Zakhar
Day six, and everything is going according to plan.
Except it isn't a plan. Not really. Plans imply strategy, careful calculation, moves plotted out three steps ahead. This is something else. Something more instinctive.
Inevitable.
I watch Lily from my position on the couch, pretending to scroll through my phone while she moves through her morning routine before heading downstairs.
Then sounds drift up through the floorboards, the hum of the mixer, the clang of metal pans, her footsteps crossing from oven to counter and back again.
She's been awake since four in the morning. I know because I heard her get up, heard the shower run, heard her try to move quietly so she wouldn't wake me.
I've been awake since three.
My wounds are healing faster than she realizes.
The shoulder is almost sealed, barely more than an angry, pink line under the fresh bandages she applied yesterday.
The one at my side pulls when I move, but it's manageable.
Painkillers help, but mostly it's just biology. Dubovich men heal fast. Always have.
I could leave now if I wanted to. Only I don't want to.
My phone buzzes. Iosif, again.
Iosif: It's been six days. The Pakhan wants answers.
Me: Tell him I'm working.
Iosif: On what? You won't tell me where you are. You won't explain what you're doing. This is starting to look suspicious.
Me: I'm recovering from being shot.
Iosif: You've recovered from worse in less time.
He's not wrong. But I'm not about to explain that I'm choosing to stay in a failing bakery with a woman who doesn't know she's already mine.
Me: I'll report when I'm ready.
I silence the phone and set it aside.
The truth is, I could call in favors right now. Make a few phone calls, and by tomorrow morning, Lily's problems would disappear. Her bakery would be packed with customers. Money would flow in steadily.
But that's not how this works.
She has to accept it. Accept me. Not as some distant benefactor pulling strings from the shadows, but as something more permanent.
As hers.
The stairs creak. She's coming up for her mid-morning break, the one she thinks I don't notice. The one where she checks on me, pretends it's casual, then disappears back downstairs before I can point out that she's worried.
She appears in the doorway, hair pulled back, flour dusting her forearms. She looks tired. She always looks tired.
"How are you feeling?" she asks.
"Better."
It's what I always say. She never believes me, but she doesn't push.
"I brought you breakfast." She sets a plate on the coffee table. It holds some kind of pastry and some fruit. Then fetches a glass of water to place beside it.
“Thank you,” I say, before asking, “How are you?”
"I'm fine." She says it in a way most people would probably accept, but I can tell it’s a lie.
I scoff. "No, you're not."
She crosses her arms, defensive. I can see the exhaustion in the set of her shoulders, the shadows under her eyes. She's running on fumes and stubbornness.
"Sit," I say. Not a request.
"I have to open up—"
"Sit. Eat with me. Then go back to work."
For a moment, I think she'll argue. But something in my voice makes her pause. That edge of command I can't quite hide, even when I'm trying to be gentle.
She sits. Takes half the pastry without a word.
We eat in silence. I watch her from the corner of my eye, cataloging the small tells. The way she picks at the food. The way she keeps glancing toward the door like she's about to be caught doing something she shouldn’t be.
"How long have you been struggling?" I ask.
"What?"
"The bakery. How long has it been like this?"
She sets down the sandwich. "That's none of your business."
I smile. It’s not polite. It’s my ‘I know that you’re lying and we can do this the hard way if you prefer,’ smile. "You made it my business when you opened the door."
"That's not how this works."
"Isn't it?" I put enough challenge in my voice to make her eyes flare with anger. Or frustration.
Her jaw tightens. "You're leaving soon. Two more days, and you're healed enough to go. Whatever you think this is, it's temporary."
"Is that what you want? For me to leave?"
The question hangs between us. I can see her wrestling with it, see the conflict in her eyes. She should want me gone. Should be counting the hours until her quiet, safe life returns.
But she doesn't want that, and neither do I. And we both know this life of hers can’t sustain itself for much longer.
"What I want doesn't matter," she says finally. "You have a life somewhere else. People looking for you. You can't just... stay here."
"Why not?"
"Because—" She stops. Tries again. "Because none of this makes sense. You're Bratva. I'm a baker. We exist in completely different worlds."
I lean forward carefully, ignoring the pull in my side. Close enough that she has to look at me. Close enough that she can't pretend this conversation isn't happening.
"You feel it too," I say quietly. "This pull between us. You've felt it since the first night."
"That's just—" She swallows. "Proximity. Adrenaline. It doesn't mean anything."
"Then why are you still here? Why didn't you call the police that first night? Why didn't you throw me out the moment you learned what I am?"
"Because I'm an idiot," she says and she almost pouts before catching herself and straightening her expression.
"No,” I counter.” It’s because you wanted me to stay."
Her breath catches. "You're very sure of yourself."
"I'm sure of whatever this is." I waggle my index finger between us.
I can see her pulse jumping in her throat and the way her pupils dilate when I move closer.
She wants this. Wants me. Even if she's not ready to admit it yet.
"I need to get back to work," she says, but she doesn't move.
"Lily." I love saying her name. Love the way it feels in my mouth.
"What?" she snaps, but I can tell it’s because she is floundering for control.
"When I leave here—” I lift my gaze from her throat to her eyes slowly. “—you're coming with me."
The words land like a detonation. Her eyes go wide.
"What?" Panic now. Control a long-abandoned station.
"You heard me."
"That's—" She stands abruptly and steps away, putting distance between us. "That's insane. You can't just decide that."
I stay quiet.
"I'm not going anywhere with you. I have a business. A life. I can't just abandon everything because some stranger thinks—"
"I'm not a stranger. Not anymore." My tone is final. She knows it.
"You've been here six days!"
"Long enough."
She laughs, the sound sharp and almost panicked. "Long enough for what? To decide you want to what, kidnap me? Keep me like some kind of—"
"I'm not keeping you. I'm claiming you."
The word stops her cold. She stares at me like I've grown a second head.
"You can’t claim me."
I stand slowly, carefully. The movement pulls at my wounds, but I ignore it as I cross the small distance to where she's standing. I back her against the wall without touching her. Just presence and proximity.
"Yes," I say quietly. "I can."
"I should throw you out right now."
"But you won't."
"Why shouldn’t I?" The words are high-pitched and breathy all at once and go straight to my cock.
I lean in, close enough that my breath moves her hair. "Because you like it. The way I look at you. The way I give you orders, and you follow them even when you don't want to. The way I make you feel."
"That's not—"
"It is."
Her hands come up, pressing against my chest. Not pushing me away. Just there, feeling my heartbeat through the bandages.
"This is crazy," she whispers.
"Yes."
"We barely know each other."
"We know enough."
"I can't just—" She stops, breathes. "I can't just give up everything for someone I met a week ago."
"You're not giving up anything. You're gaining everything."
"Like what?"
I cup her jaw, gentle but firm, tilting her face up to mine. "Protection. Security. Someone who will make sure you never struggle alone again. Someone who will take care of you the way you deserve."
"And what do you get?"
My thumb brushes her lower lip. "You."
Her breath stutters. "Why me?"
"Because you opened the door. Because you didn't flinch. Because you're exactly what I've been looking for without ever knowing I was looking."
The confession hangs between us. I see the moment it hits her, the way her eyes widen, the way her body softens despite her best efforts to resist. I step back, giving her space. She needs it. Needs time to process, to accept what's already inevitable.
"One more day," she says, voice unsteady. "That was the deal."
"The deal's changed."
"Zakhar—"
"One more day to decide. But you already know what you're going to choose."
She doesn't deny it. Can't. She knows I'm right.
She's already mine. It's just a matter of time before she admits it.
Her throat moves as she swallows, her eyes dazed as she heads back downstairs. I pull out my phone. One call. That's all it would take to set things in motion. To make her bakery thrive, to eliminate her financial stress, to give her everything she needs.
But not yet.
First, she has to accept me.
Then I'll give her the world.
I dial Iosif instead.
He answers on the first ring. "Finally."
"I need information," I say. "Property records. Business licenses. Financial history."
"For what?" he demands, and I can imagine the way his face scrunches when he is confused.
"A bakery downtown. The Pastry Cupboard."
Silence. Then: "Zakhar, what the fuck are you doing?"
"Fixing a problem," I reply, closing my eyes.
"By investigating some random bakery?" he gripes.
I sigh. "It's not random."
More silence. I can practically hear him putting the pieces together.
"This is her, isn't it? The woman you're staying with. The one you won't tell me about." He is beginning to sound resigned.
"Get me the information, Iosif, please. I need everything in two days."
"What are you planning?" he asks.
"Nothing. I’m making sure she has no reason to say no."
"To what?"
I smile, even though he can't see it. "Everything."