Chapter 23 ALEXEI
ALEXEI
The house is quiet when I walk through the door.
My knuckles throb. My cheekbone feels like someone took a hammer to it. Blood has dried in the creases of my hands, some mine, most not.
Another wild goose chase. Another lead that went nowhere.
The guy I met at the underground fight club didn't know shit about the Valkov tattoo or who might be using it now. Just another street hustler selling rumors for cash, hoping I wouldn't notice he was lying through his missing teeth.
I noticed.
But by then, I was already there. Already surrounded by the smell of sweat and blood and desperation. Already feeling the familiar pull of the cage.
I used to fight like this in Moscow. Illegal rings where the rules were simple: stay conscious, make money, don't die. We needed the cash for survival.
But I also needed the violence. Needed a place to put the rage that lives in my bones like marrow. The red mist that never fully clears, just waits for an excuse to bloom.
Tonight, I had plenty of excuses.
Yesterday's conversation in Maksim's office loops through my head like a broken record. What he told us about Victoria. What happened to her when she was twelve. The violation. The betrayal. The monster who did it.
Ivan Valkov.
The man we killed. The ghost we thought we'd buried.
Maksim didn't give us details. Said it wasn't his story to share. But what he did tell us was enough to set me on this self-destructive path I've been walking for the past twenty-four hours.
So when my contact finished feeding me useless information, when he slunk away into the crowd of degenerate gamblers, I found myself gravitating toward the cage.
I signaled the organizer. Fat bastard named Dmitri who runs these things like a personal fiefdom. His eyes lit up when he saw me. Practically salivated at the chance to have Alexei Zverev in his cage.
Good for business, having a name like mine bleeding on his floor.
My opponent was a bull. Six-five, maybe two-sixty, all muscle and steroids and bad intentions. He hit like a freight train.
I won anyway.
Took some damage doing it. Broke a couple knuckles. Bruised my cheekbone badly enough that it's already swelling. But I won because I always win, because losing means the red mist wins instead, and I can't let that happen.
Kind of worked. The violence burned off some of the rage. Not all of it. Never all of it. But enough that I can function like a human instead of a weapon looking for a target.
I head for the kitchen. Need ice. Need to keep the swelling down before Zakhar sees my face and gives me that disappointed look he's perfected over the years.
The kitchen light is on.
Victoria sits at the island, a bowl of soup in front of her, dark hair falling over one shoulder. She's wearing comfortable clothes. Yoga pants and an oversized sweater that slips off one shoulder.
She looks up when I enter. Her eyes widen.
"Alexei!" She's off the stool in seconds, crossing to me with quick steps. "What happened? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, kotyonok." I try for a smile, but my face protests the movement. "Just a fight. Something I do occasionally to stay in shape."
She stares at me. Then her hand flies out and smacks my arm.
"You're a dumbass," she says, voice sharp with concern masquerading as anger. "Fighting like some kind of—"
I flinch. Exaggerate it, making my face crumple like she actually hurt me.
Her expression immediately shifts to panic. "Oh god, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"
She's already reaching for my arm, her hand gentle where it was forceful a second ago, soothing the spot she just smacked.
I trap her hand against my bicep. Grin at her, letting her see I'm fine.
"If I can take hits from a bull in a cage," I tell her, "I can handle your love taps, princess."
Understanding crosses her face. Then indignation. She smacks me again, this time with purpose, but she's laughing too.
The sound does something to the red mist. Quiets it in a way violence never does.
She clears her throat. Steps back, putting distance between us that feels wrong.
"Are you hungry?" she asks. "I'm having some of Amelia's soup. You should try it. It's really good."
I'm hungry. But not for food.
"Maybe later," I say.
"Where are Maksim and Zakhar?"
"Business dinner. Running late." She pulls her phone from her pocket, shows me a text from Maksim. Simple. Direct. Telling her not to wait up.
The fact that he texted her at all is proof enough. Maksim doesn't explain himself to anyone. Doesn't update people on his location or plans. The fact that he's doing it for Victoria means something has shifted in him.
Means he cares. More than he probably wants to admit.
"Let me get you some ice," Victoria says, already moving to the freezer.
She pulls out a bag of frozen peas. The kind of solution someone learns when they've dealt with injuries before.
Approaches me slowly. Lifts the bag to my face, positioning it carefully against my bruised cheekbone.
Her touch is so gentle it makes my chest ache.
We're close now. Too close. I can smell her, warm and intoxicating. Can see the flecks of gold in her dark eyes. Can count the individual lashes framing them.
"You should be careful," she says softly. Her free hand comes up, fingertips tracing the scar that bisects my left eyebrow. "Otherwise these fights are going to damage the only thing you have going for you."
"Yeah? What's that?"
"Your pretty face."
Her finger continues its path along the scar. Feather-light. Grounding in a way nothing else has been tonight.
I close my eyes briefly. Let myself feel her touch without the noise of everything else.
"That one wasn't from a fight," I hear myself say.
Her hand stills. "No?"
"I was just a kid. Maybe seven." The words come out easier than they should. Like her touch has loosened something in me. "Had just been diagnosed with diabetes. Didn't know how to manage it yet. Insulin was hard to find."
I open my eyes. Meet hers.
"I fainted. Hit my head on concrete. Made this scar." I tap the mark she was just tracing. "Would have been worse if Zakhar hadn't been there. He stopped the bleeding. When I came to, he kept me conscious until I stabilized. Saved my life that day."
Her expression softens. Something that looks like pain flickers across her face.
"There'd only be one devastatingly handsome man in this world if I'd died that day," I continue, trying to lighten the moment. "But you're lucky. There are still two of us." I wink at her, though it pulls at my bruised face.
"I'm so sorry you went through that," she says quietly.
I shrug. Try to make it casual. "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right? We had to fight cold and hunger and manage my condition all at once. It was tough. But it made us tougher."
The truth of it sits heavy between us.
"I don't know what I would have done without my brothers," I admit. "Zakhar and Maksim. They kept me alive."
"You're lucky to have each other," Victoria says.
"Yeah." I study her face. The way she's looking at me with something that feels like understanding. "What about you? Any family besides your charming father?"
Her mouth twists into something that's not quite a smile. "My mother died when I was five."
"I'm sorry."
"It 's ok. I barely knew her. The nannies raised me, mostly." She pauses. "She died in the most bougie way possible. Skiing in the Alps."
The bitterness in her voice is subtle but unmistakable.
"No other family?" I press. "Aunts? Uncles? Cousins?"
"Not close ones. My father's an only child. My mother's family is somewhere in Europe. We never had contact." She shrugs. "It's just been me and Arthur. And he's not exactly father of the year material."
"That's not true," I say, aiming for playfulness. "I'm sure he tried."
"Oh, he did." Her voice is completely deadpan. "He made sure to drop me off and pick me up from school, every time."
I wait. There's a punchline coming.
"Every semester," she continues. "At boarding school."
The delivery is perfect. Dry. Self-deprecating. Funny in the most tragic way possible.
We both laugh. The sound fills the kitchen, chasing away some of the heaviness.
We're close now. Sharing space in a way that feels natural despite how complicated everything between us has become. The bag of peas is still pressed to my face, her hand holding it there. My hand has somehow found her waist.
"I'm dying to kiss you again," I tell her. No filter. No game. Just honesty slipping out because she makes me forget to guard it.
She looks up at me. Her breath catches slightly.
"Then do it," she whispers.
I don't need to be told twice.
My mouth finds hers, and it's like coming home to a place I've never been. Her free hand slides into my hair, careful of my injuries but not pulling away.
The kiss deepens. Her lips part, and I take advantage, exploring her mouth with my tongue. She makes a small sound that goes straight to my groin.
I pull her closer. The bag of peas falls to the counter, forgotten. Both my hands are on her now, one at her waist, one cupping the back of her head.
She kisses me back with equal hunger. Equal need. Like she's been thinking about this as much as I have. Like the memory of our first kiss has been haunting her the way it's been haunting me.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. Her lips are swollen. Her eyes are dark and unfocused.
Then she steps back. Puts distance between us that feels like a knife to the chest.
"This is confusing," she says quietly. Her hand lifts to her lips, touches them like she can still feel me there. "This thing between us. Between you and me and Maksim and Zakhar."
I force myself to stay still. To not reach for her again even though every instinct is screaming at me to close the distance.
"Maybe we could talk about it tomorrow," she continues. "When my head is clearer. When I can think without..." She trails off.
Without wanting me. Without feeling pulled in three directions at once. Without being terrified of what this means.
I get it. I do.
Doesn't make it easier.
"Okay," I manage. "Tomorrow."
She nods. Gives me a small, uncertain smile. Then she's moving past me, heading for the door.
"Goodnight, Alexei."
"Goodnight, solnyshko."
The door closes behind her. The kitchen suddenly feels too big. Too empty. The silence presses in from all sides.
I stand there, breath unsteady, tasting her on my mouth and feeling the fire she started burning through my veins.
A fire I can't punch my way out of.