Chapter Forty-Five
Arkady
The buses pull away, tires crunching on gravel, and my vision floods crimson.
My father’s smirking face burns in my memory. That fucking monster has Mirabel. I’m going to get him to tell me where the fuck he’s keeping her, one way or another.
And it’s something I don’t need my men to see, because I’m going to take my time with the cunt. I’m going to enjoy every second of carving him up.
Turning and striding back toward the old man’s mansion, my rage builds with each step, fury propelling me forward.
I picture my hands around his throat, squeezing until his eyes bulge and his face turns purple.
I’ll make him tell me where she is first. Then I’ll make him pay for every woman he’s ever hurt.
Every.
Single.
One.
The corridor stretches before me, endless marble and cold walls. My father thinks he’s untouchable, thinks his position protects him from consequence. He’s wrong.
He’s been wrong for a long fucking time.
He’ll learn that once and for all when I make him scream.
My fingers flex at my sides, remembering the weight of a blade, the resistance of flesh. I’ve killed before. More times than I can count. But this—this will be different. This will be personal.
This will be for Mirabel.
The rage inside me isn’t the explosive kind. It’s cold. Calculated. The kind that waits and watches and plans exactly how to maximize suffering. The kind that knows patience yields better results than impulse.
Where is she?
The question cycles through my mind on repeat. Where has he taken her? What has he done to her? My jaw clenches so tight my teeth ache. If he’s touched her, if he’s hurt her—
No.
Can’t think about that now.
Focus, for fuck’s sake!
As I approach the living room, voices drift through the half-open door. I freeze mid-step, muscles locking instantly.
A woman’s voice, weak and trembling: “Please, Gavriil, don’t… don’t hurt me again.”
I stop dead.
That voice.
I know that voice. I know it. The cadence, the pitch, the way certain words lift at the end—it’s… Mirabel’s voice. But something’s off. Something’s wrong. Like hearing a recording of a song you like, where all the notes are right, but the lyrics feel incomplete.
It can’t be.
My rational mind fights to engage over the animal instinct screaming at me to charge through that door. Whatever sick game my father’s playing, whatever twisted performance he’s orchestrating, I need information first. Intelligence before action. Always.
I slide closer to the door, each movement controlled, deliberate. My breathing slows, deepens. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Training kicks in—years of it, decades of learning how to be silent, how to be invisible, how to kill without ever being seen.
The wood feels cool beneath my fingertips as I position myself beside the narrow gap, angling my body to see inside without being spotted. The gun at my hip sits heavy and ready.
“You know what I want,” my father’s voice slithers through the crack, oily and diseased. “Get on your knees, Princess.”
“Gavriil, please. You hurt me so badly last time. I’m still bleeding. Please just let me rest tonight.”
The words make my gut churn. That voice. Christ, that voice. My hand moves to my gun without conscious thought, fingers wrapping around the grip.
“Bleeding?” My father laughs, the sound wet and wrong. “That’s how I know I’ve done my job properly. Now, get on your fucking knees.”
What the fuck is happening?
My mind races, trying to piece together the impossible. This is Mirabel’s voice. Mirabel’s plea. But… it’s just not right.
“Please,” she begs again, and now I can hear it—the subtle differences.
The voice is Mirabel’s, yes, but there’s something underneath it.
Something broken. My stomach twists, bile rising hot and acidic.
I force it down. Later. I can be sick later.
Right now, I need to understand what I’m dealing with.
“I like it when you beg. You’re my favorite, you know that?” My father’s voice turns conversational, almost fond. “All those other girls… they’re just business. Inventory. But you? You’re mine. My special little princess.”
“Gavriil,” she chokes out. “Please, if you care, you’ll give me time to—”
The sound of flesh striking flesh rings out sharp and sudden. A slap. Then another. The woman cries out.
“I’ll decide when you need time, Princess,” my father sneers. “I handle my property however I want.”
“I’m sorry,” she whimpers.
“And you love it, don’t you? You love belonging to me.” There’s a breathless edge to his voice. Jesus Christ, the sick fuck is getting off on this bullshit.
“Yes,” the woman whispers, and the defeat in that single word makes me want to storm in there right now and rip off his balls. “Yes, Gavriil.”
I edge even closer to the doorway, pressing my back against the wall, waiting for the right moment to strike. The living room comes into view through the narrow gap, and the sight before me rewrites everything I thought I knew about my father’s depravity.
He’s standing in the center of the room, still fully clothed in one of his tailored suits. Always pristine, always proper. Still a monster wrapped in expensive fabric.
In front of him stands a woman in nothing but a thin robe that hangs open, exposing her completely. Her back is to me, but her form—
Jesus.
The curve of her spine. The exact placement of her shoulders. The way her hair falls in waves down to the middle of her back. Even the tilt of her head, that specific angle that Mirabel uses when she’s uncertain, when she’s afraid.
It’s identical.
Every curve, every line of her body matches Mirabel’s exactly. Not similar. Not close. Exact.
My brain tries to reject what my eyes are showing me. Because something… something is wrong.
“Such a beautiful body,” my father murmurs, running his hands over her shoulders, down her arms. “Turn around,” he orders. “Let me see you properly.”
“Please, I just want to rest—”
His hand shoots out, grabs her by the hair. She cries out, the sound sharp with pain and resignation. He yanks her head back, exposing her throat.
“I don’t recall asking what you want,” he says softly. Dangerously. “I told you to turn around.”
My finger moves to the trigger, muscle memory taking over. One shot. Center mass. He’d be dead before he hit the floor.
But I need her away from him first. Need a clean line of fire.
She turns slowly, painfully, and I get my first look at her face.
The world stops spinning.
Mirabel is standing naked in my father’s living room. Except she’s…
“There’s my Princess,” my father croons, cupping her face with both hands. “So pretty when you weep.”
She’s crying. Silent tears streaming down her cheeks, shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs.
“Gavriil,” she whispers. “Please, I can’t take anymore. Everything hurts. I need time to heal.”
“But I like you broken,” he says, and there’s genuine affection in his voice. That’s what makes it so much worse—he actually believes he cares for her. “You’re perfect when you’re hurting. Makes my dick so fucking hard… my special little girl.”
His special girl… the one he hurts most.
He’s about to be the one I hurt the most. As soon as she gets out of the goddamn way. Because there’s no doubt in my mind that the minute I burst through that door, he’s going to use her as a human shield.
My father’s hand slides down her body, possessive and proprietary. She flinches but doesn’t pull away. Can’t pull away. Whatever he’s done to her, whatever conditioning he’s imposed, she’s learned that resistance only makes things worse.
“You’re wet for me already,” he says, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Your body knows what it wants even when your mouth says no.”
“That’s not—” she starts, but he cuts her off with a kiss that makes me want to gag. When he pulls back, she’s gasping, fresh tears streaming.
My father starts unbuckling his belt, the leather sliding through loops with a soft hiss. “I’m going to make you scream today, Princess. Really make you feel it.”
“No,” she whimpers, but she’s already positioning herself how he wants. Already submitting. “Please, I can’t. I’m still so sore from—”
“From last night?” He laughs. “Good. I want you to remember last night while I’m fucking you today. Want you to feel every bruise, every tear. Want you to know that no matter how much it hurts, you’ll still take it. Because you’re mine.”
He tilts her chin up with his fingertip. “And you’ll always be mine, pretty little Debra.”
End of Part 1.
CLICK HERE to continue to Part 2.
What destroys you faster?
The man who lies to protect you… or the truth he's hiding?
Six months ago, I flashed the Bratva boss at his own wedding.
Then I went to work under his roof.
It was supposed to be temporary.
Spoiler: It was not.
Now, I’m carrying the pakhan’s baby.
And falling deeper for a man I swore I’d never touch.
Yet there’s a feeling I can’t shake: I’m not the only woman under this roof.
I tell myself I’m imagining it.
Pregnancy hormones. Paranoia. Nothing more.
Then I open the wrong door and everything changes.
Because I'm not staring at another woman.
I'm staring at myself.
But the truth behind that door is only the beginning.
Something darker is coming.
Something that threatens everything we’ve built.
Him. Me. Our baby.
And this time around…
Love won’t be enough to save us.
ONE CLICK - Read to Part 2.