Chapter 32
Zoya
Iwake to grey light through the curtains, my back stinging against the sheets. Roman stands by the window, phone to his ear, speaking too quietly for me to hear. The cut above his hip is raw. My name. Mine.
I can’t tear my eyes from him—the way his shoulders bunch with tension, the precise, measured gestures of his free hand as he speaks. Something liquid and hot pools in my belly. This man, who could snap a neck without blinking, belongs to me now. The thought shouldn’t thrill me. It does.
“Yes,” he says, voice flat. “I understand. It’s handled.”
He turns, catches me staring. His expression shifts when he sees me.
“Morning,” I say, throat dry. “Who called?”
“Andrei.” He doesn’t elaborate. He sits on the edge of the bed. His fingers touch the pearls at my neck, then rest over my heart. “Your back?”
“Hurts.” I reach for his face. “In a good way.”
He kisses my palm. “The day before a war is always the longest.”
“Is that what this is? A war?”
“What else would you call it?” he asks, his gaze cold and calculating. “A hostile takeover?”
I smile despite the sting across my back. “That sounds too corporate.”
“War, then.” His thumb traces my collarbone. “You’re the general now.”
I sit up, wincing as the sheets drag against my raw skin. The weight of today settles over me like a shroud. One day before everything changes—before I stand in a church and claim what should never have been mine to begin with.
“I need coffee,” I mutter, pushing my hair back from my face. “And maybe a bulletproof vest.”
Roman doesn’t smile. “If I thought it wouldn’t show under your dress, I’d make you wear it.”
I blink at him. “You’re serious.”
“Deadly.” He stands and moves to the wardrobe. “But these are men who can spot these things a mile away. You will be safe. I guarantee it. Breakfast downstairs in twenty minutes. We have preparations.”
He dresses in dark jeans, black button-down. He shoves his gun in the back of his jeans for easy access. It makes my stomach tighten.
When he leaves, I move to the bathroom, where I examine my back in the mirror, twisting to see Roman’s name carved between my shoulder blades.
The letters are precise, deliberate—a brand I chose to wear.
The sight makes my breath catch. There’s no going back now, not from this, not from any of it.
I turn on the shower and step inside, turning my back to the spray and tilting so water hits everywhere but the carved letters.
The sting when steam curls up is sharp enough to prick my eyes with tears.
I breathe through it, count to eight, and soap the rest of me with slow, careful strokes.
I towel off with tiny presses instead of drags and move back into the bedroom to dress before heading down to breakfast. I choose my outfit carefully, a white top, black pants, and black shoes with heels sharp enough to stab a man.
Roman sits at the head, already halfway through a plate of eggs, sleeves rolled to the forearm, cuffs neat. His eyes track me as I take the seat to his right. I know what he’s looking for—hesitation. He won’t get it.
“Eat,” he says.
“I am.” I take a bite so he doesn’t stab me with his stare.
Roman slides a black velvet box over the table towards me. “For tomorrow.”
“You already gave me the pearls.”
“This is different.”
I open it and stare at a gorgeous tennis bracelet, but something seems off about it. I lift it with a frown. It’s heavier than a standard diamond bracelet.
“It has a tracker in it,” Roman says, not even looking at me. “In case I lose you.”
“I’m not running, Roman,” I grit out, flinging the bracelet back into the box.
He meets my furious glare. “I didn’t say you were. But I don’t trust Nik not to have contingencies. He will. I don’t know what they are, but I can anticipate that he might try to abduct you. If he gets past me, through Andrei and Katya, I will know where to find you.”
Chewing the inside of my lip, I feel my cheeks heat up. “Oh. Sorry. I jumped to the wrong conclusion.”
I pick the bracelet back up and turn it so the clasp catches the light. “Fine. Put it on me. If I get bagged and thrown in a van, at least you can come set it on fire.”
He stands and fastens it at my wrist, fingers deft, touch impersonal until the pad of his thumb presses my pulse. The weight settles—cold, reassuring and infuriating.
“Who else can trace it?” I ask.
“Me and Baron,” he says.
“Baron. Do you want to involve your dad?”
“He is already involved, malyshka. But let me explain. If you get taken, that means I’m dead because that is the only way anyone will get their hands on you.”
I gulp. “Please don’t die.”
His mouth twitches at the corner, like he wants to soften it and refuses. “I’m harder to kill than most men,” he says, and the surety in it slides under my skin like a sedative.
I nod, because anything else will split me open. The bracelet sits cold at my wrist, a thin cage with diamonds for bars. I finish my eggs just to spite Katya’s ghost in the doorway.
“Rest today. It will be emotional and very dangerous tomorrow. If you are tired and sluggish, you will falter.” He says it matter-of-factly, and he’s right.
“I need to go to the gym or run. I haven’t kept up with my regimen, I’m getting soft.” I pat my rock-hard stomach, and he snorts.
“Then you shall have a lovely day of exercise, sauna and sleep. Oh, and food. I can’t run with you today, so you stay indoors. Understood?”
“Yes.” The day he has laid out sounds like heaven. Something from my old life, which was only a few days ago. It feels like a lifetime. “Oat milk latte?”
He smirks. “I’m sure we can accommodate.”
“I’ll go and change.” I head upstairs, swap the blouse and trousers for a black sports bra and yoga pants, lace up my trainers and knot my hair tight. The bracelet feels cool against my skin; I leave it on. If he wants me traceable, he gets me traceable.
Katya meets me at the door of the gym with a takeout cup that smells like civilisation and hope. “Oat milk latte,” she announces. “Do not whine.”
“I never whine,” I lie, taking a grateful sip. I set the cup on the ledge and step onto the treadmill. “Tell Roman I’m being good.”
“He knows everything,” she mutters and disappears.
I run. I aim for breath that cuts and clears.
The belt hums. The room smells of rubber, eucalyptus and the faint ghost of men trying to outrun themselves.
I crank the speed until my lungs burn and my head empties.
Count four in, six out. Knees high. Arms loose.
Pearls and knives and a priest who’ll take a payoff flicker and blur until there is only the thud of my trainers and the line I draw between what I was and what I’m about to become.
After forty minutes, I drop to the mat and work through a brutal sequence. Planks. Slow push-ups. Side splits that make my thighs sing. Pilates gives way to Russian squats because spite is a beautiful thing.
I punish my quads until they quiver, then hold a plank until my arms shake and sweat rolls into my eyes. The sting across my back sharpens everything. Pain turns into purpose. If I can hold this, I can hold a room full of men waiting for me to choke.
I stretch until the tremble evens out and then move through the gym looking for the sauna.
When I find it, I strip off and wrap a fluffy towel around myself.
The heat hits like a wall. Pine and steam curl into my lungs and smooth the edges I honed on the treadmill.
I sit on the lower bench, stretch my legs long and let my head drop back until the sting across my spine pulses to a dull drum.
Roman’s name feels etched into my bones.
Mine on him burns under my tongue. Twisted vows. Useful ones.
I close my eyes and count. Eight in. Eight out.
When the heat bites, I breathe deeper and welcome it.
I slide the bracelet around my wrist until the clasp sits against the inside.
A thin cage, but it’s our cage. If someone puts a bag over my head tomorrow, he will follow the signal and burn everyone to get to me.
It’s more reassuring than it should be.
Remembering the key we found with the stuff on Nik, I decide to go looking through the ledger for number 24.
Whoever it is, it is important enough that Dad left it early on in the treasure hunt.
Heat loosens my bones enough that I can walk without buzzing out of my skin.
I towel off, dress, and head back upstairs to Roman’s room with my hair twisted high and my pulse steady.
Recalling I left the gym bag under Roman’s desk in his office, I curse and turn to head back down, but then I see it on the table near the window. I smile. He knew I’d want to find out. I cross the room and flip open the gym bag.
I sit by the window with the light behind me and open to the middle where my notes begin. Pen in hand, I start with what I know.
76 – T – MK. Mine. Treasure. Metro Kensington.
23 – B – VR. Nik. Blackmail. Victoria… RBS when it was still there.
88 – A – BM. Baron. A. The one that has yet to be determined, but isn’t next. It can wait.
I tap the pen against my lower lip, then set it down and scan the ledger’s entries the way Dad taught me to scan chessboards—patterns first, pieces later. A repeats often. Next to names, some I recognise, some I don’t, I turn a page.
I run my finger down page after page until I find it on the second-to-last page.
Katya Kirova: 24 – P – CS
“Hmm. Katya. P. What does P stand for?” I’m of two minds now whether to track down this box myself or hand her the key. Roman said she was hired by my dad for me. Roman trusts her with my life. But Dad’s intentions are unclear.
I slam the ledger closed at the loud rap on the door and call, “Come in.”
Katya bustles in with a lunch tray. I slide the ledger under the gym bag and pull my knee up under me, heart steadying as she sets the tray down. Steam rises from a bowl.
“Eat,” she orders.