Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Xeniya Morozova
The night glittered, and so did the club, Nemain Manor. As always, it was breathtaking in its violence.
Murals of medieval battlefields stretched across the walls, while rusted suits of armor stood watch from the shadows. The place was a fever dream of romantic gore, devoted to ancient Celtic mythology and the three Goddesses of War.
Deep reds and emerald greens bled through the place, rich and dark like a haunting winter morning.
It suited me perfectly. The club was built for women like me— vengeful creatures pretending to still be human.
But none of it mattered now. It could have been heaven itself, and I still would have wanted to vomit. I still would have wanted to crawl out of my skin.
I had survived torture chambers, rape, and unspeakable violence. But this? Walking back into my old life and seeing all my ghosts felt impossible.
It was like walking willingly into hell with a smile on my face and asking to see the devil by name.
Worst of all, I couldn’t decide what to wear. It felt like a trivial problem—and it certainly was—but my brain clung to it anyway, as if the wrong dress might crumble my house of cards.
Which, of course, was silly.
A dress didn’t matter at all.
Yet I’d tried on nine.
Nine fucking dresses.
But I was running out of time. I needed to be downstairs to greet the Russians, who were due any minute.
Ugh. Fine. The blush one would have to do. I grumbled and shoved my feet into it, pulling the silk up my hips. The blush silk was unassuming and demure.
No one would ever expect a monster to wear it as armor.
It would work.
But I wanted to wear blood red. I wanted to hint at the danger they were letting into their henhouse. I couldn’t.
Besides, red would clash with my hair, which I currently had dyed a cinnamon-red. I was pretending to be Irish, after all.
I needed to fit the part.
Not that the color would keep. Ever since my condition started, my hair didn’t hold hair dye for longer than five days. My time with the Order had turned my hair silver-white, and hair dye refused to cover it normally.
It gave a new meaning to dye-resistant grays.
But the dye would do for now, although I needed to invest in more wigs.
I pulled on my red-bottom designer heels, rushed out of my private suite, and stepped into the elevator. When the doors dinged open, I swept out and ran headfirst into a tall brunette.
Ouch.
“My apologies,” I said in a polished British accent. “I didn’t see—“
My words trapped themselves behind my teeth as my gaze met her bright green eyes.
Veronika Morozova. My younger sister.
The memory hit like a freight train, and my composure buckled.
“I hear you’re a fighter,” he said, “That you can take down a three-hundred-pound man.”
Considering I was currently manacled by my neck to the ceiling, with my arms shackled behind my back and bolted into the concrete floor, I wasn’t much of a threat.
Add that to the fact that there hadn’t been a moment in here when I wasn’t slightly drugged. I couldn’t take on anyone. Even now, I could barely hold myself upright. The chains were doing most of the work to hold me up.
I wasn’t sure whether he expected an answer, so I kept my mouth shut.
He gripped my jaw and forced his thumbs into my mouth. Prying it open. “You are going to suck my cock like a good little whore, and you won’t bite down or use teeth.”
I still said nothing. I only stared up at him—my ex-boyfriend’s father.
“If you do, I will kill her.” One of his guards turned a laptop toward me. My sister sat in her room, crying and shaking uncontrollably. “Harm anyone here and she dies.”
I inhaled sharply, tears burning in my eyes. I knew it wasn’t an empty threat.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes.” The word came out muffled around his thumbs.
“Good little whore.” He removed his hands from my face and unbuttoned his belt. “Now, I am going to fuck your face, and you will swallow every last drop of my cum just like you used to do for my son.” He slapped me. “Open your mouth.”
I did as I was told.
The memory faded, and I stared at my sister, suppressing every trace of emotion and recognition. I wasn’t Xeniya Morozova. I was Keira Callahan: advisor to the Irish mafia don and brilliant hacker. I hadn’t endured years of torture to keep my sister safe.
No. I was just a brilliant hacker.
Maybe if I said it enough, I would start to believe it.
I swallowed and forced a smile. “Terribly sorry.”
“Oh, it’s okay,” Veronika said, cocking her head to the side, her eyebrows drawing together. “Do I know you?”
Fuck. I looked nothing like I once had. There was no way Veronika could know. Not this early.
“Doubtful.” I forced a brightness into my voice. “I haven’t been in the States very long. I’m only visiting my cousins before returning to London.”
“Oh,” she hummed. “You just seem familiar, that’s all.”
“You know, I get that a lot.”
Veronika dipped her chin, and I took the silence as permission to excuse myself and find alcohol.
I was on my third glass of champagne when I felt his eyes latch onto me.
It didn’t matter which life, planet, universe, or multiverse I existed in, I would always know when Severin Volkov was staring at me.