35. Vasiliy
“You are not coming!”
Sasha Siderov at least has the good sense to look a little nervous as he imposes the command on his daughter. His gaze shifts to mine with an accusation.
Yeah, obviously I told her. Duh.
“I’m coming with you, whether you like it or not!” she says, smacking her hand against our room door. Siderov eases a step back towards the hall, and I have to admit, the sight of his silent retreat is absolutely hilarious.
Sasha stopped trying to convince me to leave after I managed to get Octavia out of bed every day.
He even jumped down my throat when I joked about giving myself up to the Solokovs at dinner last night.
I nearly dropped my glass when I heard him condemn me for saying something like that in front of his daughter.
When Sasha approached me a few hours ago with a way to make myself useful, my interest was piqued.
Of course, it wouldn’t be the Siderov Pakhan if he didn’t slip a threat or two into the request. That little shit I beat into a pulp last month must’ve gone running to his master the moment he regained consciousness, because Sasha felt the need to reframe our spat as an act of war should I refuse to help.
They’ve finally found the defector who fed Popov our safehouse location. Apparently, the guy was working as backup for our jailbreak. The idiots have been trying to get information out of him for days.
Days.
I can’t remember the last time I had to work someone for days. Years ago, maybe, when I’d first started. I used to get real nervous about accidentally nicking an artery and letting them bleed out before they gave me what I needed.
“We’re going to a fight club,” Sasha says, wiping his forehead in exasperation. “It’s not a safe environment for you, especially if someone catches on to who you are.”
“It’s not like it’s a secret—”
“It’s not public knowledge, either. You’ve barely left the compound yet. You’re used to this controlled environment with guarded gates and nightly patrols. You don’t understand the threats for a woman with your name on the outside. I’m not willing to risk your safety for such a trivial reason…”
Siderov might as well be talking to himself, because I could see Octavia losing interest at the beginning of his whole protective father speech.
Honestly, I don’t see what the big deal is.
If she were going alone, I’d be worried too, but she’s not.
I’m going to be there, and there’s no way I’ll let anyone get close enough to even speak to her.
I’ve sensed her getting a little stir-crazy in the compound during the last few days. The only place she’s been allowed to go in months is the shooting range, and Sasha makes sure to send half of his syndicate with her every time.
“I’ve been doing better. Vasiliy and I have been training, and I leave to go shooting with Nik twice a week,” Octavia argues, causing my pride to flutter into existence.
She is doing much better. Some mornings, she even rises before me and takes her coffee out to the garden.
I pretend I’m still asleep, giving her the peaceful moment of solitude and following silently behind.
It’s a top-notch routine. She also plays chess with her dad and trains with her cousins.
I’ve witnessed a complete one-eighty from the girl whose biggest challenge of the day was climbing out of bed.
“You’re improving because of consistency,” Sasha responds. “I do not think it’s a good time to rip that pattern away—” His eyes practically bug out of his head in outrage when she huffs, turning her back on him to face me.
She’s got that sneaky smile on her face.
The one that means she’s going to get her way no matter what.
Little does she know, I’ve been wrapped around her finger throughout the entire argument, patiently waiting for her to pull my string.
I think I’d do just about anything to earn one of her conspiratorial grins.
Sleeping beside her this last month has been torturous.
All I can do is think about that kiss and the heat of her body pressed against mine.
The way her grip tightened on my throat as she opened for me.
I think I’ve taken more cold showers this month than I have in my entire life.
The last thing I want to do is add to the weight she’s already been fighting to hold up. That’s why I put the ball in her court.
With how difficult it’s been to peel my thoughts, hands, and eyes away from her, I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to hold out.
“Vas,” she says, tilting her head. Proving my point. God, she’s so fucking cute. She’s wearing a black oversized sweatshirt so massive it hangs down to her thighs, offering subtle peeks of the pair of shorts hiding beneath.
I have no control over the grin that pulls my upper lip.
So. Cute.
“Stop that!” Sasha says, sensing his daughter’s effect on me. “This is my club, and the decision is fin—”
“I’m not going if she’s not going.” The words topple out, eliciting a low growl from Sasha’s mouth. Octavia grins like the cat that got the cream.
Or perhaps manipulated the cream.
Sasha’s hand smacks into his brow. “Jesus fucking Christ!”
The worn-down warehouse buzzes with bodies, soldiers, and booze.
I can taste the violence dancing in the air when I step out of the SUV, taking me back to fuzzy memories from my past: drinking far too much, fighting anything that moved, waking in random beds to a collection of missed calls and furious messages from my uncle.
Warehouses like these may look abandoned during the day, but they have a way of changing shape when the sun goes down, turning into battlegrounds and gambling dens where secrets are traded, and money changes hands.
Back in Moscow, seeing my face would’ve been enough of a deterrent to most men.
But no one knows me here. They won’t anticipate the unvoiced threat to stay away from my girl.
I reach for the curve of Octavia’s waist as we follow her father and his wall of guards into the crowded building.
She’s still wearing the massive black sweatshirt we share between the two of us.
I’ve noticed her opting for loose, comfy clothing these days, and part of me wonders if this is the first time in her life she’s had true autonomy regarding small, inconsequential choices like this.
Growing up, I doubt she got to choose what kind of clothes and style she wanted to wear.
I bet they scooped a pile of donated items into her hand, and that was it.
Then she went into that fucked up dance company, where they weighed her weekly to ensure she’d fit into their teeny-tiny leotards.
My hand slips beneath the fabric, warming against her soft skin.
I’m going to make sure she gets to make every small, inconsequential choice she wants from now on.
I’m not sure how I expected Octavia to react to a place like this.
I’ve met women who thrive off the chaos, completely ignorant of the danger creeping around every bookie and bloodied fist. Others want to leave the moment they step into the room, far too aware of the deals going down in low whispers.
As Siderov slices a path through the packed bodies, parting the group like the Red Sea, I realize that Octavia seems to land somewhere between both camps.
Her emerald eyes twinkle with fascination as she takes in every detail: the haze of smoke that floats through the humid air, the empty space in the middle of the warehouse, housing a stained fighting ring that’s seen better days.
The rest of her face is set in a confident mold.
She looks every bit the part of the Siderov heir. Surely, everyone else is noticing, too.
I tug her even closer, dipping my head into the crook of her neck in a blatant claim.
Mine.
“Clingy much?” she whispers with a playful nudge, but her lips don’t even attempt to hide her smile. “Do fight clubs get you all hot and bothered, or something?”
No, baby, I’m pretty sure you’re handling that all on your own.
“Something like that.” I lead her forward into the fenced-off section reserved for the owners. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
Her head dips, and for half a second, her careful mask slips. The apples of her cheeks pinch upwards in a broad smile that shifts every single freckle (twenty-two on the left cheek, thirty-nine on the right). I counted last week when she was struggling beneath my hold in training.
“When does the fight start?” she asks, practically vibrating with excitement. Her joy is contagious.
“Soon.” I tug a soft tendril of hair. “I think our money’s on one of your father’s men.”
I don’t think, I know.
Unfortunately, the guy we’re backing also happens to be one of the soldiers Sasha has had trailing after Octavia at all hours of the day. He’s been looking a little too happy about that assignment as of late. He also happens to be on my shit list for related reasons.
She nods, distracted by the lively environment.
Drinks are sloshed onto the muddy floor as they’re passed through the crowd, creating a sticky surface below our feet.
Someone shoves a bookie during his final rounds, sending the guy tumbling over the rope and landing beside us. Octavia jumps back towards my arms.
I feel Sasha’s presence before I even turn. “They’re holding my guy in the back. We’ll head over after the fight and let you get started.”
My head dips. Usually, I like to get my interrogations done as efficiently as possible and head out, but tonight, with the perfect weight settling in my arms, I find myself oddly exhilarated with the entertainment.
I’ve seen a thousand of these fights, fought in a good number of them too, and yet, I’ve never been quite this enamored with the whole ordeal.
When the final round finally approaches with the wave of the ref’s hand, one thing is crystal clear.
My girl sure does love some violence.