Chapter 25 ZAKHAR
ZAKHAR
I'm going to kill Robert Morrison.
But first, I'll gouge out his eyes with a spoon. Because his gaze keeps lingering on Victoria's cleavage, traveling the line of her dress with the particular entitlement of men who think money makes them untouchable.
Then I'll cut off his hands. Because they touched her arm for too long when he greeted her, his fingers sliding along skin that doesn't belong to him.
And finally, I'll remove his lips. Because he dared to kiss her hand like some kind of gentleman when we all know he is far from it.
These thoughts loop through my mind while Victoria, Maksim, and Morrison trade pleasantries at the bar lounge of the Windermere Polo Club. We're waiting for our private suite to be ready for lunch. The Founder's Suite, naturally. Nothing but the best when you're courting a future senator.
The lounge smells of leather and citrus cologne and old money. Ice clinks in crystal glasses. Low murmurs of wealthy patrons discussing things that matter to wealthy patrons. Through the open terrace doors, I hear the distant thud of hoofbeats from the polo field.
Morrison laughs too loud at whatever Victoria says. The sound grates on my nerves like metal on bone.
I've been avoiding her for a week.
Since the meeting in Maksim's office. Since I learned what happened to her. Since I understood exactly how rough I'd been with her in the security room, how I'd bent her over the desk and spanked her and made her come while my hand circled her throat.
I didn't know. Didn't understand the trauma she carried. The violation that shaped her. If I had known, I would have been gentler. Would have taken more care. Would have given her tenderness instead of dominance.
The shame has been eating me alive all week.
I've watched from a distance. Noticed the way my brothers interact with her now. How Maksim looks at her like she's the answer to a question he's been asking his whole life. How Alexei grins when she enters a room, his usual chaos settling into calm.
They seem happy. Can men like us be happy? I don't know. But they seem closer to it than I've seen them in years.
And Victoria seems more grounded. Less elusive. Like she's stopped running from whatever this is between all of us.
Meanwhile, I'm on the outside. Looking in. Afraid to get close again. Afraid of hurting her worse than I already have.
I need to apologize. Need to find a moment alone with her to make this right.
The waitress approaches. Young. Professional. She tells us our suite is ready.
We follow her through corridors lined with photographs of championship matches and ancestral donors.
The Windermere Club was established in 1934, and it wears its exclusivity like a badge of honor.
Everything here screams wealth and lineage and the particular confidence of people who've never had to fight for survival.
I don't belong here.
The thought surfaces unwelcome but persistent.
Maksim moves through this environment like he was born to it. Which he was, before his world burned down. But he's relearned the language of wealth and power, slipped back into it like a familiar suit.
Victoria navigates these spaces with effortless grace. The way she smiles at Morrison. The way she references mutual acquaintances and shared experiences. She belongs to this world in ways I never will.
Me? I'm the street kid who learned to fight for food. The boy who stole insulin to keep his brother alive. The man who still feels hungry even when surrounded by excess.
An interloper wearing expensive clothes.
Maybe it's the same with this relationship dynamic. Victoria married Maksim. They're a real couple, bound by contract and now by something more. Alexei is easygoing enough to fit into any situation, his charm bridging gaps that others can't cross.
But what do I bring to this? What place do I have beside a woman like Victoria when all I know is violence and vigilance?
We enter the Founder's Suite. Private. Elegant. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the polo field. A table set with silver and porcelain and champagne already chilling in a bucket.
I take my seat. Force myself to focus on the meeting instead of the spiral of inadequacy trying to pull me under.
Morrison settles across from Maksim, adjusting his cufflinks with the particular vanity of politicians. He's younger than I expected. Maybe thirty-five. Handsome in a bland, forgettable way. The kind of face that polls well.
Lunch begins. Small talk about the club, the weather, the upcoming polo match. Morrison orders the most expensive items on the menu with the casual entitlement of someone who's never looked at a price.
I remember being ten years old. Fighting another street kid for half a loaf of stale bread. Coming back to Alexei with my face bloody and my knuckles split, but clutching that bread like it was treasure.
The contrast makes my chest tighten.
I don't belong here.
Then I feel a hand on my thigh.
The touch is light. Gentle. But it hits me like a detonation.
I look at Victoria. She's still engaged in conversation with Morrison, her expression polite and attentive. But her eyes flick to mine for just a moment.
You okay? she mouths, so subtle only I can see it.
I nod. Force my expression into neutral.
She starts to remove her hand. Without thinking, I cover it with my own. Hold it against my thigh for just a heartbeat. Long enough to say thank you without words. Long enough to feel the warmth of her skin through the fabric of my pants.
Then I let go.
The conversation continues. Morrison launches into what I can only describe as a sales pitch. Making himself sound indispensable. Talking about his connections, his influence, his vision for Illinois.
The subtext is clear. He's trying to shift the power dynamic. Make it seem like he's doing us a favor by taking our money instead of the other way around.
Maksim lets him talk. Patient. Controlled. Waiting for the opening.
It comes when Morrison leans back in his chair, champagne in hand, and says with calculated casualness: "I have to admit, Severyn, I did some research before this meeting. Your background is... interesting."
"How so?" Maksim's voice is flat.
"Russian origins. Self-made man. Very impressive." Morrison's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Though I have to wonder how an association with you will be beneficial. Our worlds are quite different, after all."
The insult is wrapped in politeness, but it lands clearly. Morrison questioning Maksim's legitimacy. Implying he's not good enough for these circles.
I see Maksim's jaw tighten. See the calculation in his eyes as he decides how to respond.
"Mr. Morrison," he says, voice dropping into ice. "I can kick a rock and find a dozen politicians like you underneath it. What you should be wondering is what you can do for me if I choose to make your political career possible."
The temperature in the room drops ten degrees.
Morrison's smile falters. He wasn't expecting directness. Wasn't prepared for someone to call his bluff.
Before the situation can deteriorate further, Victoria speaks.
"Gentlemen." Her voice carries warmth and reason in equal measure.
"I think we're all aware of what's at stake here.
Mr. Morrison needs funding for a campaign that will be expensive and brutal.
The Severyns need political allies who understand that certain industries require. .. flexibility in regulation."
She looks between them, her expression open and diplomatic.
"You both benefit from this arrangement. So perhaps we can move past the posturing and discuss specifics?"
The tension doesn't disappear, but it shifts. Becomes manageable.
Morrison clears his throat. Maksim's expression smooths back into neutrality.
They begin to negotiate. Numbers. Expectations. Terms of the alliance.
I watch Victoria facilitate the discussion, guiding them away from friction points, highlighting areas of agreement. She's brilliant at this. Natural. Like she's been brokering deals between powerful men her entire life.
By the time lunch concludes, they've reached an understanding. The Severyns will fund Morrison's campaign. Morrison will remember who owns him when he's sitting in the Senate.
Morrison stands, adjusting his jacket. "We should watch the polo match. It's about to start. I have excellent seats near the field."
Maksim's expression suggests he'd rather do anything else, but he nods. "Of course."
"Actually," Victoria says, "I think I'd prefer to watch from the balcony. Better view."
Maksim catches my eye. A silent communication passes between us.
Stay with her. Keep her safe.
I nod once.
Maksim and Morrison head toward the field level. Victoria and I move to the private balcony attached to the suite.
The balcony is small. Intimate. With walls that provide privacy from the ground below. Sunlight reflects off white fences surrounding the field. The breeze carries the clean smell of grass and horses.
We stand side by side, watching riders position themselves for the match.
"Do you enjoy polo?" I ask, needing to break the silence.
"Only when the horse throws the player," she says without missing a beat.
The response is so unexpected, so perfectly dry, that I laugh. Actually laugh, the sound surprising us both.
She grins at me, and the tension that's been coiled between us for the past week loosens.
This is my chance. My moment to say what I've needed to say.
"Victoria." I turn to face her. "I need to apologize."
Her expression shifts. Becomes guarded. "For what?"
"For what happened in the security room." The words come harder than I wanted. "I shouldn’t—"
"Wait." She holds up a hand, confusion crossing her face. "Are you saying you regret it?"
"No. I—"
"Because it sounds like you regret it." Her voice carries hurt now. "Like you wish it hadn't happened."
"That's not what I'm saying." I step closer, desperate to make her understand. "I don't regret being with you. I regret how I was with you. I was rough. Demanding—"
"I liked it." The words come out quiet but firm.
I stop. Stare at her.
"I liked it," she repeats, and her cheeks flush with color. "I liked it a lot. Couldn't you tell?"
My mind struggles to process. To reconcile what I've been tormenting myself with for a week against what she's telling me now.
"You're not... you don't think I was too rough?"
"Zakhar." She steps closer. "You gave me something I didn't know I needed. You made me feel safe enough to surrender. That's not something to apologize for."
The relief that floods through me is almost painful in its intensity.
We're standing very close now. The match below is starting, hoofbeats thundering across the field, but it feels distant. Irrelevant.
"You should watch the game," I say, my voice low and rough.
"Should I?"
"Maybe I can make it entertaining," I murmur, leaning closer. "If you want to enjoy it, solntse... all you have to do is stay still."