4. Katerina
KATERINA
Iarrive at the Volkov estate under armed escort two weeks later.
The black SUV glides through the first set of iron gates like a shark slipping into deeper water, the sound of them closing behind us making my stomach drop.
I press my palms against the leather seat under me to keep them from shaking.
The tinted windows reflect nothing but my own pale face staring back at me with eyes too wide and my mouth pressed into a thin line I don’t recognize.
I’ve spent the last forty minutes trying to convince myself this is temporary.
A necessary sacrifice for the great good and one that will be over long before I know it.
My father’s voice still echoes in my head, calm and certain.
You’re the only one who can do this. You’re strong enough. The country needs you to be brave.
Brave.
I almost laugh but at the last moment hold it in. The sound would come out broken, so I force myself to swallow it back instead.
The estate unfolds around us in silence.
Snow-dusted pines line the long drive up toward the house, floodlights carving sharp white tunnels through the dark.
Every few hundred meters, another gate appears—steel and topped with razor wire that glints like teeth.
Armed men in black tactical gear stand at each one, faces shadowed under hoods with their rifles slung low at their waists.
They don’t salute the car. They don’t even turn their heads when we pass by. They simply stand motionless as we drive through. Something about that motionless vigilance makes the skin on the back of my neck crawl.
The SUV slows in front of the main house before coming to a stop at the arch of the driveway.
The mansion is three stories of dark stone and tall paned windows that reflect the night like black mirrors.
No warm lights spill from inside, no curtains twitch with curious eyes peering down from the higher floors.
The place would look haunted if it weren’t for the two men who step forward from the front entryway the moment the engine shifts gears.
Control radiates from the place in a way that unsettles me more than the gates did.
One of the men opens my door without pretense. The other stands a pace behind him, hand resting casually on the pistol at his hip.
“Out,” the first says.
I hesitate for a second before I slide from the seat, my boots crunching on the freshly fallen snow. The cold bites through my coat instantly, the pain sharper than Moscow’s usual winter sting. I straighten my spine and lift my chin, refusing to let myself cower as I meet the guard’s eyes.
I will not look small.
I refuse to look afraid.
They flank me close enough that I feel the heat radiating off their bodies despite the subzero air and guide me up wide stone steps to double doors that open before we reach them.
Inside, marble floors stretch in every direction, polished so perfectly, I can see my distorted reflection staring up at me.
High ceilings disappear into shadow and a grand staircase curves upward on the left, its banister gleaming like obsidian.
No staff hurry past. No voices drift from distant rooms. There is only the faint click of our boots and my own heartbeat thudding too loudly in my ears as I’m marched deeper inside.
They lead me down a corridor lined with closed doors.
Oil paintings hang at precise intervals with landscapes and stern-faced men in old uniforms. There are no personal touches on the walls or in the rooms we pass by, no warmth to suggest comfort or care.
This place seems to have been designed to keep threats out and whatever lives inside hidden from the world.
At the end of the hall, a set of double doors stands open.
Beyond them is a study that could double as a war room.
Dark wood paneling absorbs the flickering firelight, making the shadows stretch long and jagged across the floor.
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line the walls like towering sentries, each shelf packed so densely, it looks as though the room eats information and secrets for sustenance.
A desk carved from a single massive tree trunk, by the look of it, dominates the space between two tall windows.
The glass beyond it is dark, reflecting only the faint movement of flames.
The fire in the hearth burns low but steady, casting the room in a warm, deceptive glow that does nothing to soften the tension twisting through my ribcage.
Any illusion that this is some strange dream I’ll wake from dissolves completely.
There is no waking from this.
I straighten my spine and draw in a measured breath, silently reminding myself again why I’m here, why I agreed. Why turning back is not an option.
When I turn my gaze toward the hearth, I see him.
Aleksandr Volkov in the flesh.
He stands with his back to the fire, hands clasped behind him in a posture that radiates both discipline and untouchable authority.
He’s tall, taller than the photographs suggested him to be, broad through the shoulders in a suit that fits too perfectly to be off-the-rack.
His hair is black, silvering at the temples in a way that looks intentional, like he wears age as another advantage rather than something that’s taken from him.
His suit is as black as the shadows curling at his feet, the collar open at the throat.
The sleeves are rolled to his forearms, an oddly casual detail for a man whose reputation is anything but that.
Dark ink coils along his skin beneath the crisp fabric, wrapping around thick wrists in harsh lines.
I stop three paces inside the doorway.
That feels safer, though barely.
The guards remain behind me, silent and unmoving. They don’t need to issue orders or block the exit physically. Their mere presence is enough. I can feel the weight of what they’re not saying. Don’t run. Don’t even try.
Aleksandr’s eyes flick toward me.
They move from head to toe in a single, unhurried sweep. They are the darkest blue I’ve ever seen, almost black in this lighting. The firelight catches just enough of them to reveal depth beneath the surface.
He doesn’t look at me in a leering way. No, this is something colder. He’s… assessing me. Cataloging and deciding which mental drawer to place me inside. Somehow, that feels more violating than if he had ogled me outright.
When his eyes finally return to my face, the faintest smile curves his mouth.
“So,” he says, the corners of his eyes crinkling with unabashed amusement. “This is what Borchin has sent me.”
I bristle instantly, heat rushing to my face as humiliation washes over me. “Is that how you greet all your guests?”
His smile widens. The expression tells me he’s enjoying this far more than he should. “Are you considering yourself a guest? I would assume an impending cohabitation would mean we should be far more familiar with each other.”
The way he says it, unbothered, almost conversational in a way, shouldn’t bother me.
But it does.
Deeply.
It pricks at something under my skin I can’t quite name, a primal part of me that remains instinctive and wary of the dangers that lie ahead.
I don’t know if he’s teasing or testing me or simply amused by how tightly I’m holding myself together.
Whatever it is, it’s setting me on edge more than open hostility ever could.
He gestures to the chair opposite his desk without looking away from me. “Sit. Or don’t. Makes no difference to me.”
The casual dismissal infuriates me in a way that tightens the hands that hang at my sides.
I hold his stare, refusing to drop my gaze or let him think I’m so easily managed. Some part of me, that stubborn and reckless part that refuses to be tamed no matter who tries to, cannot bear the thought of obeying him simply because he expects it.
For some reason, that seems to amuse him more. A quiet huff of laughter escapes him as he straightens his posture, then moves away from the fireplace with an easy, unhurried stride. He doesn’t get too close to crowd me, but the shift in proximity between us is enough to make my pulse quicken.
He observes it. I know he does.
“Ah,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “Defiant already. This is not at all what I was promised.”
“Disappointed?” I ask sharply.
The moment it leaves my mouth, I nearly wince.
You idiot.
I have always had the unfortunate instinct, a reflex, really, to put men in their place.
Titles don’t impress me. Power doesn’t intimidate me.
My father surrounded me with generals, ministers, ambassadors, oligarchs, and foreign dignitaries since childhood.
I grew up watching men who controlled entire legions of armies fold under the right kind of pressure.
I learned very early that most “powerful” men are like balloons, puffed up with their own importance and embarrassingly easy to puncture.
His eyes, almost indigo now that he’s closer to me, glint with something I can’t decipher. Not anger like I’m expecting. Not even annoyance for being this openly hostile.
It’s interest. “I haven’t decided yet,” he says.
I swallow.
Under normal circumstances, I would relish giving it right back to him. A cocky bastard like Aleksandr Volkov practically begs to be challenged. He looks like the type who enjoys prodding just to see who bites.
And me? I always bite back.
But this is not normal circumstances.
I am not here to satisfy my pride or sharpen my wit on his ego.
I am here to infiltrate. I am supposed to charm him with softness, with obedience couched beneath femininity.
I am supposed to be agreeable and pleasantly naive in that palatable way men like him expect from a young wife bred for social function rather than strategy.