Chapter 10
Maksim
Iwalk into Roman’s office. He’s summoned me here for whatever reason. I assume he wants to gloat about his upcoming wedding. I’m not a fool. I know Roman knows about my history with Kira. He can pretend he forgot, but I know better.
I’m playing it cool for now. I’m not going to act jealous. I’m not jealous. He can do whatever he wants with whomever he wants.
“Sit, sit,” Roman gestures. “I’m just finishing up with some details for my bride’s sister.”
Anya.
Something triggers my radar.
"She's going to Paris. Art school. That was the arrangement, yes?"
"Change of plans." Roman’s smile makes my skin crawl. "I've arranged a better match for her. Artem Trotsky. He's been looking for a wife, and the alliance would strengthen our position in the northern territories."
The name hits me like ice water. The man is sixty years old. And like Roman, his past wives have mysteriously died. Before I died, there were rumors about Artem. He was known for breaking young women.
"She's nineteen," I say carefully.
"Perfect age." Roman pours himself scotch. "Young enough to mold. Old enough to be useful. He’s willing to pay handsomely for the connection."
"Kira agreed to marry you so Anya could go to Paris. That was the deal."
"Deals change." Roman's smile sharpens. "Kira needs to understand that her compliance determines her sister's fate. If she's difficult during the transition—if she makes problems—then Anya's situation becomes less pleasant. If she's cooperative, we can revisit the Paris arrangement later."
It's brilliant strategy. Ruthless and effective. Using Anya as an ongoing leverage point instead of releasing her.
It's also monstrous.
"Trotsky will destroy her," I hear myself say.
"Probably." Roman shrugs. "But that's not our concern. Our concern is consolidating power and ensuring Kira's cooperation. This arrangement accomplishes both."
I should agree. Should see this as another tool to break Kira. She loves her sister—everyone knows it. Watching Anya marry a sadist will destroy her.
That's what I want. Isn't it?
"When?" I ask.
"Week after my wedding. Strike while the iron is hot." Roman raises his glass. "To family alliances."
I don't drink.
I'm seeing Anya's face from six years ago. Fifteen years old, braiding flowers into Kira's hair at a family gathering. Both of them laughing. Anya looking at her older sister with pure adoration.
I remember thinking they were lucky to have each other. To have that bond. Their father was a piece of shit. Their mother long dead. Anya and Kira were close because they were all one another had. I didn’t know that kind of relationship.
Well, I thought I did.
I remember Anya asking me about wedding plans. Excited about being in the ceremony. Asking if she could paint something for our reception.
She was innocent. Sweet. Everything this world usually destroys.
"Problem?" Roman asks, watching me.
"No problem." I force the words out. "Smart strategy."
I get to my feet and walk out of the office. I feel something I haven't felt since my return—guilt.
Kira deserves pain. Deserves to lose everything like I lost everything.
But Anya? What did she do except be born into the wrong family?
I tell myself it doesn't matter. That collateral damage is inevitable. That I would have given my life for Kira once, but she took it. There's a difference between sacrifice and theft.
I find myself pulling out my phone and typing before I can think better of it.
Our place. Sunset. Come alone.
I send it to Kira's number and immediately regret it.
What am I doing? Meeting her alone accomplishes nothing. Changes nothing.
Except I need to see her face when I tell her about Anya. Need to watch her realize that even her sister's safety isn't guaranteed anymore.
That's why I'm doing this. For the satisfaction of watching her break.
Not because guilt is eating me alive.
Not because some part of me needs to warn her.
The phone buzzes.
Kira: I'll be there.
I leave the estate and drive around the city. I don’t know why, but I don’t feel like I can or should trust anyone. My eyes go to the rearview mirrors, keeping a close eye on the cars behind me. I want to make sure I’m not being followed.
When I get to our secret place that I know isn’t really a secret, I park in the trees and then walk to the spot.
The creek looks the same as it did six years ago.
Hidden from roads by a thick line of trees, accessible only by a path most people don't know exists. The water runs clear over smooth stones. The sound used to calm me when the pressure of being the Barinov heir got too heavy.
I brought Kira here for the first time a few months after we got together. It was my spot before it was ours. I can still picture her sitting on the bank with her shoes off her dainty feet in the water. We would sit out here and talk for hours about nothing important.
It was one of the last times I remember being truly happy.
Now I'm back, and the memory tastes like poison.
She arrives just before sunset.
When she sees me standing by the water, she stops about ten feet away. Strategic distance. Close enough to talk, far enough to run if necessary.
I’d catch her, but it would give her a good head start.
"You came," I observe.
"You summoned." Her voice is cold. "Are you planning to kill me? Because if so, I'd appreciate getting it over with. I have a dress fitting tomorrow and I'd hate to miss it. Rather, I would love to miss it, but not if my corpse is rotting under some trees."
"Not planning to kill you." I turn to face her fully. "Though the thought has appeal."
"I'm sure." She crosses her arms. "So what is this? Another chance to tell me how you're destroying my organization? Because I'm aware. Do you want a gold star? Maybe a cookie? Get on with it.”
My girl’s fight is back.
I like it.
But I’m about to destroy her.
“If you’ve got a glass of vodka—”
“What do you want, Maksim? Why am I here?"
"Roman changed the arrangement." The words come out harsher than intended. There’s nothing gentle about it. "About Anya."
Her head snaps toward me. Her entire body stiffens. "What?"
"She's not going to Paris."
“What do you mean?” Her words are so faint I barely hear them.
"He's arranged a marriage instead. To Artem Trotsky."
The color doesn't just drain from her face—it vanishes. She actually sways on her feet.
"No." The word comes out strangled. "That wasn't the deal. She goes to Paris. That was the only reason I agreed to—"
"Roman doesn't care about deals." I cut her off. "He cares about leverage. As long as Anya's fate is uncertain, you'll cooperate. The moment she's safe in Paris, you become unpredictable."
"Trotsky will kill her." Kira's voice breaks. "He'll destroy her. She's nineteen. She's innocent. She's—"
"Your sister. I know." The guilt twists harder. "Which is why Roman chose him. Maximum leverage."
She's shaking now. Fury and fear warring in her expression. "You agreed to this. You sat in that meeting and agreed to let him marry my baby sister to a monster."
It's not a question. Just an accusation I can't deny.
"The decision was made without me."
"Why?" She takes a step toward me. "Maksim, I get that you hate me. I understand you want to destroy me. But Anya? What did she ever do to you?"
"She hasn’t done anything to me. She exists as leverage. She's collateral damage.”
"Collateral damage." Kira's laugh is wild. "That's what you call my sister? The girl you used to bring books to? The one you helped with her art projects? The one who cried when she heard you died because she loved you like a brother?"
I force down the regret. "That was before everything changed."
"She didn't change!" Kira's shouting now. "She's still that same girl! Still innocent! Still everything good in this fucking world! And you're going to let Roman destroy her to hurt me?"
"You destroyed me to get power," I shoot back. "Why is this different?"
"Because I didn’t!" The scream tears out of her. "How many times do I have to tell you? I didn't betray you!”
We're too close now. I don't remember closing the distance but we're almost touching.
"You were marrying him anyway," I snarl. "Roman would have taken your organization with or without me. At least this way I get the satisfaction of watching it happen."
"My organization was my only shot at survival!
" Her hands fist in my jacket. "Don't you understand?
Without power, I'm nothing in this world.
Just another woman to be used and discarded.
At least with my organization, I had leverage.
Had options. Had a chance of killing Roman before he could kill me! "
The admission stops me cold. "You were planning to kill him?"
"Of course I was planning to kill him!" She's crying now, furious tears. "Did you really think I'd just roll over and accept being his wife? That I'd let him control me? I was going to marry him, get Anya to safety, and then put a bullet in his head!"
"And take over his empire," I finish.
"And survive!" She shakes me. "Not for power! Not for glory! To fucking survive in a world that was trying to destroy me!"
I grab her wrists, stopping the shaking but not pulling her away.
We're breathing hard. Standing too close. Her hands still gripping my jacket. My fingers are on her pulse at her wrist. Her heart is racing.
"I don't know what you are anymore." My voice comes out rough. "I thought I knew you. Thought I understood you. I hate you, Kira."
"I never betrayed you." Her eyes search mine. "I swear on Anya's life—on everything I love—I never betrayed you."
The oath hits different than all her previous denials. Because swearing on Anya means something. That girl is the only thing Kira actually loves.
"Then who did?" The question I've been avoiding. "If not you, then who sold me out?"
"I don't know." Frustration bleeds through her tears.
"That doesn't make you innocent," I say, but the conviction is weaker.
"It makes me a victim." Her voice softens. "Like you. We're both victims of whatever someone orchestrated."
"I can't—" I don't finish. Can't admit that I'm starting to believe her.
"Can't what? Can't admit you might be wrong?" She's watching my face. "Or can't admit you still love me?"
The question hangs between us like a live grenade.
"I don't love you." The lie tastes bitter.
"Liar." She tilts her head up, her eyes searching mind. "You hate me and love me. Just like I hate you and love you. We're trapped in this thing neither of us wanted."
"I hate what you did to me." My hands tighten on her wrists.
"I hate what you think I did." Her voice breaks. "And I hate that nothing I say will convince you otherwise."
We stand there at an impasse. The past and present colliding in the space between us.
Then somehow—I don't know who moves first—we're kissing.
It's not gentle like it used to be. Not sweet or tender. It's fury and pain and violent.
Her hands are in my hair tugging hard. My hands release her wrists and drop to her waist. We're trying to hurt each other or heal each other or maybe both simultaneously.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"This doesn't change anything," I lie.
"I know." She touches my face, tracing the scar through my eyebrow. "But for just this moment, can we pretend it does?"
I should say no. Should push her away and stick to my plan.
Instead, I kiss her again.
Because apparently, some things survive even six years of torture and hatred.
Some things refuse to die no matter how much you want them to.
Like love.
Damnit.