2. Lev #2
The word settles over the room, heavy and final. My father's title. My father's responsibility. My father's enemies, all of whom just got a hell of a lot bolder.
"I know." My hands clench at my sides. "And the first thing I'm going to do is find whoever did this and make sure their death is slow and painful."
Kostya nods. Maxim's jaw tightens, but he doesn't argue.
"No mercy," I say. "Whoever is behind this—they don't get to walk away."
We talk for another hour—security, next steps, which families to contact and which to watch. By the time we're done, it's past ten, and the adrenaline has finally started to ebb, leaving exhaustion in its wake.
I step out onto the porch. The night air is cold, sharp with pine and lake water, and I breathe it in deep. My hands are still shaking. My father is dead. I'm pakhan now, which means every decision, every move, every misstep lands on me.
And Wren?—
I scrub a hand over my face. I accused her of sleeping with our enemies. Cornered her against a wall and demanded answers she didn't have. She'll hate me now, which is probably for the best. Safer for her. Safer for me.
The door opens behind me, soft and hesitant, and I don't need to turn to know who it is. The sound of her breath, the particular weight of her footsteps on old wood.
"I'm sorry," Wren says. Her voice is small, careful, threaded through with something fragile. "About your father."
I grip the porch railing harder, wood rough and splintered under my palms. The pain grounds me. Keeps me from turning around. "You don't need to apologize."
"I know." A pause that stretches too long, filled with the distant sound of water lapping against the dock. "But I'm still sorry."
I should tell her to go inside. To leave me alone. To lock herself in her room and stay there until I can figure out how to stop looking at her like she's the only thing in the world that makes sense, like she's air and I've been drowning.
Instead I say, "I'm sorry too. For accusing you." The words scrape out of my throat, rough and unfamiliar.
The words feel foreign in my mouth, wrong on my tongue. I don't apologize. It's inefficient, a waste of breath, but she deserves it, and I owe her at least that much. More than that, if I'm being honest with myself, which I've been trying very hard not to be.
She steps closer. I feel the shift in the air before I hear her move, the warmth of her body cutting through the cold night. Every nerve ending lights up, a warning system going haywire.
"You need to leave, Wren. Now." My voice comes out sharp enough to draw blood.
"Why are you being difficult?" There's confusion in her tone, and hurt underneath it.
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache. The muscle jumps under the skin. "I said leave."
"What's your problem with me?" Her voice sharpens, hurt bleeding into frustration, and I can hear her stepping even closer. Feel the heat of her radiating against my back. "Have I done or said something to offend you?"
"I don't have a problem with you." The lie tastes bitter. My problem is that I want her too much. That I can smell her perfume from here, something light and sweet that has no business being on my property, in my house, this close to my self-control.
"Are you sure? It doesn't look like you don't."
I turn to face her, and it's a mistake. A critical miscalculation.
She's standing less than two feet away, still in that dress that clings to every curve, the fabric catching moonlight.
Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, mussed from the day, and her eyes are bright with unshed tears and something that looks dangerously close to defiance.
Her chest rises and falls too fast. Her lips are parted.
She looks young and scared and beautiful, and I want to push her against the wall and make her forget her own name.
"If you know what's good for you," I say, low and controlled, every word measured and precise, "you'll go to your room and lock it, and you'll leave me alone."
"Why should I do what you tell me?" She tilts her chin up, and the gesture sends a bolt of heat straight through me.
Because I'm trying to protect you. Because I'm barely holding on, my control fraying at the edges, unraveling with every breath she takes. Because if you stay here another minute, I'm going to cross a line I can't uncross, and we'll both have to live with the consequences.
"Because if you stay here for another minute," I say, teeth gritted, jaw locked tight enough to crack, "I will take your virginity and fuck you against the wall."
The words hang between us, raw and filthy and true.
Obscene in the quiet night. My heart pounds against my ribs, a steady, brutal rhythm.
Her lips part on a sharp inhale. Her pupils dilate, swallowing the green until her eyes are nearly black.
I watch her pulse jump in her throat, fast and fluttering, and instead of running—instead of doing the smart thing and getting as far from me as possible—she shifts closer, close enough that I can feel the heat of her, smell the faint sweetness of her perfume mixed with fear and something headier, something that makes my blood run hot and my hands ache to touch.
"What if that's exactly what I want you to do?" Her voice is barely a whisper, but it lands like a shout.