Chapter 7 Alexei
ALEXEI
Dawn tries to push through the curtains in my room, turning everything gray-gold and soft. I'm sprawled across my bed, still half-dressed from last night, mind replaying the wedding like a film I can't stop watching.
Victoria in that dress.
Fuck.
I've seen beautiful women before. Slept with plenty. But seeing her in ivory silk and lace catching light like water, dark hair falling over bare shoulders… that was different. That rearranged something in my chest I didn't know could move.
Lust hit immediate and undeniable. Hard enough to hurt. But underneath the want was pride, fierce and unexpected. Like I'd been given something precious to protect, and I was terrified of dropping it.
She trusted me.
Let me lead her down that aisle when she could have walked alone.
But she took my arm anyway.
People don't trust me. Not really. They see the grin, the chaos, the way I move through the world like I'm daring it to hit back. They think I'm unhinged. Unstable. A weapon Maksim and Zakhar point at problems when diplomacy fails.
Maybe they're right.
But the way I see it, life ends without warning. You're here, breathing, laughing, fucking, and then you're not. So why waste time pretending to be civilized? Why not squeeze every drop of sensation out of each moment before it's gone?
I learned that young.
Moscow winter cold that bites through skin to bone. Hunger that empties you out until you forget what full feels like, until stealing becomes easier than asking because asking gets you nothing but fists.
Me and Zakhar. Small and feral. Sleeping in doorways because even the streets were better than the orphanage where they left us.
Month-old babies dumped like garbage. Unwanted. Inconvenient. Expendable.
The beatings came from everyone. Staff. Other boys. Anyone bigger and meaner, which was everyone when you're small and weak and your body betrays you in ways you can't control yet.
Zakhar tried to protect me. My twin. My other half. Stood between me and fists, between me and boots, took hits meant for me until he couldn't stand anymore.
So we ran.
Escaped into a world that didn't want us either, but at least gave us the freedom to fight back. To choose our own violence instead of just receiving it.
I survived. We both did.
And I learned that every breath is borrowed time.
Standing behind Zakhar yesterday, watching Maksim marry Victoria, I felt everything at once.
Jealousy that she was saying vows to him and not me.
Happiness that my brother—the one who saved us both, who turned starvation into empire—finally had something beautiful. Desire so sharp it carved me hollow.
And when I found out she'd asked the band to play Russian music, chose it deliberately, honored where we came from even though she doesn't know the full story, a crack opened in my chest. Wide and dangerous.
She paid attention.
She cared enough to learn what might matter to us, what might make us feel seen.
Maybe she'll fit. Maybe after this year of pretending, she'll choose to stay.
Maybe.
I replay the moment I looked over my shoulder during the reception, searching for her in the crowd, and saw her slipping away. Then her bastard father wobbled after her on his crutches, drunk and furious and looking for someone to hurt.
The sound of the golf club crunching into Arthur Ainsley's knee still makes me grin. Satisfying. Clean.
Instinct kicked in. One second I was standing with Maksim, the next I was cutting through the crowd.
But Zakhar stopped me. Hand on my shoulder, voice flat and final: "Allow me."
So I let him handle it. My twin knows when I need to stand down, knows when his steady violence serves better than my wild kind.
When he came back, Victoria was with him. Smiling. But I could see the cracks in the mask. Shock, nervous energy vibrating beneath polished composure.
We left shortly after. Brought her here. Home.
Except it's not her home. Not really. She looked at the repurposed warehouse like she'd been dropped into a foreign country where she didn't speak the language.
My phone chimes, pulling me out of memory. I grab it off the nightstand, squinting at the screen.
Mike. Head of security.
I answer. "Yeah?"
"Sorry to wake you." Mike's voice is clipped, professional. "We got a breach alarm on the observation deck. Checked the cameras. iIt’s Mrs. Severyn. Wasn't sure if she has clearance or if I should intervene."
Mrs. Severyn. The title sounds wrong and right at the same time.
"I'll handle it," I say, already swinging my legs out of bed. "Give me five minutes."
"Copy that."
I drop the phone and scrub my hands over my face. We didn't give Victoria the house tour last night. Didn't introduce her to staff or explain protocols or show her which doors need codes and which ones will trigger alarms if she goes wandering.
Hell, we barely got her inside before exhaustion and shock took over.
She stood in the entrance, staring at exposed steel beams and concrete floors like she'd been expecting something else. A mansion, probably. Something that looked like money instead of this repurposed fortress.
I pull on gym clothes. Black shorts, sleeveless shirt, the uniform I wear every morning before training.
Bare feet on cold concrete wake me up the rest of the way as I head toward the observation deck on the upper floor. The warehouse has that particular echo that comes from high ceilings and hard surfaces, every sound amplified, nothing soft to absorb it.
I step out into pale morning light.
And stop breathing.
Victoria stands in the center of the glass room, arms stretched overhead, face tilted toward the sun streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows.
She's wearing tiny silk shorts that barely cover her ass and a thin camisole that leaves nothing to imagination.
The light turns her into something ethereal.
Skin glowing warm, dark hair loose down her back, every curve and line of her body on display like an offering.
Rage burns through me first. Mike saw this through the cameras. Watched her stretch and breathe and exist in this private moment, watched the silk cling to her body.
I'm going to gouge his eyes out.
Slowly.
Then the rage shifts. Transforms into hunger so acute it borders on pain. Want and possession and something fiercer I don't have a name for, all tangled together until I can't separate them.
I watch her take deep breaths, chest rising and falling in rhythm with something internal. There's ritual in the way she moves. Something sacred.
She lowers her arms, rolls her shoulders, turns.
Sees me.
Freezes.
I raise both hands, trying to look harmless even though I've never looked harmless in my life. "Didn't mean to scare you. Security got an intruder alert. I came to check it out."
Her hand flies to her throat, and I watch her pulse hammer in the hollow there. Fast. Visible.
"I didn't know I wasn't allowed to walk around the house."
"You are," I say quickly, taking a step forward.
Need to fix this, need her to understand she's not a prisoner.
"But certain areas need special codes. Otherwise, alarms trigger.
Security gets jumpy." I let my mouth curve into something apologetic.
"Didn't expect you to be an early riser.
Would've given you the tour yesterday if I'd known. "
Her shoulders relax slightly. "I like starting the day early. Preferably with sunlight." She gestures at the glass walls, the river beyond cutting through the city. "It's a way to tackle the day with energy. Make the most of it. Each day is precious."
The words land harder than she probably means them to.
I understand that philosophy. Maybe from different scars, born from different survival, but I understand it. Every day you wake up breathing is one more middle finger to the universe that tried to kill you.
Every moment you're alive is stolen time.
"We can do the tour now if you want," I offer. "Show you the codes, the protocols. Where everything is."
I move closer, and her scent hits me, expensive and deliberate. My hand lifts before I can stop it, index finger hooking under the thin strap of her camisole.
The silk is cool against my skin.
Her skin beneath is warm.
She shivers. Goosebumps race down her arm, visible proof of her response.
Satisfaction coils through me, dark and possessive.
"Might want to change first," I say, voice dropping lower. "Don't want to blind the staff. They're good people. Would hate to take away their vision."
I watch her throat move as she swallows. She nods.
"I'll walk you to your room," I say, letting the strap slip off my finger slowly, deliberately.
We move toward the elevator together, and I'm hyper-aware of every inch of space between us. The way she moves, fluid, controlled. The way her shorts ride up with each step, revealing the curve of her ass, the back of her thighs.
I'm going to have a serious fucking problem.
Her room is in the opposite wing from ours. We all agreed on that. Give her privacy. Space. Make sure she feels comfortable instead of caged, respected instead of owned.
Now I'm regretting every single logical reason we had.
The distance feels like punishment.
"I'll wait here," I say when we reach her door, forcing myself to lean against the wall instead of following her inside.
She slips through, and I'm alone in the hallway. I let my head tip back against concrete, eyes closed. My dick is hard enough to ache, pressing against the waistband of my shorts. I adjust, tucking it up so the shirt hides the evidence.
I have a feeling I'll be doing this a lot with Victoria around.
Minutes later the door opens. She steps out wearing black leggings and a cropped top that shows a strip of toned stomach. Better. Marginally.
Not really.
"Ready?" I ask.
"Ready."
I give her the full tour. Start on the ground floor. Garage, gym, the hidden armory she doesn't need to know about yet.
She's quiet. Observant. Taking in details, the exposed steel beams, the bulletproof glass in every window, the way every surface is deliberate. Nothing soft. Nothing accidental.
"Did you just move in?" she asks suddenly.
I stop mid-step. "We've been here almost five years. Why?"
She waves a hand vaguely at the space around us. "It doesn't look like it."
"Unfortunately," I say, letting my grin sharpen as we walk the rest of the house, "we don't have a pool. Real shame. I was looking forward to a repeat performance."
Her cheeks flush. Pink spreads across her skin, down her neck. She knows exactly what I'm talking about. The way we all stared like idiots when she walked into Arthur's office dripping water and defiance in that red bikini.
"About the staff," I continue, moving past the moment before I say something that crosses a line.
"Mostly security. Ex-military, vetted, loyal.
Cleaning service comes once a week. We own the company, so they know when to see things and when to develop sudden blindness.
" I wink. "Food comes from our restaurant sometimes, but mostly we just eat out. Or order in."
She nods, processing.
The second floor opens into the main living space. Kitchen with industrial appliances that have never been properly used. Living room. The long corridor that connects everything, including the door at the very end.
She moves toward it, hand reaching for the handle.
I catch her wrist. "That's Maksim's private space. Off-limits."
She looks up at me, and there's mischief in her eyes. Playfulness. "What is it? A BDSM dungeon?"
The question detonates in my brain.
Heat floods through me. Immediate, visceral, undeniable. Before I can stop myself, before I can think, I'm moving. Stepping into her space, backing her against the door, caging her with my body without quite touching.
"Why?" I ask, voice rough. "Kotyonok. You into that?"
Her pupils dilate. Black swallowing brown until her eyes look almost feral. I watch her pulse jump in her throat, see her chest rise and fall faster.
"Because I'm not opposed," I add, leaning close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin. "If that's what you want."
The air between us crackles. Electric. Dangerous. One move and we'd be touching. One breath and everything would change.
She doesn't pull away.
Doesn't push me back.
Just stares up at me with those dark eyes, lips parted, breathing shallow.
I force myself to step back. Put space between us before I do something we'll both regret. Or worse, something we won't regret at all.
"I'll leave you to explore," I say, and the word comes out loaded with meaning I don't bother hiding. "The house. Your new home. All of it."
I turn and walk away before she can respond, before I can see whatever expression is on her face, before I can change my mind and press her against that door and find out if she tastes as good as she smells.
But I feel her watching me.
Feel the weight of her gaze tracking my retreat, burning into my shoulders, my back, following me down the hallway like a physical touch.
My phone vibrates against my hip. CGM alert. Glucose dropping slightly. Adrenaline burn from the interaction, from the control it took to walk away.
I pull a glucose tab from my pocket, pop it in my mouth. The sweetness dissolves on my tongue, familiar and automatic. Management. Routine. The price of staying alive.
And I wonder, not for the first time this morning, what I've gotten myself into.
Victoria isn't just beautiful. Isn't just smart or strategic or dangerous in the ways we expected.
She's dangerous in ways we didn't anticipate.
The kind of dangerous that makes you forget why you built walls in the first place.