20. Lena
LENA
The Russian landscape is a blurred streak of skeletal birches and gray slush against the window of the Maybach.
We’ve been on the road for hours, the silence inside the car heavy enough to choke on.
Razvan is buried in his phone, his thumb tapping out commands that likely decide the survival of men I’ll never meet. His face is a mask of Siberian granite.
I shift my gaze to the rearview mirror. I catch Mike’s eyes for a split second before he looks back at the road.
Mike doesn’t talk much. He’s one of Razvan’s shadows, a silent fixture of my captivity.
But my heart softens every time I look at the back of his head.
I remember the dungeon, the cold, damp stone and the way the dark felt like it was eating me alive.
Mike was the one who brought me bread. He was the one who whispered that I needed to eat if I wanted to stay strong.
In this world of monsters, he feels like the older brother I never had—a silent sentinel who saw me at my lowest and didn’t look away.
I want to thank him. I want to reach forward and squeeze his shoulder, to tell him that I haven’t forgotten.
But Razvan is sitting three inches away, and gratitude is a weakness I can’t afford to broadcast. So I just watch the road and pray that Lyosha is holding the line back at the estate.
Every time I think of Theo, my stomach knots.
“Stop biting your lip, Lena,” Razvan says, not lifting his eyes from the screen. “You’ll draw blood.”
“I’ll do what I want with my lips, Razvan.”
He finally looks at me, his dark eyes tracking the movement of my mouth with a slow, predatory focus.
“We’re twenty minutes out. Adjust your disposition.
The Yusupovs were one thing; the St. Petersburg circle is a different breed of vulture.
They don’t just want power; they want to see if we’re worthy of it. ”
“I’m thrilled,” I deadpan.
When we pull up to the hotel, it’s like a Czar’s fever dream. Gold leaf, vaulted ceilings, and more marble than a cathedral. The staff bows so low I’m surprised they don’t hit the floor.
The lobby is filled with the elite of the northern families.
Men in wool coats worth more than a Moscow apartment, women draped in furs that look like they’re still breathing.
We are immediately intercepted by Arkady Volkov—a distant cousin with eyes like a shark—and a small entourage of his lieutenants.
“Razvan,” Arkady says, his voice a smooth, oily purr. “The city has been buzzing since your motorcade crossed the city limits. We have much to discuss before the charity gala tomorrow night. The shipping manifests from the Baltic ports are…complicated.”
“Complications are just opportunities for better oversight, Arkady,” Razvan replies, his voice like a blade wrapped in velvet.
Arkady tilts his head, eyeing me with a patronizing smirk.
“And this is the prize? She’s a beautiful thing, Razvan.
But the Sokolova blood…it’s tainted now, isn’t it?
After the father’s little accounting errors?
Some say a Pakhan’s wife should bring a cleaner lineage to the table.
A bit of legitimacy goes a long way when the crown is still new. ”
I feel the air leave the room. I expect Razvan to make a political retort, to weave some clever lie about my father’s loyalty.
Instead, Razvan moves so fast it’s a blur.
He doesn’t draw a weapon. He simply steps into Arkady’s personal space, his hand snapping out to grip the man’s throat. He slams him back against the mahogany wainscoting with a thud that rattles the crystal glasses on a nearby tray.
“Razvan!” someone gasps, but no one moves.
Razvan leans in, his face inches from Arkady’s.
His voice is a low, terrifying growl that isn’t performed for an audience—it’s pure, unadulterated violence.
“If you ever speak her father’s name with that filth in your mouth again, I will peel the skin from your face and gift it to the Neva.
She is the Pakhan’s wife. Her legitimacy is defined by my word, and my word is law.
Do you understand, or do I need to start carving the lesson into your chest? ”
Arkady gurgles, his face turning a mottled purple. He nods frantically.
Razvan lets go, and the man slumps to the floor, coughing. Razvan doesn’t even look back. He adjusts his suit jacket, smooths his tie, and looks at me. “We’re done here. Let’s go to the room. We have a gala to prepare for tomorrow, and I won’t have our time wasted by fools.”
I walk beside him in a daze. I’ve seen him be protective before, but that…that was different. It wasn’t a strategy. It was a man reacting to an insult against something he considers his. I hate him. I know I hate him. But my heart is hammering against my ribs, and it’s not from fear.
We reach the suite. It’s massive. A sprawling expanse of velvet, silk, and a view of the city that’s worth more than my life.
“One suite,” Razvan had told the concierge, and despite my protests in the elevator about broom closets and separate floors, I find myself standing in the middle of a room dominated by a single, sprawling king-sized bed.
“Well,” I say, trying to inject some levity into the suffocating atmosphere. “If I’m going to be a prisoner, at least the wallpaper is nice.”
I immediately start dragging my suitcase, brought up by servants, to the left side of the massive bed. “Okay, rules. This is my side. This half of the bed is the Republic of Lena. You stay on the Russian Federation side. No border crossings. No unauthorized incursions.”
Razvan watches me, leaning against the doorframe. He’s shed his overcoat, and the white silk of his shirt is stretched tight across his shoulders. He has an amused glint in his eyes that I haven’t seen before. “The Republic of Lena? Is that so?”
“Yes. And this vanity is mine,” I say, slamming my makeup bag down. “And I get the first shower. And if you snore, I am authorized to use lethal force with a pillow.”
He walks toward the bed, his footsteps silent on the thick carpet. “Lena, we’ve slept in the same room every night since the wedding. Why are you acting like this is the first time we’ve shared a mattress?”
I feel the heat climb up my neck. I turn around, clutching a set of silk pajamas to my chest like a shield.
“Because the estate is…it’s different. Waking up there is a reminder.
It’s my prison. Every morning I see the walls and the guards and I remember that I’m only there because you won’t let me leave. But here?”
I gesture to the window, the twinkling lights of St. Petersburg reflecting in the glass.
“Here, if I try hard enough, I can pretend. I can look at the view and the room and think…maybe this is just a vacation. Maybe we’re just a normal couple in a nice hotel.” My voice trails off, the honesty of it stinging. “Waking up next to you here makes the lie harder to maintain.”
Razvan’s expression softens for a fraction of a second. He steps into my space, forcing me to back up until the back of my knees hit the edge of the mattress. “A vacation,” he repeats quietly.
Then, his smirk returns, sharper this time. “Fine. But I want that side of the bed.”
“What? No! I already claimed it!”
“I like the view of the door from there,” he says, his hand reaching out. He just rests his palm on the mattress beside my hip, leaning in until I can feel the heat radiating from his chest. “And I like the way the light hits the pillows.”
“You’re just doing this to rile me up!” I huff, my hands coming up to rest against his chest to keep some distance between us. I can feel his heart—steady, slow, and powerful—thumping against my palms.
“Is it working?” he whispers.
He reaches out with his free hand, his fingers grazing the line of my jaw before tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear.
His touch is light, agonizingly slow, and it sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the air conditioning.
He leans in closer, his breath hot against my cheek.
I should push him away. I should scream.
But my fingers subconsciously curl into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him a fraction closer.
His gaze drops to my mouth. My breath hitches, my lips parting instinctively. I want it. I want the ruin of his kiss. I want to forget who he is and what he did just for a second.
His thumb brushes over my bottom lip, dragging it down slightly. The look in his eyes is predatory, hungry, and entirely focused on me. He tilts his head, his nose brushing mine, his lips a mere heartbeat away from mine. I can almost taste the sandalwood and the cold night air on him.
My skin feels like it’s on fire. A low thrum of desire starts in my belly and spreads through my limbs, turning my bones to water. I’m leaning into him, my eyes fluttering shut, waiting for the impact—
Then, the memory of the serpent flashes behind my eyelids. The black ink on the wrist of the man who took everything from me.
I gasp, my eyes snapping open. The “vacation” shatters like glass.
“I…I need to shower,” I stammer, my heart doing a frantic, panicked dance.
I scramble backward, nearly tripping over the corner of the bed. I grab my toiletries and bolt for the bathroom, my face burning with a mix of shame and residual heat. “First shower! Republic rules!”
As I slam the door and lean against it, my chest heaving, I hear it. A low, genuine, and deeply amused chuckle from the other side of the wood.
I sink to the floor, hiding my face in my hands. My body is still humming, still vibrating from his touch, and I hate myself for it. I’m in trouble. I’m in so much trouble.