Chapter 19 The Serpent’s Visit
THE SERPENT’S VISIT
DANI
The first knock sounded like confidence with a manicure.
Three sharp raps. Not a neighbor. Not a delivery guy. The kind of knock that assumed the door would open.
I was on the couch in one of Konstantin’s shirts curled around a book I hadn’t turned a page of in twenty minutes. The nausea sat low and mean in my gut. The crosshair photo lived behind my eyes. The pregnancy test lived in the bathroom trash.
Three more knocks. Same rhythm. Same certainty.
“Use the intercom like a normal creep,” I muttered, and slid off the couch.
The floor was cold under my bare feet as I walked to the foyer. The small monitor above the lock blinked on the second I stepped under it.
Not a guard.
Maksim.
Coat open over an expensively cut suit, snow still melting on his shoulders. One hand in his pocket, the other holding a bottle of wine by the neck. His smile was already in place.
Every muscle in my body went tight.
I hit the intercom, not the release. “We’re not taking visitors.”
His gaze lifted toward the camera, like he could see right through it. “Dani,” he said, voice smooth as ever. “Open the door. We need to talk.”
“No, we don’t,” I said. “Whatever you want, tell Konstantin.”
“He is busy,” Maksim said. “Council has him in meeting. They are… anxious. Photo with crosshairs, wife trying to run, cousin at door. Too much excitement for old hearts.” His tone dipped, amused. “They ask if you are stable. Safe. Worth trouble.”
My grip on the console tightened. “My stability isn’t their business.”
“Oh, it is,” he said lightly. “They see you in lobby yesterday with bag. They see you ignore me now on camera. They start saying words like liability.” He tsked softly. “You know how they fix liability, printsessa?”
Bullet. River. Closed casket.
“If they’re that worried, they can call me,” I snapped. “I’m not opening this door.”
He smiled, sharp. “You think locks here are for you?” he asked. “They are for show. For comfort. For pets. The men downstairs have codes. If they tell security to open, it opens.”
As if on cue, the wall panel beeped.
The small status light over the latch flipped from red to amber.
Text flashed briefly on the tiny screen:
REMOTE OVERRIDE – SECURITY ACCESS
I hadn’t touched anything.
Cold slid down my spine.
“See?” Maksim said softly. “You can step away and scream on camera while they open anyway, or you can stop fighting shadows and talk to me like civilized people.”
The deadbolt thunked back on its own. The mechanism hummed.
The door eased inward an inch under motor power.
I could have thrown my weight against it. Could have grabbed the handle and tried to slam it shut. Could have made a scene that would look fantastic played back in slow motion for a room full of men already calling me unstable.
I stepped back instead. Just two paces. Enough to not be physically bowled over by a door I’d just watched betray me.
The latch finished cycling. The door swung open.
Maksim stepped in, bringing cold air with him. Snow clung to his hair, melting in little droplets.
“Get to the point,” I said. My voice came out steady, which felt like a small miracle. “Say whatever you need to say, then leave.”
He glanced up at the nearest dark dome in the ceiling—one of the cameras—with obvious awareness, then around the room.
“Very nice,” he said. “Clean. Controlled. Very Kostya. No clutter, no color, no family.” His gaze slid back to me. “Until now.”
He shut the door with a casual push. The latch clicked back into place.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” I said. “If the council really wanted a check-in, they could’ve sent a nurse. Or a questionnaire.”
“They sent me,” he said. “Blood trumps clipboard.” He walked toward the kitchen, placing the wine bottle on the island with a soft thud. “They ask, ‘Is she calm? Is she behaving? Does she smile when Kostya is not in room?’ They want report.”
I followed only far enough to keep him in sight. Arms folded. Shirt tugged lower over my bare thighs.
“They can watch the cameras,” I said. “Free show.”
He picked up the corkscrew. “You should pity them,” he said. “They have old eyes. They cannot see inside very well anymore. They rely on people like me.”
“And you’re just here to help,” I said. “Good Samaritan in Prada.”
He popped the cork. The sound made my stomach pitch.
“This is ‘82 Bordeaux,” he said, pouring. “Pre-collapse. Very rare. Very expensive. We drink, we talk, I tell them you smiled. Then they drink more, worry less, and forget to order your execution. Everyone wins.”
He came around the island with two full glasses. The wine looked almost black.
“I’m not drinking,” I said.
He tilted his head. “You are not hungry, not thirsty, not talkative,” he mused. “Very bad combination for surviving these men.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
His smile thin-lined. He set both glasses down on the edge of the island with a faint clink.
“You know what Konstantin told them last night?” he asked, voice dropping. “He looked Baranov in face and said, ‘No one touches my wife. She is untouchable.’”
A nervous laugh escaped me before I could choke it back. “Sounds like something he’d say.”
“Da,” Maksim agreed. “Very dramatic. Very stupid.”
He reached out with one finger and jabbed my shoulder.
“Touch,” he said.
I flinched.
He did it again, finger pressing into the hollow at the base of my throat. “Touch.”
I slapped his hand away. “Don’t.”
He smiled, slow and delighted, like a cat discovering a new toy.
His hand snapped up, closing around my neck. Thumb along my jaw, fingers on the side of my throat. Not crushing, but firm enough that my next breath had to work harder than the last.
“Touch,” he repeated. “See? Easy. No lightning. No hell opening under my feet.”
My skin went ice cold. My vision went sharp.
This wasn’t complicated attraction or fucked-up chemistry. This was violation. Possession. Power games.
“Stop,” I ground out, clawing at his wrist. “Let. Go.”
He ignored me. “He tells council you are untouchable,” he murmured near my ear. “He forgets—men like us, we hear challenge. We like to… test.”
His thumb scraped over my lips.
Rage followed.
My knee came up, as hard as I could make it.
I hit exactly where I meant to.
He made a strangled noise and doubled over, grip on my throat loosening.
Air rushed back into my lungs in a ragged gulp.
I grabbed the nearest weapon: the Bordeaux still sitting on the edge of the counter.
I swung.
The bottle exploded against the side of his head with a crack that went all the way up my arm. Glass, wine, and blood sprayed across marble, his suit, my stolen shirt.
He grunted, slammed sideways into the island. One knee hit the floor. His hand went to his temple, fingers coming away slick and red.
“Don’t ever fucking touch me!” I spat.
I turned to run.
I got halfway down the length of the island before fabric yanked tight around my ribs, jerking me backward.
He’d grabbed the hem of my shirt, fist locked in the cotton.
“Not finished,” he gasped, voice rough and mean. He hauled hard.
The shirt tore up the side seam with an ugly rip. Cold air hit my stomach. I stumbled backward, almost falling.
He surged up, momentum weird with one knee not quite steady, and slammed me forward into the counter. Marble dug into my hip. One arm snaked around my waist, dragging me against him; the other shoved the ruined shirt higher, fingers digging into exposed skin.
I got one hand flat on the countertop, the other trapped against my own chest, trying to keep the torn fabric from baring everything to him.
“Let go!” I twisted, elbow driving back blindly. I caught his ribs. He grunted but held on.
“You really think he can keep you safe?” he hissed into my ear. “From me? From them? Doors open when they want. Cameras go dark when they want.” His hand slid up again, closing over my breast, harder this time. “He is not god, devushka. He is dog. They keep leash. You are just—”
The front lock chimed.
Boots hit marble, heavy and fast.
Maksim didn’t register it in time. He was too busy trying to peel my shirt down off my shoulder.
Konstantin’s voice cut across the kitchen like a blade.
“Maksim.”
Everything stopped for half a second. Maksim’s fingers froze on my skin.
Then something big and furious slammed into him from behind.
His arm was ripped off me. The grip on my torn shirt vanished. I spun, stumbling back against the island, one arm flying up to cover my chest.
Konstantin had both hands in his cousin’s coat, dragging him away from me like he weighed nothing.
He drove him straight into the refrigerator.
The impact shook the metal, rattling something on the shelves inside.
Konstantin didn’t pause.
He hit him again.
And again.
His fist cracked into Maksim’s face, ribs, gut—wherever he could land it. The nice suit crumpled under the blows. Wine and blood smeared across stainless steel and wool.
“You touch her,” he snarled, accent thick enough to break the words, “in my house?”
Maksim tried to cover up. Tried to get a hand on Konstantin’s arm.
Konstantin slammed his forearm across his throat, pinning him to the fridge, feet scrabbling for traction on bloody marble.
“With my shirt on her,” he spat. “With my ring on her hand. You think I let this go?”
“She—” Maksim choked, face mottled. “She attacked first—”
Konstantin punched him in the side of the head. “Do not speak,” he said. “I do not care who threw first glass. I care who put hands on her.”
His knuckles were split, skin torn on bone. Blood ran down his wrist.
“I will kill you,” he said, low and terrifyingly calm. “Right here. Right now.”
“You can’t,” Maksim rasped. “Blood. In your house. Father’s will. Council.” He coughed, red bubbling at his lip. “You shoot me here, they strip you. They hang you. They take everything from her too.”
It was the only thing he had. He used it like a shield.
For one long second, I thought Konstantin would do it anyway.
His jaw worked. His forearm pressed harder across Maksim’s windpipe.