Chapter 13 Volk
Volk
SONG: MY OWN SUMMER (SHOVE IT) BY DEFTONES
I watch Anatoly circle her like a shark that caught blood in the water.
He's close. Too close. His head tilts in that particular way, recognition scratching at the edges of his vodka-soaked brain.
Any second now it'll click. Any second now he'll see past the makeup and dyed hair and ten years of survival that changed everything except her eyes.
My thumb hovers over the small, simple device in my hand. The kind of thing you can buy at any hardware store if you know what you're doing.
Anatoly steps closer to her, saying something I can't hear from my position outside the window, but I can see her face and the moment fear fills her eyes.
I press the button.
The explosion rocks the house as the pool house is incinerated in mere seconds. Just enough. Gas line rupture—that's what they'll think. Accidental. Tragic. The kind of thing that happens in old houses with aging infrastructure and overconfident maintenance crews.
They won't know I spent three hours yesterday rigging it. That I've been planning contingencies for every possible way things could go wrong. They won't know that saving her has become more important than breathing.
Fire alarms shriek, and chaos erupts exactly the way I calculated it would.
Anatoly's head snaps toward the sound, hand on his gun, he forgets about the girl. Forgets recognition hovering just out of reach. He moves toward the crisis like the obedient dog he's always been.
I slip through the servant's entrance. Nobody sees me—they're all running toward the fire instead of away from it. Idiots. In a real crisis you evacuate first, you don’t make finding a potential intruder your priority.
But this isn't a real crisis, just theater.
Expensive, dangerous theater designed to save one person.
Sofiya sits frozen in the sitting room. Still as a corpse, only her eyes move—preparing to run or fight depending on which option presents itself first.
Smart girl. My girl.
I appear in the doorway and watch her register my presence. Watch relief flash across her face before she can hide it. That look does things to me. Dangerous things. The kind of look that makes men forget duty and honor and every oath they've ever sworn.
"Come with me." It’s not a request.
"Thor said—"
"I don't give a fuck what Thor said." I cross to her and grab her wrist, not rough but not gentle either. Purposeful. Possessive. Mine. "Move."
She moves. Smart enough not to argue when every second counts. Smart enough to trust me even though logic says she shouldn't.
We navigate the chaos. Servants running, guards shouting into radios. Smoke mixes with sprinkler spray to create a fog that helps us more than it hurts us. I know this house , spent years memorizing its layout, its weak points and secret ways in and out.
We reach the secondary garage, the one the Pakhan keeps for emergencies and when the main entrance becomes untenable and you need to disappear fast.
My car waits where I left it, engine running and driver's door open.
"Get in."
She does. No questions. No hesitation. Just trust I haven't earned but somehow have anyway.
I'm behind the wheel before she's fully seated and pulling out. I follow the service road that winds behind landscaping designed to make you forget wealthy people need back doors too. We're half a mile away before she speaks.
"That was you, the explosion?"
"Yes."
"You could've been caught."
"But I wasn't."
"You could've been killed."
"But I wasn't." I glance at her , and she's staring at me with an expression I can't quite read. Something between gratitude and anger and something else. Something that looks dangerously like the thing I feel when I watch her sleep. "You're welcome."
Her jaw tightens. "I didn't thank you."
"No. You didn't."
Silence stretches.
"Anatoly was going to recognize me," she says finally.
"I know."
"You've been watching."
"Always."
She processes that. I see the wheels turning behind those sharp eyes , see her putting together pieces I've been leaving scattered for weeks. Understanding dawns like sunrise over the desert.
"Thomas was your cousin."
Not a question. Statement of fact delivered in a voice that expects confirmation.
"Yes."
"The Pakhan killed him."
"Yes."
"And you've been using me, positioning me. I’m the weapon you couldn't be."
I should deny it, lie, but I'm tired of lies. Tired of pretending this is anything except what it is.
"Yes." I expect anger. Expect her to demand I pull over. Expect violence or tears. Instead, she laughs, short and sharp. The sound of someone who's moved past surprise into darker territory.
"Fine," she says.
"Fine?" I repeat, not sure I heard her right.
"I'd rather be your weapon than your charity case." She shifts in her seat.
Her honesty disarms me more than anger would. Something in my chest tightens in ways I don't want to examine.
"You're more than a weapon to me."
"Am I?" Challenge in her voice now. "What am I then?"
Everything. Nothing. The reason I'm betraying fifteen years of loyalty and the reason I might finally have a reason to die that means something. But I don't say that. Not when we're both heading for the same bloody end.
"You're the girl who came back and made me remember what it feels like to want something besides violence and blind obedience."
Her breath hitches, a small, barely noticeable sound. But I notice everything about her.
"Where are we going?"
"My place. You can't go back to Lush tonight. You can't go anywhere Anatoly might look." I take a turn that leads away from anywhere she'd normally be. "Anatoly's will be calling the Pakhan, if he hasn’t already."
"He'll put it together eventually."
"I know."
"And then we're both dead."
"Probably."
She's quiet for a long moment, processing, accepting. Coming to terms with the timeline accelerating whether we're ready or not.
"How long do we have?"
"Days. Maybe a week if we're lucky and Anatoly's brain is as pickled as I think it is." I pull into the parking garage beneath my building with security I control. Cameras that show what I want them to show. "But we need to finish this before he finishes us."
The garage is empty as I kill the engine and turn to face her. The dim lighting carves her face into sharp angles, making her look harder, like something carved from the same stone they used to build everyone who lives this life for too long.
"I'm sorry," I say. Words I haven't spoken in years. Maybe ever. "For what they did to you. For not stopping it. For leaving you in the desert to die."
"You gave me a chance."
"I should've given you more."
"Yes, you should have.” Her hand finds mine across the console. Her palm is small. Warm. Alive in ways that make my chest ache. "You're giving me more now. Helping me destroy them. Helping me finish what they started."
"This isn't redemption. I'm still using you, putting you in danger."
"I know." She squeezes my hand. "But you're also the only person who's seen me. Really seen me. Not the ghost. Just me."
I lean across the console, my hand finding her face and cupping her jaw softer than I’ve ever touched her before. "You need to understand something," I say, my voice low and rough. "I'm not a good man. Never have been. I'm selfish and violent and I use people without remorse."
"I know."
"But with you …" I stop and swallow, trying to find words for something I don't have language for. "With you I want to be something else. Someone who deserves what you're offering.”
"You saved me. Twice. That's more than anyone else has done."
"I also left you to die the first time."
"That's more complicated than you being good or bad." Her free hand finds my face, mirroring my touch. "We're both damaged. Both broken.”
It should…should be enough to build on. To work with.
To use as foundation for whatever this thing between us is becoming.
But I want more. I want her in ways that have nothing to do with revenge or the careful planning that's kept me alive this long.
I want to own her. Claim her. Make her mine in ways that go beyond alliance or partnership or whatever pretty words we're using to avoid acknowledging the truth.
I kiss her hard, my tongue invading her mouth like a conquering hero. The kiss of a man who's done pretending this is anything except raw desire.
She kisses me back, meeting my intensity with her own. Her hands fist my shirt, pulling me closer, like she needs this as much as I do. Like we're both drowning and this is the only air either of us can breathe.
When we break apart, we're both gasping, hearts racing. The car is suddenly too small for everything we're feeling.
"Upstairs," I say. "Now."
She doesn't argue, doesn't question, just opens her door and follows me to the elevator.
The elevator ride is torture. We stand on opposite sides, not touching, because we both know the minute my skin meets hers, nothing will be able to pull us apart.
The space between us is electric with tension and want.
The doors open and I lead her inside. My place is dark, city lights filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting everything in shadow and an amber glow.
“Do you need anything?” I ask, praying like hell she doesn’t delay this inevitable coming together.
"No."
"Good." I cross to her, using my larger body to back her against the window, letting her feel the glass cold against her back and my warmth against her front. "I'm done pretending. Done pretending I'm helping you purely for revenge."
"What is it then?"
"Obsession." The word tastes like truth and poison. "With saving you, watching you destroy the men who destroyed you. With being the only person who knows all your secrets."
Her breath catches, and her pupils dilate. She's afraid. But not of me, rather of what this means, of wanting something besides revenge. Of letting herself have this when we're both walking toward death.