, humiliation, disbelief crashing together.
“I am not yours to use,” I said, voice low but steady, fingers tightening into fists at my sides. “And no—nothing you demand will make me consent.”
I held his gaze, unwavering.
“Not now. Not ever,” I added quietly. “Though you may have power, I have limits you will not cross.”
He paused.
Slowly, deliberately, he unbuttoned his shirt and let it slide from his shoulders.
My breath caught despite myself.
Shirtless, Ruslan Volkov was devastating—broad shoulders tapered into a sculpted chest that rose and fell with slow, controlled breaths, as if even his lungs obeyed discipline.
Every muscle was defined without excess—strength earned, not displayed.
The kind of body built through repetition and pain, not mirrors.
Butterflies detonated in my stomach, wild and humiliating. My pulse thundered so loudly I was sure he could hear it.
I hated the reaction—hated the way my gaze lingered despite my will, hated how heat curled low in my belly when I should have felt only fear and anger.
He was beautiful in a way that felt dangerous, almost sacrilegious. A fallen angel sculpted from rage, power, and restraint.
And worst of all—he knew it.
I forced my eyes away, clenched my jaw, pressed my lips together until they ached. I would not give him the satisfaction of seeing how deeply my body betrayed me.
“You have no right to defy me, Elena,” he said, voice low, steady, almost conversational—like stating a fact, not a threat.
He stepped closer, slow, deliberate, each movement measured.
“Do not confuse my patience for mercy. Kindness is a luxury I do not grant. Disobedience... will be remembered.”
He stopped a few feet away, close enough that I could feel the heat of him, smell his clean, expensive cologne layered over something darker—leather, smoke, danger.
“Now strip,” he said evenly. “And get on the bed.”
“No.”
The word came out small but unyielding. It surprised even me.
Silence slammed down between us.
He studied my face for a long moment, gray eyes unreadable. Then he gave a single, slow nod—as if I’d only confirmed something he already knew.
Without another word, he turned away.
My heart stuttered.
He walked toward the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering sprawl of California, the city spread beneath him like a conquered kingdom. His back was to me now—broad, bare, impossibly strong.
I took an instinctive step forward, dread pooling heavy in my stomach.
I knew that stillness. That controlled quiet. Men like Ruslan Volkov didn’t shout when they decided to destroy someone. They didn’t threaten. They simply acted—and by the time you realized it, it was already over.
“Ruslan.” My voice cracked despite my effort to steady it. “Please.”
He didn’t turn.
“We’re still strangers,” I rushed on, words spilling out before courage could abandon me. “We’ve barely spoken. We don’t know each other. We don’t trust each other. How can you expect... this? How can you expect me to just lie down and—”
He remained silent, gaze fixed on the city beyond the glass.
“Sex is supposed to be...” I faltered, swallowing hard. “...making love. Between two people who care. Who want each other. Not a transaction. Not a punishment. Not a reminder that I don’t have a choice.”
Still nothing.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, pressing against my lungs until breathing felt like work.
I hugged my arms around myself, suddenly aware of how small I was in this massive suite, how exposed. “Please don’t punish me again,” I whispered. “I know you won’t force me—you proved that when you killed the therapist. You’re not a rapist.”
The words cost me something to say.
“But I also know you’ll make me pay for refusing you,” I went on, quieter now, rawer. “And I don’t think I have anything left to give.”
My fingers brushed the ring on my hand, the metal suddenly heavy, unforgiving.
“I’ve already suffered so much since the moment you put this on my finger.”
My voice broke as the memories surged back—violent, uninvited.
“The rain,” I whispered. “Standing in it for hours. The cold sank so deep into my bones I thought I’d never feel warm again.”
I drew in a shaky breath.
“Every drop felt like a lash—like the sky itself was punishing me. I couldn’t feel my fingers. My lips went numb. I was so exhausted I started thinking it might be easier to just... step into the grave you had dug and let the earth take me.”
My throat burned as I swallowed.
“I was terrified I was going to die there, Ruslan. I truly believed it was my last night on earth.”
My hand pressed lightly to my chest, fingers curling as if to hold something together.
“The pain is still alive in me. It hasn’t left. It’s sitting here—like it’s waiting.”
My arms wrapped around myself, nails digging into my sleeves as if the memory alone could chill me again.
“And then...” My voice trembled, cracking with each word. “...you poured... my mother’s ashes into the earth.”
I choked back a sob. “...You watched me... scream... watched me... break...”
My hands clenched my knees. “...And you... didn’t even... flinch.”
I gasped, each inhale sharp and raw. “You just stood there—like it meant nothing.”
My throat burned, my chest heaving. “That hurt more than the cold... more than the fear... more than anything...”
I lifted my head, eyes red, lips trembling. “...You’ve done... enough... to... break me... in forty-eight hours.”
A shudder ripped through me. “...Please... just... let me... go... back... to my room...”
I pressed my palms to my face, voice a ragged whisper. “...I just... I just want to... rest... to... sleep...”
“...It’s all... I... deserve...”
I closed my eyes, trembling. “...I’m begging... you...”
He didn’t move.
Ruslan stood at the window, hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers, the city lights painting his silhouette in silver and gold.
His back was to me—and God help me, it was magnificent.
His body looked untouched, as though brutality slid off him without ever leaving a mark. Like a statue carved for a museum, not a man who had clawed his way to the top of a criminal empire.
I didn’t know what secret ritual kept him like that—what discipline, what obsession with control—but it made him unreal. Handsome wasn’t enough. He was regal. Lethal. Beautiful in a way that made my chest ache and my stomach twist with equal parts fear and unwanted awe.
“Ruslan,” I tried again, softer now. Smaller.
He answered without turning.
“Your father is not dead.”
The words struck me like a physical blow.
My lungs forgot how to work. The room tilted violently, and I staggered backward until my spine hit the wall.
“My parents died in a plane crash,” I said automatically, the lie I’d lived with rising to my lips out of pure instinct. I’d repeated it so many times it felt carved into me.
“Your mother, yes.” He turned slowly, eyes dark, merciless. “Your father, no.”
He crossed the room in three long strides and sat on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on his knees, studying me with the cold patience of a predator who knew there was nowhere left for its prey to run.
“The plane crash was orchestrated by your father,” he said calmly. “He didn’t just kill your mother. He killed your grandfather—who was traveling with her—and every other innocent passenger on that flight.”
Something inside me collapsed.
My legs gave out completely. I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the floor, knees pulled to my chest, arms locked around them as if I could physically hold myself together.
“My father is...” My voice came out thin, childlike. “...alive?”
Ruslan didn’t soften. Not even a fraction. “Who do you think has been running the underground dealings of your family all these years?”