Taisiya
My head is spinning with the name Kaverin. It feels like a curse. Is or was my father Bratva? Did my mother know about it? What else did she lie about if she did?
Vadim leads me to the dining room, where I take a seat and stare at the wall where he threw the glass last night.
It’s immaculate.
“Ivan did a good job,” I say, indicating it.
“Of course Ivan did,” Ivan says, entering the room. “Ivan has practice.”
I turn to eye him up. “Oh, really? Your boss likes to throw things then?”
“Not often. When he does, it’s messy, and usually a severed hand or head.”
My eyes widen in shock.
“Kidding,” he says and then smiles. “Maybe.”
“Jesus,” I mutter.
“Breakfast?” he chirps as Vadim snorts and shakes his head as he sits.
“Whatever is fastest,” I say. “And coffee. Large. Black.”
Ivan nods and disappears.
“Is he joking?” I ask Vadim.
“No.”
“Great.”
“I’ll find out the truth, Tai,” he says, his voice low.
“I’m not sure I want the truth. If my father is some Bratva monster who ignored me for twenty-nine years, I’d rather keep thinking he was just a ghost.”
“Sometimes ghosts are better left undisturbed, but not when they start sending messages to my enemies,” Vadim says.
I pull on the hem of the grey cashmere jumper, the softness feeling like a lie against the jagged edge of my reality. Vadim is right. If this mystery man is using me to bait the Voronovs, my ignorance is a target on my back.
“I just wanted to be normal,” I whisper.
“And then you stabbed Gregor Melnikov,” Vadim points out. He isn’t mocking me; it’s just another cold fact he’s added to his collection.
“He didn’t leave me a choice.”
“There is always a choice, Tai. You chose to survive. That is the Kaverin in you, whether you want it or not.”
Ivan returns, placing a heavy mug of coffee in front of me. The steam hits my face, and I inhale the bitter scent like it’s oxygen. I take a sip, letting the heat burn my tongue. It’s better than the numbness.
“What if he comes here?” I ask. “My father. What if he shows up at your gate?”
Vadim leans back, his blue eyes icy and focused. “Then I’ll ask him why he waited so long to meet his daughter. And then I’ll decide if I’m going to kill him for the delay.”
I don’t even flinch. The world is breaking, and Vadim Voronov is the only thing standing in the gaps.
“Continental Breakfast,” Ivan says, wheeling in a tray of baked goods, fruit and yoghurt.
“Is that cheese and crackers?” I ask, spying them behind the fruit basket.
“Of course.”
“Gimme,” I say, half rising to reach out.
Vadim chuckles and gets up to pile a plate high for me with all sorts of tasty treats. “Don’t get used to this. Ivan is showing off.”
“How dare you,” Ivan tuts. “I’m living my best life with this appreciative guest.”
“Not a guest,” Vadim states. “She will be my wife.”
“Even better,” Ivan murmurs and backs out, looking victorious, like he won a bet.
He probably did.
I stab a piece of cheddar with a fork, the sharp tang hitting my tongue as I process Vadim’s casual declaration. Every time he says it, the word wife feels less like a threat and more like an anchor.
“You shouldn’t say that so easily,” I mutter, my mouth half-full of cheese. “Ivan probably has the wedding guest list drafted and the caterers on speed dial.”
“He likely does. He’s efficient.” Vadim tears a croissant in half, making it look sexy and violent. “But I don’t say things I don’t mean, Taisiya. You should know that by now.”
“I know you’re a bulldozer. I just didn’t realise I was the house in your way.”
He looks up, his blue eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that makes the coffee go cold in my gut. “You aren’t the house. You’re the destination.”
I look away and focus intensely on a grape. It’s too much. The Kaverin ghost, the dead men in the street, and this man who looks at me like I’m the only thing worth owning. I don’t speak as I eat, and neither does he.
The silence in the dining room feels heavier than the one in the kitchen.
I finish the grape and reach for a piece of ham, folding it into a small square before shoving it into my mouth.
I need the salt. I need the energy. My brain is starting to itch with the sheer volume of information that is crowding it.
I bite the top off a blueberry muffin and chase it down with a big sip of coffee before moving onto a croissant. When I’m finished with that, I go back to the muffin and peel away the case.
Vadim watches me the entire time, and it’s unnerving.
“Stop staring,” I mumble through muffin, my hand in front of my mouth so I don’t spit crumbs all over him.
“I enjoy watching you eat. It’s my new favourite pastime.”
“Fuck off.”
“It’s true. You are perfect.”
My cheeks grow hot, and I stare at the muffin in my hand before I swallow and say, “Why do you keep saying things like that?”
“Because they’re also true,” he says. He reaches across the table, his thumb brushing a stray crumb from the corner of my lip. I flinch, but I don’t pull away. I can’t. His touch is a brand, a reminder of the kitchen counter and the way he looked at me when he claimed me.
“You don’t even know me,” I whisper. “You know a version of me that’s in crisis. You know the girl who kills people and hides in your house. That’s not a person. That’s a survivor.”
“I know the girl who tells the head of the Voronov family his cooking is shit,” he counters, his hand dropping back to the table.
“I know the woman who handles a blade without hesitation when her life is on the line. I know the woman who looks at me with more fire in her eyes than any ten men I’ve killed.
That is a person, Tai. It’s the only kind of person I want by my side. ”
I set the muffin down. My appetite is gone, replaced by a thrumming anxiety that makes my skin feel too tight. “You’re romanticising a disaster.”
“I’m securing my future.” He stands up, the movement abrupt and commanding. “Go have your shower. The TV will be brought up to your room. I have work to do, and Bogdan will be back with more information soon.”
I watch him walk toward the door, his silhouette tall and lethal against the morning light. “Vadim?”
He stops, turning his head just enough to show me the sharp line of his jaw. “Yeah?”
“If my father is alive, what happens to me?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “The same thing that happens if he isn’t. You stay with me. You become a Voronov. And anyone who tries to take you finds out why my name is the last thing people usually hear when they fuck with me.”
“Your room,” I call out, but he doesn’t reply, so I don’t know if he heard. Doesn’t matter. I only plan to shower and sleep anyway.
I sit in the silence, staring at the coffee, wondering if I’m being protected or if I’ve just traded one cage for a much more beautiful one.
Rising quickly, I finish my coffee and head out of the dining room and back to the stairs. Taking them quickly up to the guest room, I pull up short as Ivan is in there packing all my things into a suitcase.
“The soon-to-be wife of Vadim Voronov does not sleep in the guest room,” he states and ignores me as he carries on packing.
“I need to shower,” I stammer.
“You will find all you need in the main bedroom.”
“Are you always this bossy?”
“Yes.”
“Noted,” I murmur, but a smile tugs my lips as I turn and head down the hallway to Vadim’s bedroom.
I push open the door and walk straight to the ensuite. I strip off and shove all the clothes into the hamper. Closing the door behind me, I turn to the shower.
It’s a glass-walled box with more nozzles than I know how to operate.
I turn the handles until the water is hot, then step under the spray, and let the heat beat against my shoulders.
I think about the Kaverin name. I think about my mother’s face when she lied to me.
Mostly, I think about the way Vadim looked at me in the kitchen.
I scrub my skin until it turns a raw, angry red.
The steam fills the massive bathroom, blurring the edges of a world that has become too sharp to handle.
I wash my hair twice with Vadim’s shampoo, something manly and subtle.
I stay under the spray until my fingertips wrinkle, and the heavy weight in my chest eases just enough to let me breathe without a hitch.
When I step out, I reach for a black fluffy towel and dry off slowly, avoiding looking in the massive mirror over the sinks.
When I’m done, I find a plush white robe waiting on the heated rail.
It’s thick and soft, wrapping around me like a shield.
I towel my hair dry and spot my hairbrush on the counter.
I pull it through the tangles, still not looking at myself.
I can’t. All I will see is a killer who sold herself to the man who said he can protect me.
Replacing the brush carefully, I step back into the bedroom and see a sleek television now sits on a new dresser opposite the bed.
Ivan and co work fast. The wardrobe doors hang open to proudly display that my suitcase has been unpacked, the clothes hanging next to Vadim’s.
I close the doors and climb into the massive bed, sinking into the silk sheets.
I grab the remote from the bedside cabinet and flick through channels until I find a mindless reality show about people arguing over things that don’t involve murder or Bratva bloodlines.
I pull the duvet to my chin and stare at the screen, letting the manufactured drama of strangers fill the silence. My eyes grow heavy, and I let them close as the noise from the TV comforts me.