Chapter 5 – Valeria
The attack leaves me with no illusions about my situation.
The men who broke into Timofey’s house weren’t random assassins or opportunistic criminals. They were trained professionals with one objective. The fact that they managed to infiltrate such a heavily guarded place proves one thing: Anton wants me dead, no matter how far I run.
Hiding won’t solve anything. Sooner or later, the attacks will continue until one of them succeeds.
I scrub at the blood still clinging to my arms and legs in the bathroom of the new room they moved me into. The warm water doesn’t wash away the tension coiling in my muscles, the adrenaline still thrumming in my veins.
I force my brain to switch gears. Fear and grief have their place, but right now, survival demands planning, not despair.
I catch my reflection in the mirror. Pale face, dark circles under my eyes, jaw set hard. I barely recognize myself—but I don’t care. I can’t.
Every move has to be deliberate. Every thought focused. I start cataloging what I have. I pull a towel over my hair, dry myself, and run my fingers along the edge of the sink. Calm. Controlled. Calculated.
This is no longer just about survival.
This is about taking back what was stolen—and making sure my enemies pay.
I stare at my reflection. Pale, determined.
I know what I need. To secure my position permanently within the Petrov organization, simply being a guest under temporary protection won’t cut it. My cousin will always believe he can remove me.
The solution comes slowly, logically. If I become part of the Rusnak family officially, my survival becomes more valuable to them than my death. My enemies wouldn’t be hunting a scared refugee anymore. They’d be going after a Rusnak. That changes everything.
I reach for the other sweatpants and shirt waiting in the room, pulling them on slowly as I solidify the plan in my mind. I roll the sweatpants up so they don’t drag. Every small action, every detail, is part of the preparation.
By the time I finish, I feel the fire in my chest, one that tells me I’ll probably regret this plan, but I don’t pay it any mind.
I leave the room and walk slowly up the hall, toward Timofey’s bedroom on the third floor. My steps are deliberate, steady, each one echoing softly in the empty corridor.
When I knock, he immediately opens the door, and my breath catches. He’s standing there in sweatpants hanging low on his hips, his chest bare. Broad, muscled, perfectly sculpted. Dangerous and…arresting.
“What are you doing here?” His voice is sharp, clipped. I don’t blame him. After his house was attacked only moments ago—because of me—I understand his frustration.
“Can we talk?” I keep my gaze just above his chest, forcing myself to stay composed.
He hesitates, running a hand through his dark, unruly hair, then steps back. “Come in.”
He shuts the door behind me, leaning against it with arms folded across his chest, every line of him tense and commanding.
“Start talking,” he says.
I take a deep breath, steadying the fire that’s coursing through me. “Let’s get married.”
He laughs.
It’s sharp, incredulous, the kind of laugh that says he’s never taken anyone seriously enough to entertain the idea.
When he sees that I don’t flinch, that I don’t back down, his laugh dies, replaced by a hard frown.
“You must be joking,” he says, voice low but edged with disbelief.
“I’m not,” I reply evenly, stepping closer, forcing the words out steady and measured. “Marry me.”
His eyes narrow, and the accusation lands before he even speaks.
His eyes narrow, dark and calculating. “You’re trying to manipulate the organization into protecting you indefinitely,” he says, his voice low and accusing. “Using marriage, I suppose, as leverage. It’s calculated ambition.”
I don’t flinch. I meet his gaze squarely. “I’m not bluffing. I’m not playing games. And yes, you’re right. I’m being ambitious. I have every right to be. I’m Valeria Petrova, and someone just snatched that power away from me.”
He narrows his eyes.
“This is my reality. My name, my family, my position in Moscow…my cousin took it! And he will never stop hunting me. I am the last surviving heir. If I don’t make my survival a priority, no one will. This isn’t ambition. It’s survival.”
He shakes his head, like the thought itself is absurd.
I step even closer, voice deliberate and relentless.
“You will gain something from the marriage. A Petrov heir. A marriage alliance would benefit both families by strengthening their international influence. A child would ensure the Rusnak name gains direct access to my father’s former territories in Russia if they eventually reclaim control. ”
Timofey laughs again, a sound that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You don’t know the implications of what you’re saying. This arrangement between us is purely professional. No need to complicate it with marriage or a child. Children…children make things personal.”
“Just one child,” I reiterate and shake my head. “And that’s not true. A child doesn’t make things personal. It will only solidify the bond between our families, tying survival to loyalty. It’s a deterrent, not sentiment.”
He scoffs. “It’s dangerously convenient for you, Valeria. But not for me. Do you even understand the implications of what you’re proposing? Marriage. An heir. This isn’t a political chess move—it involves a real relationship. Real…risk.”
I meet his gaze evenly, cold and precise. “I understand perfectly. I’m not asking for love. I’m asking for survival. There are other practical ways children can be conceived without sexual intercourse.”
“What?” Timofey frowns, the incredulity plain on his face.
I shrug, staying calm. “Isn’t that what you’re worried about? Don’t worry.”
He blinks, clearly taken aback. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about medical alternatives,” I say, voice steady. “Sperm donation, in vitro fertilization, surrogacy. There are ways to ensure a child carries the Petrov and Rusnak legacy without…complications. None of it requires intimacy.”
Timofey’s eyes narrow, a flicker of incredulity crossing his face. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am,” I say firmly. “Every step I’m suggesting is strategic. Efficient. Safe.”
He shakes his head slowly, running a hand through his hair again. He seems to do that a lot. No wonder it’s unruly. “Valeria…this attack has gotten to your head. You’re tired. You’re scared. I get it—but this…this is madness.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he cuts me off. His tone softens, but the command in it is undeniable. “Go. Go back to your room. Sleep. Think this through with a clear head. You’re not thinking straight right now.”
I hesitate, fire still burning in my chest, but the weariness of the night and the memory of blood and explosions weigh me down. I nod stiffly, turning toward the door.
I’m almost there when it hits me—if I wait until tomorrow, he’ll have time to come up with a reason to refuse. I have to convince him now.
“Timofey.”
He turns. It’s the first time I’ve ever said his name directly to him, and maybe that’s why his attention snaps fully.
“I’ll show you how serious I am,” I say.
His brows quirk in a mix of curiosity and caution. Before he can ask what I mean, I take the leap. I fling myself at him, standing on tiptoe to reach him.
His eyes widen for a fraction of a second, shock flashing across his face, before my lips find his. The world narrows until nothing exists beyond that moment.
It’s only for a few seconds—barely enough to register the intensity—but I pull back, forcing several steps away from him. I pretend to compose myself, to act unaffected, though my pulse is racing.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. His gray eyes narrow slightly as he watches me, silently assessing, the air between us thick with tension. The room feels impossibly quiet, every heartbeat loud in my ears.
I don’t know how long I stand there, caught in the pull of him, but the heat crawling up my skin makes me turn to flee.
An iron hand clamps around my wrist, yanking me back. My chest collides with something impossibly solid, impossibly strong. Before I can argue, his lips crash onto mine—fierce, urgent, unrelenting.
I don’t fight. I can’t. I melt against him, surrendering to the force of the kiss. His arms are steel around me as he lifts me effortlessly off the floor. My legs instinctively wrap around his waist, clinging, anchoring myself to him.
For a moment, the world narrows down to just us, the storm of our closeness, the heat, the fire. Maybe tomorrow I’ll regret it. Maybe the consequences will hit like a tidal wave. But right now…right now, this is exactly what I want.