Chapter 14 Alexei
ALEXEI
Morning always tastes like memory.
The promise that surviving the night means you get another chance at living.
I stand in the kitchen, coffee going cold in my hand, thinking about the wolf's head tattoo we found inked into dead flesh last night. The symbol we thought we'd erased from the world more than a decade ago, emerging like a ghost with fresh ink and younger skin.
Doesn't make sense. The man was too young to have been one of Valkov's original soldiers. Would have been barely a teenager when we brought that empire down in blood and Moscow winter.
Which means someone is recruiting. Building. Using a symbol that should be buried with the bones of everyone who wore it.
We spent hours after the body was removed, the three of us in Maksim's office, trying to piece together what this means. Came up with more questions than answers.
The only thing we agreed on: upgrade security. Double the guards. Watch the perimeter. And keep Victoria close.
Not that we told her any of this. No need to alarm her yet. Let her go about her life as usual while we tighten the net around her without her noticing.
Which means someone needs to be near her whenever possible.
I volunteered.
Not just for security. Though that's what I told my brothers.
The truth is simpler and more complicated: I like being near her. Like the way she moves through the world with that particular combination of elegance and defiance. Like how she makes me laugh without trying, how she sees through my bullshit but plays along anyway.
Speaking of which, by now she should be up on the observation deck, doing what I've started calling her sun greeting. That ritual she performs every morning like she's conducting a private ceremony with daylight.
I leave my coffee on the counter and head upstairs.
The observation deck glows with early light. Gold filters through glass walls, turning everything warm and luminous. The river below catches the sun and throws it back in silver fragments.
And there she is.
Victoria stands in the center of the space, arms stretched overhead, face tilted toward the light.
I will never get tired of seeing her like this.
Magnificent. Celebrating the beginning of a new day like it's a gift instead of a given.
I understand that instinct. There were times when I was small and cold, sleeping in Moscow streets bundled against my brother, when all I had was the belief that a new day would start and with it a world of possibilities.
When survival meant making it to sunrise and hoping the next twenty-four hours would be kinder than the last.
My hand lifts to my eyebrow, fingers tracing the small scar that bisects it. A remembrance of a day when I thought I might not live to see another morning.
We made it anyway.
Almost like sensing my presence, Victoria turns. Sees me standing in the doorway.
An instant smile illuminates her face, and just like that, the dark thoughts scatter.
"Morning, solnyshko," I say, letting my grin sharpen. "Communing with your celestial overlords again?"
She laughs, the sound bright and unguarded. "Someone has to greet the day properly. You heathens just stumble out of bed demanding coffee."
"Coffee is sacred," I protest, moving into the space. "A proper religious experience."
"You're ridiculous."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
She rolls her eyes, but she's still smiling. Her cheeks carry a flush that might be from the sun or from me. I hope it's from me.
"What are you doing today?" I ask, casual as I can manage when what I really want is to know every detail, every plan, every moment of her day so I can insert myself into as many of them as possible.
A flicker crosses her face. Caution, maybe. Or calculation.
"Pilates," she says, voice deliberately vague. "Then probably lunch. The usual."
The usual. Except her usual has a tight geographic radius that doesn't quite make sense for someone with her resources and social connections. And the way she's being evasive now only makes me more curious.
"Pilates," I repeat, like I'm testing the word. "I've always wanted to try that."
Her smile falters. Goes artificial around the edges.
"Really?" The question comes out too bright. "I don't think it's your kind of thing. Very controlled. Very precise. Lots of small movements."
"Sounds perfect," I lie. "I'll come with you."
"Alexei, you don't have to—"
"I want to." I step closer, let my voice drop into seriousness. "Unless you don't want me there?"
She hesitates. I watch her mind work behind those dark eyes, see her weighing options and calculating outcomes.
"Of course you can come," she says finally. "I just don't want you to be bored."
The way she's trying to dissuade me only makes me more determined. There's something happening at this pilates class. Something she doesn't want me to see.
Which means I absolutely need to see it.
"Give me ten minutes to change," I say. "We'll take my car."
The pilates studio is in that same block where Victoria seems to conduct most of her life. Clean lines, pale wood floors, the faint scent of eucalyptus mixing with lavender.
Victoria practically rushes through the door ahead of me, making a beeline for a woman who's setting up equipment in the main studio.
The woman is formidable. Tall, with dark hair pulled back in a severe bun and a particular posture that almost seems military.
"Katarina," Victoria says, voice too bright. "Alexei will be joining us for class today."
Katarina's eyes snap to me. For half a second, confusion crosses her face. Then it's gone, replaced by a smile that looks more menacing than welcoming.
"How delightful," she says, accent thick and Eastern European. "It will be my pleasure."
The emphasis on pleasure makes it sound like a threat.
We move into the studio proper, and I see twelve machines arranged in neat rows. Contraptions of springs and platforms and straps that look more like medieval torture devices than exercise equipment.
"Just the two of you today," Katarina announces. "Private session."
Victoria shoots me a look I can't quite read. Warning? Apology? Both?
"Let's begin," Katarina says, all business now. "Alexei, you'll start on that reformer. Victoria will demonstrate first."
Victoria climbs onto one of the machines with practiced ease. Lies back, feet in straps, hands gripping bars. Then she starts moving.
And I'm fucked.
Her body moves like water. Controlled. Precise. Every muscle engaged, every line deliberate. The small shorts and crop top she's wearing cling to skin, and I can see every curve, every flex, every breath.
My pulse kicks up. Heat coils low in my spine.
I'm already half-hard just watching her, and the class hasn't even started yet.
"Your turn," Katarina says, voice cutting through my distraction.
I climb onto the reformer, trying to replicate Victoria's position. The platform slides under my feet. Springs resist my movement. Nothing feels natural or comfortable.
"Engage your core," Katarina instructs. "Push through your heels. Control the return."
I push. The platform slides. My abs immediately start screaming.
What the fuck is this torture?
"Good," Katarina says, though her smile suggests she's enjoying my suffering. "Now hold. Five breaths."
I hold. Muscles shake. Sweat breaks across my forehead.
I'm in shape. I train daily. I can spar for hours, run miles without stopping, fight multiple opponents without breaking rhythm.
But this? This is different. This targets muscles I didn't know existed. Requires control I don't naturally possess. Demands stillness when my body wants to move.
"Transition to the next position," Katarina commands.
I transition. Nearly fall off the machine. Catch myself at the last second.
Victoria makes a sound that might be a suppressed laugh.
"Something funny, kotyonok?" I ask through gritted teeth.
"Not at all," she says, but her eyes are dancing. "You're doing great."
Katarina puts us through a series of movements that feel specifically designed to humiliate me. Planks on an unstable surface. Leg lifts with springs that resist every inch. Some kind of twisted side stretch that makes my obliques burn like fire.
I'm dripping sweat within twenty minutes. My shirt clings to my back, my chest. My legs shake during transitions.
And Katarina watches with barely concealed glee, calling out corrections in that accent that makes every instruction sound vaguely threatening.
Meanwhile, Victoria moves through the exercises like she's been doing them her entire life. Fluid. Graceful. Devastatingly attractive in ways that make concentrating on my own form nearly impossible.
By the time Katarina calls the class to an end, I'm wrecked. Muscles I didn't know I had are screaming. My abs feel like someone used them as a punching bag.
"Excellent work," Katarina says, though she's clearly addressing Victoria, not me. "Same time next week?"
"Definitely," Victoria confirms.
Katarina leaves the studio, and suddenly we're alone. Both of us breathless, both sheened with sweat, the air between us thick with heat and exertion.
Victoria looks at me with genuine concern. "Are you okay? You're not feeling dizzy or anything?"
The question stops me cold.
Not because I'm dizzy. I'm fine. My sugar is stable. I checked before we left the house and again in the car on my phone.
But she asked. Specifically about dizziness. The telltale sign of blood sugar dropping.
Which means she knows.
I wasn't certain before. Thought maybe she saw the insulin pump in the gym that morning, but couldn't be sure if she registered what it was.
Now I'm certain.
Victoria knows I'm diabetic.
She's the only person outside Maksim and Zakhar who knows this about me.
And I realize with sudden, startling clarity. I'm not threatened by her knowing. I trust her.
I close the distance between us. Cup her face in both hands. Feel the heat of her skin, the rapid pulse in her throat.
Then I kiss her.
It's not tentative. Not testing. It's claiming and surrendering at once. My mouth on hers, demanding and reverent, tasting salt and sunlight and Victoria.
She makes a small sound, surprise turning into response. Her hands come up to grip my shirt, and she's kissing me back with equal fervor. Equal hunger.
The world narrows to this. Her lips, her exhale, her heartbeat against my chest. The warmth of her body, the taste of her mouth, the way she melts into me like she's been waiting for this as long as I have.
When we break for air, we're both gasping. Her eyes are wide, pupils blown, lips swollen from the kiss.
"Maksim," she whispers, and the name lands between us like a confession.
I grin, though my heart is racing and my hands want to shake with how much I want to kiss her again. "You'd better hope he's willing to share."
The words come out rough. Promising. Loaded with everything I'm not saying. That I want this, want her, want to see where this dangerous attraction leads.
Her eyes search mine, looking for answers I'm not sure I have yet. The silence stretches between us, fragile and charged.
Neither of us speaks.
Neither of us moves.
We just stand there in the aftermath of the kiss, breathing the same air, caught in the space between what just happened and what comes next.