Chapter 13
Auralia
M y hands wouldn't stop shaking.
I noticed it first when I tried to button the cardigan—the fourth outfit I'd attempted in the last twenty minutes.
My fingers fumbled against the tiny pearl buttons, slipping, missing, turning a simple task into something impossible.
The cream cashmere joined the rejected pile on Maks's bed: a silk blouse (too formal), a fitted sweater (too casual), a button-down I'd stolen from his closet (too obvious).
The sweater dress was my final attempt.
Soft grey wool that skimmed my thighs, the kind of fabric that didn't overwhelm my skin.
Maks had said it brought out my eyes when I'd worn it three days ago, his fingers tracing the hem while we watched a movie I couldn't remember.
The memory should have been comforting. Instead, it made me want to tear the dress off and try something else.
"They're going to hate me."
The words came out before I could stop them. Third time I'd said it in the last ten minutes. The bedroom mirror showed me a woman who looked like she was about to face a firing squad—pale, wide-eyed, hands twisting together in a way that would leave marks.
The collar sat warm against my throat, hidden beneath the dress's mock neck. I touched it through the fabric. Felt the leather, the metal ring. Reminded myself what it meant.
Mine. His. Ours.
It didn't help.
"They're going to love you."
Maks appeared in the mirror behind me. He was dressed simply—dark jeans, a charcoal sweater that made his shoulders look impossibly broad. His reflection met my eyes, steady and certain in a way I couldn't match.
"You don't know that." My voice came out smaller than I intended. "I'm—you know what I'm like. The social thing. The not-reading-cues thing. The being-too-much thing. Plus, I’m just like, weird."
He turned me to face him. His hands were warm on my shoulders, grounding me in a way that made my spinning thoughts slow slightly.
"Everyone’s weird. Sophie was a ballerina who got sold at auction," he said quietly. "Maya was a surgeon hiding from a murder charge. Trust me, Ptichka—you'll fit right in."
The words landed somewhere unexpected. Not comfort exactly. More like context.
"Your family collects damaged people?"
His smile was soft. "My family collects survivors. There's a difference."
I wanted to believe him. Wanted to sink into the certainty in his voice and let it carry me through whatever was about to happen.
But my brain was already running scenarios—all the ways I could say the wrong thing, miss a social cue, embarrass him in front of the brothers who ran a criminal empire and the women who loved them.
"Ghost is settled?" I asked, deflecting.
"Fed, walked, currently destroying that new puzzle toy with extreme prejudice. He'll be fine for a few hours."
A few hours. I had to survive a few hours of being charming and normal and not-weird around people who could probably kill me with their bare hands.
The thought should have been terrifying. Somehow, it was almost reassuring. At least the stakes were clear.
The car ride was a blur of Brooklyn streets and my own racing pulse.
Maks drove with one hand, the other threaded through mine on my thigh. His thumb traced slow circles against my palm—the same soothing pattern he'd used when I'd been nonverbal in his kitchen, when words had failed and only touch remained. The familiarity of it should have helped.
I couldn't stop bouncing my knee.
"Tell me about them again," I said. "So I'm prepared."
"Nikolai is the oldest. Pakhan. Runs everything, though you'd never know it from how he is with Sophie. He's intense but fair." A pause. "Don't mistake his quietness for coldness. He sees everything."
"Great. No pressure."
"Konstantin is the middle brother. Loud, enormous, probably going to hug you before you can protest. His heart is bigger than his body, which is saying something.
" Maks's lips curved. "He and Maya found each other recently.
She's a surgeon—was a surgeon. Now runs a clinic.
Long story. She'll probably want to give you a medical exam within five minutes of meeting you. "
"Is that a joke?"
"Only partially."
The gates appeared before I was ready.
Wrought iron, tall enough to be serious, topped with decorative spikes that probably weren't just decorative. Guards in dark suits checked something on Maks's phone, nodded, waved us through. The whole process took thirty seconds and felt like thirty years.
The compound stretched beyond—more grounds than I'd expected, gardens that looked professionally maintained, the kind of landscaping that spoke to money and permanence. But it was the house itself that caught my breath.
Not a fortress. Not a bunker. Not the cold, clinical space I'd imagined when I pictured where the Besharov bratva conducted their business.
A home.
“This place is new. Somewhere more homely now that Katya is here.”
Nikolai’s daughter. I wondered what it would be like to be born into a family like this. Then, to my shame, I wondered what it would feel like to marry into a family like this.
Three stories of brick and stone, windows glowing warm in the afternoon light, ivy climbing one corner in a way that suggested decades of growth.
The architecture was old—1920s maybe, renovated but respectful of its bones.
It looked like somewhere generations of family had lived and fought and loved.
Maks parked in a circular driveway. Cut the engine. Turned to look at me with those warm brown eyes that still made my stomach flip.
"Ready?"
I wasn't. Not even close.
But I nodded anyway.
The front door opened before we reached it, and the smell hit me first.
Garlic. Herbs—dill, maybe, and something earthier. Meat roasting, rich and savory, the aroma that came from hours of cooking rather than thirty minutes of reheating. Underneath it all, something sweeter—bread, fresh, the kind you made from scratch when you had time and love to spare.
The smell of a home where people actually cooked.
Where people actually lived.
My chest did something complicated. A twist that was part longing, part terror, part something I couldn't name. I'd grown up with takeout containers and microwave dinners, with a grandmother who loved me but couldn't cook, with the emptiness of spaces where meals were functions rather than rituals.
This was different.
This was what I'd been missing without knowing I was missing it.
Maks's hand found the small of my back. Steadying. Present. His lips brushed my ear as we stepped over the threshold.
"Breathe, Ptichka. I've got you."
I breathed.
And walked into the warmth.
N ikolai Besharov was terrifying in a way I couldn't immediately explain.
Not loud terrifying. Not aggressive terrifying.
The opposite, actually—he was quiet. Still.
The kind of stillness that came from absolute certainty about what violence he was capable of and complete control over whether to deploy it.
Dark eyes tracked me as I entered, missing nothing, cataloging everything.
The assessment lasted maybe three seconds. It felt like an autopsy.
He stood in the foyer like he owned the space.
Which, I supposed, he did. Tall—not as tall as Maks had described Konstantin, but tall enough.
Dark hair, sharp features, the handsomeness that came from good bones and dangerous living.
He was holding something small and dark-haired against his chest, but my brain was too busy processing threat assessment to register what.
"You must be Auralia."
His voice matched the rest of him. Low, measured, the voice of someone who never had to raise it to be heard.
"Yes." The word came out steadier than I felt. "Thank you for having me."
He crossed to me. Extended his hand.
I braced for the dominance display—the too-hard grip, the intimidation tactic. Men like this, in my experience, used handshakes as weapons.
His grip was gentle. Firm enough to be real, soft enough to be respectful. The disconnect between his terrifying presence and his careful touch made my brain stutter.
"Maks talks about you constantly," he said. Something almost like humor flickered in those dark eyes. "It's exhausting."
Before I could formulate a response, something enormous and loud descended on me.
"Little bird! Finally!"
Arms wrapped around me—massive arms, attached to a massive chest, belonging to a man who seemed to take up half the foyer with his presence alone. I was lifted off my feet before I could protest, enveloped in cologne and gunpowder and something warm that might have been sandalwood.
Konstantin Besharov, I presumed.
He was laughing as he set me down. A booming sound that rattled the pictures on the walls. His face was scarred—badly, a roadmap of violence etched into his skin—but his smile was genuine, reaching eyes that crinkled with warmth.
"Don't look so scared," he said. "We're harmless."
"Speak for yourself, pussycat." Nikolai's voice was dry as dust, but there was a smile tugging at his mouth. The expression transformed him—made him look younger, less like a weapon and more like a man.
"Okay, fine. We're harmless to you." Konstantin clapped a hand on my shoulder—gently, for him, which still nearly buckled my knees. "Anyone Maks claims is family. That's the rule."
The word landed somewhere deep. Family.
I felt Maks behind me, his warmth at my back, his hand finding mine and squeezing. A silent message: See? I told you.
I was still processing when I finally registered what Nikolai was holding.
A baby.
Tiny, perfect, with her father's dark hair and serious eyes.
She was maybe six months old, dressed in soft pink, her small fist wrapped around the collar of Nikolai's shirt.
The juxtaposition—this terrifying man, this dangerous pakhan, holding something so small and fragile with such obvious tenderness—made something in my chest twist.