Chapter 12
Alyona
Istand at the window longer than I mean to, watching the grounds stretch out below me.
They’re manicured and ancient at the same time.
The moss-laden oaks cast long shadows over paths that have been walked on for centuries.
Eight miles outside of Savannah is not where I’d expect the Bratva stronghold to be.
But it is; at this gorgeous old plantation home.
For years I’ve seen Kazimir Baranov on magazine covers or muted TV screens giving chilling interviews. He’s a man of luxury and innovation: perfectly tailored suits, hair back in a severe bun, sleek cars that make people look twice. But this estate feels…comforting.
The window is cool beneath my fingertips, and the room behind me feels way too large for one person.
It’s too quiet in here; the A/C is completely silent.
It’s nothing like the humming box in the window back at my apartment, which I haven’t been to in two days.
Baranov sent someone there, though, because the dresser in this room is full of my clothes.
There is a pile of lacy underwear and bras on the bed. The thought of Kazimir’s large hands going through the delicate fabric sends a shiver down my spine.
I shake it off and turn back to my room.
It isn’t so much a bedroom as a contained world.
A studio tucked into the older wing of the house, with a sitting area arranged around a wide stone fireplace that looks as though it belongs in another time.
The hearth is cold and unused this late in summer; the mantel is bare except for a single framed sketch I don’t recognize.
Time rather than neglect has worn the stonework smooth in places.
Everything smells faintly of lemon oil and something floral; clean but not harsh.
I don’t want to like it.
I want to catalogue its flaws the way I do everything else that makes me uncomfortable. I do it with everything connected to the Bratva, but the truth presses in anyway. I’ve been treated well here, almost absurdly so.
A soft knock sounds at the door before it opens and a woman I haven’t met yet steps inside with a small tray balanced in her hands. She’s older than me. Her hair is pulled back neatly, and her movements are unhurried and confident in a way that suggests she’s been here a long time.
“Miss Demsky,” she says gently. “Something cool to drink?”
She sets the tray down on the low table near the sofa.
Condensation is already beading on the glass, and I feel something loosen in my chest at the simple kindness of it.
My mind is clouded with possibilities. Has Kazimir told them to treat me this way?
Was it his idea to send lemonade and cookies? Is the staff just that good?
“Thank you,” I say, meaning it.
She hesitates, then smiles. Her eyes are warm. “If you need anything, anything at all, you only need to ask.”
After she leaves, I sit and take a sip; the citrus sharp and refreshing against the lingering tension in my throat. I check my phone again, though I already know what’s waiting there.
Jak’s words are burned into my brain from the first time I saw them earlier this morning.
Two months off. Full pay. Don’t argue. We’ll talk later.
Relief and guilt tangle together so tightly that I can’t separate them. I know exactly who made that happen, and it sits heavy in my stomach. Gratitude turns into obligation before I can stop it.
I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask for any of it. But the benefits keep arriving, stacking up around me. It’s proof that I’m already deeper than I want to admit. I’m allowed to have my phone, but my father made it clear that I was to use it wisely.
Another knock comes, firmer this time.
A man I recognize only in passing opens the door, his posture formal. “Miss Demsky. Mr. Baranov would like to see you.”
My spine straightens instinctively. “Now?”
He nods. “If you please.”
I follow him through hallways that feel different, calm in the light of day. They feel less ominous, but when we stop outside a heavy wooden door, my pulse picks up despite it.
The study looks like something out of an old novel. The room is filled with dark wood and leather, books lining the walls, and the furniture arranged for comfort rather than display. It’s smaller than I expected; quietly lavish, understated, and cozy.
Kazimir stands near the desk, his jacket discarded and his sleeves rolled up. A man, I assume is a lawyer, is sitting in front of a stack of papers.
“This is unnecessary,” I say as soon as the door closes behind me.
Kaz looks up, his expression unreadable. “It’s necessary if we’re doing this.”
“I’m not doing this,” I reply automatically. “This is just—the whole thing is a lie, we don’t need—”
The lawyer clears his throat and looks between us. He’s clearly accustomed to tension when it comes to Kazimir Baranov and legal matters. “Perhaps we should begin.”
I sit in the chair opposite Kaz, folding my hands in my lap to keep them from shaking.
The plan unfolds efficiently, and hearing them from the mouth of a third party makes me less defensive.
There’s an announcement drafted and ready to circulate to papers and magazines, photos arranged, and appearances scheduled. A narrative crafted so tightly that it leaves no room for interpretation.
I’m his.
That’s what Savannah and the southern coast will understand. No one will dare touch me.
Every word feels like another thread winding around my chest.
“You won’t be leaving the estate without security,” Kaz says, pacing the room casually as we talk about specific details.
“I have school,” I say immediately. “I’m not giving that up.”
His gaze holds mine for a long moment before he nods. “You’ll attend, but you will be tailed.”
I bristle at the word, but swallow my retort.
“And The Foundry,” he continues. “You won’t be going back.”
Even after seeing Jak’s text and feeling relief only an hour ago, something inside me wants to push back. Kazimir is so cool, collected, and in control that I wonder what he would do if I insisted…
I think about all the late nights and the eyes on my half-naked body. The disrespect shown to me by some of the wealthiest men in this city. When I look up, Kazimir is watching, waiting.
“Fine,” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat.
His eyes search mine, and it’s as if we’re the only people in the room. “You’ll miss it?”
I shake my head slowly, unable to find the words to explain this kind of grief. It’s grief for my self-confidence and what I’ve had to give up to make my dreams come true.
The lawyer quietly clears his throat and continues. The engagement will last as long as necessary. Until Hinto breaks or until the threat is neutralized.
“One more thing,” Kaz says, his voice dropping slightly.
I look up.
“No intimacy,” he continues evenly. “No touching. At all.”
The lawyer glances up briefly, then back down to his papers. A frown flickers across his face, and I’m sure we’re both thinking the same thing: Why bother including that?
It seems unspoken. Unless…
Something twists inside me, sharp and disorienting. I realize with a rush of heat and horror that I don’t feel relieved by the boundary.
I feel disappointed.
Kaz’s eyes hold mine. There is something unreadable there, and I wonder if he sees it too. It’s a tiny flicker of something I don’t want to examine too closely.
I sign the documents with an unsteady hand; the pen leaving a faint wobble in my name.
Later, I’m alone again, and the weight of it all presses down on me. The quiet is too loud, and the room too still. When a knock comes at my door, I’m not sure whether to dread or welcome it.
Kaz stands there when I open it, his gaze dropping instinctively before he catches himself.
I’m wrapped in a robe and my hair is damp from my shower.
My skin is still flushed from the heat of the water and steam.
Suddenly, I feel too visible, too soft. He’s all dark shadows except for the silver in his hair.
It’s down now, framing his face and masculine jawline.
His eyes are bottomless as they take me in.
“I wanted to check on you,” he says quietly.
“I’m fine,” I reply. The lie is automatic, and my arms crossed.
His eyes linger, assessing, and his mouth tightens. “You’ll need to stand differently.”
“What?” I ask, startled.
“To play my fiancée,” he continues calmly. “People will expect strength. Confidence.”
I let out a short, broken laugh. “You’re joking.”
He steps closer, close enough that I can smell him: clean, sharp, and unmistakably male. “I’m not.”
“People don’t find women like me attractive,” I say before I can stop myself, the old script spilling out. “Not really.”
Something flashes in his eyes then, fierce and determined, and for a heartbeat, I forget how to breathe.
“They will,” he says firmly. “I’ll make sure of it.”
The words hang between us, heavy with promise. My heart is racing. I’m in deeper than I ever wanted to be with the Bratva boss.