Leonid
The light in her room is still blue with early morning when I slide out of the bed, careful not to disturb her.
Victoria is curled on her side, lashes dark against her cheeks, one hand tucked beneath the pillow like she’s still guarding herself even in sleep.
The sight of her like this hits me harder than anything that happened between us in the dark.
She looks younger. Softer. Not weak, but human in a way I doubt she ever allows herself to be when she’s awake.
If I stay until she opens her eyes, everything changes.
Last night wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like that.
I planned for curiosity. For tension. For the slow erosion of her defenses through patience and inevitability.
I didn’t plan for the way she shattered under my hands like something that had been held together by sheer will alone.
I didn’t plan for the sound she made when pleasure finally broke through fear, or for the way it rewired something in my brain I didn’t know could still be connected.
In that moment, she chose to trust me. And trust is more dangerous than desire.
I leave her room without a backward glance because if I look again, I’ll go back to the bed and pull her into my arms and tell her she’s safe in a way no one ever has. I’ll tell her I won’t give her back. That I’ll burn Boris’s empire to the ground before I let him touch her again.
That kind of promise changes men.
It starts wars.
By the time I reach my office, Bogdan is already there, standing by the window with his hands clasped behind his back. He doesn’t ask where I’ve been. He doesn’t need to.
“You stayed with her,” he says instead.
“Yes.”
That earns me a glance, sharp and assessing. Bogdan has known me long enough to hear what I’m not saying.
“She’s dangerous to you,” he says carefully.
I laugh under my breath. “She’s dangerous to everyone.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
No. It isn’t.
“She’s planning to run,” Bogdan continues. “I can feel it. She hasn’t stopped moving since got here. Pacing around like a caged tiger.”
I nod once in agreement. Running has become her religion. Escape is the only prayer she knows.
“She won’t make it far,” I say.
“That’s not reassurance,” he replies.
“No,” I agree. “It’s inevitable though. We can work with that.”
“Boris called again, he is getting very annoyed.” Bogdan raises and eyebrow when I simply grin at his statement. “This is a dangerous game you’re playing, brother.”
“I need to meet with the Pakhan,” I reply absently. It’s the only way I can see to get Victoria out of this mess she has put herself in.
That’s the problem with planning things; no one ever plans for what happens after. Did she believe that Boris wouldn’t look for her? That the families, finally having someone to blame, wouldn’t demand consequences?
I turn back to the monitors, pulling up feeds without conscious thought.
She is up now and moving through the house with purpose.
Sharper than yesterday, eyes scanning, mind calculating.
She’s already bracing herself for disappointment, convincing herself that last night was meaningless.
I recognize the pattern because I’ve lived it.
The need to reduce something profound to a mistake so it can’t hurt you later.
It won’t save her.
Last night changed everything.
I see it in the way she walks. In the way her shoulders don’t quite hunch the way they did before.
In the way her gaze lingers on reflections now, like she’s checking that she’s still real.
That she didn’t imagine what it felt like to be chosen.
To choose. To let go of every shred of tension that binds her.
She doesn’t even see that she is caged whether she is in my home or not. Her own body is locked down so tight she can’t relax without help, without permission to release everything she is carrying.
My intrigue bloomed into obsession the moment she came apart on my fingers.
I want to keep her.
Not locked away. Not broken. Not obedient.
I want her sharp. Defiant. Alive. I want the woman who stole from her uncle and escaped with blood still warm in her veins. I want the woman who kissed me like she hated me but needed me anyway. I want every version of her, and I want all of them choosing me.
That’s the sickness. The danger.
Boris calls twice before noon.
I don’t answer.
When I finally do, I let him talk. Let him rage. Let him threaten. Let him posture like a man who still believes the world bends for him. He demands his niece returned. He demands restitution. He demands loyalty like he hasn’t spent decades bleeding his own bloodline dry.
Just because he is older than me doesn’t mean I automatically respect him. I’ve never liked the man, and like him even less now that the extent of his abuse has been brought to light.
I listen.
Then I calmly tell him no.
I tell him Victoria is under my protection now. That she came to me of her own free will. That if he wants her back, he’ll have to come through my entire fucking empire first.
The silence on the other end of the line is worth every war this will start.
I end the call and stand there for a long moment, feeling the weight of what I’ve just done settle into my bones. There is no undoing this. No pretending this is still a game.
Victoria believes running is her only option.
She’s wrong.
I’ll let her try, because she needs to know she still can.
But when I catch her, I’ll make sure she knows exactly who she is dealing with.