22. Ruslan
22
RUSLAN
Artyom's black SUV rolls up the driveway. My heart races in my chest. Not from nerves, but from the anticipation of seeing my nieces.
Three figures emerge from the vehicle, and despite everything weighing on me, I feel a genuine smile cracking across my face.
"Uncle Ruslan!" Sofia squeals, her gap-toothed grin visible even from a distance as she barrels toward me.
I drop to one knee, bracing myself for impact as she launches into my arms. Her small body collides with mine, and I lift her high, spinning her around once.
"There's my little warrior," I murmur against her hair. "Did you bring your sword today?"
Sofia giggles. "I made a new one in art class!"
Stella approaches more cautiously, her eyes darting around the mansion grounds where armed men patrol.
When I reach out, a smile breaks across her face and she places her hand in mine. "Hi, Uncle Ruslan!"
But Mikayla hangs back by the car, arms crossed, and watching us with her serious eyes. Since her father and brother's deaths, she's already learned to read situations with a shrewd calculation of someone twice her age.
"Thank you for bringing them, Artyom." I clap a hand on Artyom's shoulder as he approaches with their bags.
He nods. "Tamara's driver was five minutes behind us. She's not going to be happy."
"That's her problem." I keep my voice light for the girls' sake. "They'll be safer here."
Mikayla finally steps forward. "What is the meaning of this, uncle?"
"Your mother may not have your best interest at heart." I meet her eyes directly.
I see that familiar stubbornness in Mikayla's eyes. They have the same look Lev used to get when we were kids. Her head tilts, and her lips scrunch as thoughts turn quickly in her head.
"Why are we here, Uncle Ruslan?" she demands, voice steady.
I glance at Sofia and Stella, who are already distracted by the fountain in the courtyard.
"Girls, why don't you go see if Daria Zakharovna has those special cookies you like?" I suggest gently.
Once the two younger ones are out of earshot, I turn back to Mikayla. "Your mother doesn't know what's best for you right now."
"And you do?" Her voice drips with teenage skepticism. "Is this bratva business?"
"Mikayla!"
"Don't lie to me, uncle. I know what's happening. Father and Misha are dead, which means there's a—what do they call it—a power vacuum."
She's not wrong. And perhaps, under the right tutelage, Mikayla can be a formidable force outright in the bratva. But right now, she's still just a fifteen-year-old girl who needs to be protected from the bastards and monsters that thrive in our world.
"It's complicated."
"Of course it is." She crosses her arms tighter. "How long are you keeping us here?"
I hesitate. "As long as necessary."
"So you're kidnapping us."
"No."
"Yes, you are." Her eyes flash with equal shades of anger and fear. "You pulled us from school without Mama's permission. You brought us here away from our home. Call it what you like, uncle. But it sounds like kidnapping to me."
"I'm doing this for you," I feel frustration bubbling inside of me. "For all of you."
"You sound like father," she counters.
I place my hands on her shoulders. "Mika, you have to trust me."
She steps back and wrenches her shoulder free. "And who is asking for my trust right now? The uncle whom I should love? Or the pakhan that I'm supposed to fear?"
The question hits like a punch to the gut. It's the same impossible divide I navigated with my own father. The same one that these girls must've navigated with Lev as well.
"Both," I answer truthfully as I search for my father's voice. "Everything I do is to protect you and your sisters."
"I don't know if I can trust you." Her voice breaks slightly.
"Mikayla, go inside. Now." My voice drops an octave, brooking no argument.
She stares at me, challenge flashing across those defiant eyes before she shoulders her way past me. A bratva princess already, carrying herself with the regal bearing of someone who understands the amount of power her name holds.
Artyom catches my eye. "Yeah, that's definitely Lev's daughter."
"No. She's smarter." I sigh and follow my niece inside the mansion.
The foyer erupts with noise and movement the moment I cross the threshold. Daria fusses over my younger nieces like a mother hen as she inspects Sofia's latest masterpiece, a pipe-cleaner sword wrapped in aluminum foil.
"You're so talented and creative, devushka! " Daria exclaims, adjusting Sofia's collar. "And you! Have you grown taller since I last saw you?" she asks Stella, who giggles and stands up straighter.
I halt mid-stride when I glimpse Aurora descending the staircase. Something in my chest tightens at the sight of her.
This beautiful woman with secrets as dark as my own.
Sofia spots her first. "Who's that?" she gasps, pointing with childlike directness.
"Yeah, Uncle Ruslan, who's the pretty lady?" Stella asks, already breaking from Daria's grasp to approach Aurora.
Aurora freezes on the stairs, momentarily caught off-guard by the sudden attention. Her eyes find mine, uncertain.
"That's Aurora," I say, my voice softening. "She's a friend."
Sofia races over, already firing questions. "Do you like swords? I made one! Do you want to see it?"
"I... yes, I'd love to," Aurora responds, her voice gentle as she bends to Sofia's level.
Stella joins her sister, curiosity overriding shyness. "Your hair is so pretty. It looks like sunshine."
Aurora's face relaxes into a genuine smile, and something inside me warms at the sight.
"Who is she really, uncle?"
Mikayla's cold voice cuts through the moment like a blade. She stands rigid, arms crossed, eyeing Aurora with unmasked suspicion.
"Aurora is my guest," I explain, keeping my tone even. "She's staying with us for a while."
"A stranger," Mikayla interrupts, her eyes narrowing. "While we're supposedly here for protection?"
"Mikayla…"
"Is she your girlfriend? Your mistress?" Her lip curls. "Is that why we're really here? So you can play house while using us as an excuse?"
"That's enough." I step between them. "She is under my protection as well."
"Under your protection?" Mikayla's voice rises. "Or under you in your bed? Because it certainly looks like the latter."
Aurora flinches, and I feel my jaw tighten.
"Mikayla Lvovna, you will show respect in this house."
"Respect?" She practically spits the word. "You bring us here behind our mother's back, and now there's some random woman living here? Who even is she? What does she know about us? About our family?"
"I'm his fiancée."
Aurora's voice catches me off guard, clear and unwavering as she descends the final steps. The way she stands beside me, shoulders squared despite the nervousness I can feel radiating from her, fills me with an unexpected surge of pride.
Mikayla's face transforms from suspicion to outright disbelief.
"Fiancée? You've got to be fucking kidding me." She laughs, the sound brittle and harsh.
"Mikayla, that's not what it looks like."
Her eyes harden as she turns to Aurora. "Do you have any idea what happens to the women who marry into this family?"
"That's enough, Mikayla!" I snap, feeling heat rise up my neck. "Apologize. Now."
"Apologize?" Mikayla backs away, her face twisting as she storms for the stairs. "You're the one who should apologize! For betraying Father's memory! For keeping us in the dark!"
"Mikayla Lvovna, apologize."
"You're not my father." She shouts as she lengthens her stride. "You can't tell me what to do!"
" Eto moi prikaz! " The words slip out before I can stop myself.
And she obeys. Of course she obeys. All of us born and raised in this awful world are trained to obey those three words.
A pakhan's words, cold and commanding.
Mikayla freezes mid-step, her back rigid. When she turns, her eyes are brimming with tears, her fists clenched at her sides, jaw tight with the effort of holding herself together.
My heart shatters. What am I doing? I'm becoming the very thing I swore to protect her from.
"It's okay," Aurora steps forward and stands between me and Mikayla. "You don't have to apologize, Mikayla. This is a lot to process. You can go if you want."
Mikayla stares at Aurora for a long moment, then gives her the briefest, stiffest bow. A mockery of respect that somehow hurts more than her outburst.
"I'm sorry," she says icily before turning and storming up the stairs.
The silence that follows feels suffocating. Sofia and Stella stand together by the fountain, and Sofia's small hand protectively gripping her sister's.
"Uncle Ruslan?" Sofia's voice is painfully formal, nothing like her usual exuberance. "May Stella and I please be excused?"
"Of course." My throat tightens. "Daria Zakharovna, would you mind...?"
"Come, girls," Daria says softly, ushering them toward the kitchen. "Let's find those cookies I promised."
Shame burns through me like acid, spreading from my throat to my chest. I'd done exactly what I swore I never would.
Aurora stands perfectly still, arms crossed, staring at me with an intensity that makes me feel two feet tall despite my height. The slam of Mikayla's door upstairs echoes through the mansion to confirm that we're alone.
"You shouldn't have done that." Aurora's voice is deadly quiet as she walks toward me. Each step measured, deliberate.
I've faced men with guns pointed at my head and felt less threatened than I do right now by this five-foot-six woman with hazel eyes boring into me.
"She's grieving, Ruslan. She's scared." Aurora's voice cracks slightly, and it cuts deeper than if she'd screamed. "Her father and brother are dead. Her world is upside down. And now she's been dragged here with no explanation."
"I wanted her to show you respect," I say weakly. "You're going to be her?—"
"What? Her step-aunt?" Aurora shakes her head. "You threw that at her with no warning. She deserved better from you."
I run a hand over my face. "I know, zarechka . I know."
"Do you?" She steps closer. "Because that wasn't protection. It was control."
Her words hit like bullets. Direct and devastating.
"You can offer your nieces physical protection," she continues, softer now. "But you can't control how they think or feel. You can't command away their pain."
I turn away, unable to meet her eyes. "I sounded just like him."
"Like who?"
"My father." The admission feels like gravel in my throat. "I swore I'd never become him, and yet..."
Aurora's hand touches my arm. "You're not him."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because you feel this," she says simply. "This shame at what you've done. You know it was wrong."
"I should talk to her. Apologize."
Aurora shakes her head. "Not yet. Let her have some space."
"But—"
"Trust me on this, Ruslan." Her voice softens.
I glance toward the staircase, fighting the urge to march up there and make things right immediately. The pakhan in me wants to fix everything now. To control the situation and command respect.
But that's exactly what got me into this mess.
Slowly, I nod.
Aurora reaches up and places her palm against my chest. The warmth of her hand seeps through my shirt, and my pulse quickens beneath her touch. Something jolts between us. Something that has nothing to do with our arrangement and everything to do with how she grounds me when I'm spiraling.
"How do you do that?" I murmur.
"Do what?"
"Know to say exactly what I need to hear, and not what I want to hear."
A half-smile tugs at Aurora's lips, and slowly, her face transforms from fierce protector to something softer.
"Thank you," I say, covering her hand with mine. "For standing up to me. For standing up for Mikayla."
"That's why we're getting married, right?" she replies. "Someone has to keep you honest."
The words hang between us, loaded with possibilities neither of us dared to consider before. They trigger something deep inside me. A hunger not just for her body, but for this connection.
This understanding.
Along with that, a thought more terrifying than anything else comes to the surface.
Maybe this marriage might become something more than simple convenience.
Maybe it can become something I'd stopped believing I deserved a long time ago.