4. Kostya
KOSTYA
Half an hour since I heard her crying out on the porch, and I'm still hard enough to hammer nails.
Shouldn't have lingered near the window.
Shouldn't have listened. Shouldn't have wanted to be the one dragging those sounds out of her.
But I did, and I still do, and now I'm sitting at the kitchen table at midnight cleaning my knives like a fucking monk trying to pray away a hard-on.
Doesn't work.
The blade gleams under the overhead light.
I run the cloth down the edge, checking for nicks, testing the balance.
Routine. Familiar. My father taught me to maintain my tools before he got himself killed in a territory dispute that never should've happened.
I was sixteen. Lev's father took me in three days later, made it official, gave me brothers and a name that meant something.
The Volkov name.
And now the man who gave me that is dead too, gunned down at his own wedding reception.
I should be thinking about that. About who had access, who knew the layout, who had the balls to move against us in our own territory. I should be mapping supply chains and weak points in our network.
Instead I'm thinking about the way Wren's voice broke when she came. The breathless little gasps between. The wet sound of Lev fucking her against the wall.
My cock throbs.
If it had been any other guy, I'd have walked out there and slit his throat for touching her.
But it's Lev. My brother. The heir. The one who pulled me out of the gutter and made me family.
I can't be jealous of Lev. Can't be jealous of Maxim either, even though I know damn well he's going to try his luck with her next.
That's just how this works when you grow up with nothing and someone hands you everything — you don't get to be petty about sharing.
Except I want her all to myself.
The thought comes sharp and mean, and I shove it down. Drag the cloth over the blade again. Force myself to focus on the steel, the edge, the way the light catches the fuller groove.
My palm drifts to my lap. Presses against the ridge straining the front of my jeans.
Fuck.
I wonder what she feels like. If she's tight.
If she'd look at me the way she probably looked at Lev — all wide green eyes and flushed skin and that pretty mouth open on a gasp.
If she'd fall apart the same way or if I could make her scream louder.
I grip myself through the denim, just once, just enough to take the edge off the ache.
It doesn't help.
My phone buzzes on the table. I drop the knife, grab the cell.
Pavel.
"Yeah."
"Diane wants to know about the girl." His voice is flat, familiar. Loyal. "I told her she's safe, but she's insisting. Wants confirmation."
Wren's mother. The woman who married the pakhan and didn't know what the hell she was walking into.
Blonde, soft-spoken, polite. Innocent in the way that gets people killed.
We stashed her in a separate safe house two hours north — better that way.
If someone's coming for the family, they won't find both women in the same place.
"Tell her Wren's safe." I swallow. Adjust myself under the table. "We'll set up a call tomorrow."
"She's worried."
"She should be. Someone just killed her husband."
"Kostya."
"What?"
"Try not to be an asshole."
I hang up. Toss the phone on the table. Scrub a hand over my face.
Wren's safe. She's here. She just got fucked by my brother on the porch and she's probably upstairs right now washing him off her skin, and I'm sitting in the kitchen with a hard-on that won't quit and a dead man's legacy sitting on my shoulders.
Something's happening to me. To us. And it's all because of Wren.
The coffee brews loud in the quiet. Dark roast, strong enough to strip paint. I lean against the counter, arms crossed, and try not to think about Wren.
Doesn't work.
Footsteps on the stairs. Soft, hesitant. I don't turn around. Don't need to. I know it's her before she even reaches the kitchen doorway.
"Can't sleep?"
"No."
Her voice is quieter than usual. Rougher. I turn.
She's wearing one of the spare black tees from the hall closet, oversized and hanging halfway down her thighs.
Her legs are bare. Feet too. Hair damp and loose around her shoulders, face scrubbed clean.
No makeup. No armor. Just Wren, small and soft and standing in my kitchen at half past midnight looking like every bad decision I've ever wanted to make.
My cock stirs.
"Coffee?" I nod at the pot.
"Sure."
I pour two mugs. Hand her one. She wraps both hands around it like she's cold, even though the house is warm. Her nails are short, unpainted. Clean. I notice things. Always have. It's kept me alive this long.
"My mom used to do that." She nods at the coffee. "Brew a pot at midnight when she couldn't sleep. Drive my dad crazy."
"Your real dad?"
"Yeah." She takes a sip. Winces. "Jesus, Kostya, what is this, motor oil?"
"It's coffee."
"It's punishment in a cup."
I almost smile. Catch myself. "Your mom still do that?"
"Sleep instead. Stress makes her shut down. She'll sleep for twelve hours straight and wake up pretending everything's fine."
I lean back against the counter. Watch her over the rim of my mug. "Funeral's in three days."
She nods. Looks down at her coffee. "Will she be there?"
"No. Too dangerous. We'll bring her in after, once we've sorted the security."
"Sorted the security." She repeats it flat. "You mean once you've figured out who killed him."
"Yeah."
She doesn't flinch. Doesn't cry. Just stands there holding her mug and looking at me with those green eyes that see too much. "You think it was someone at the wedding."
"I know it was someone at the wedding."
"You think it was me."
"No."
The word comes fast. Too fast. She catches it, raises an eyebrow. "Lev did."
"Lev thinks everything's a threat until proven otherwise. It's why he's still alive."
"And you?"
"I think you're a lot of things, kotyonok. A threat isn't one of them."
The nickname slips out before I can stop it. Kitten. Started as a joke in my head — she startles easy, moves quiet, has claws she doesn't know how to use yet. But saying it out loud feels different. Feels like something I'm giving her that I shouldn't.
She blinks. "Kotyonok?"
"Kitten."
"I'm not a kitten."
"You sure about that?"
She glares. Drinks her terrible coffee. "I'm twenty-one. I'm a grown woman."
"Yeah. I noticed."
The air shifts. She notices too. I see it in the way her grip tightens on the mug, the way her pupils dilate just a fraction. Good. Let her notice. Let her feel this thing pulling between us, the same way I've been feeling it since she walked into this house.
"Come here."
She doesn't move. "Why?"
"Because I want you to."
"That's not a reason."
"It's the only reason that matters."
She sets the mug on the counter. Crosses the kitchen. Stops a foot away, close enough that I can smell the soap on her skin, the faint floral scent of shampoo. Close enough to touch.
I don't.
"Tell me about your mom," I say instead.
She frowns. "What about her?"
"You said stress makes her sleep. What else?"
"Why do you care?"
"Humor me."
She shrugs. "She's... I don't know. Normal? She worked as a secretary before she met your dad. Loves rom-coms. Cries at commercials. She's soft. Too soft for this."
"And you?"
"What about me?"
"You soft too?"
Her jaw tightens. "No."
"Liar."
"I'm not?—"
"You are. You're soft. Just not weak. There's a difference."
She stares at me. Opens her mouth. Closes it again. Looks away.
I take a step closer. "Sit."
"Kostya—"
"Living room. Now."
She goes. Doesn't argue. Doesn't push back. Just pads barefoot into the living room and curls up on the couch, tucking her legs under her. I follow. Sit in the armchair across from her. Far enough away that I won't do something stupid.
"Talk," I say.
"About what?"
"Anything. Your life. College. Whatever."
She gives me a look. "Are you interrogating me?"
"If I was interrogating you, you'd know it."
"Then what is this?"
"This is me trying not to fuck you on the kitchen counter."
Her breath catches. Just a little. Just enough.
I lean back. Cross my arms. "So talk. Distract me."
She bites her lip. Looks down at her hands. "I had a roommate in college. Theater major. She kept bringing props back to our dorm. I woke up one morning and there was a fake severed head on my desk."
"That supposed to be funny?"
"It was hilarious. She named it Gerald."
I snort. Can't help it. "You're ridiculous."
"You asked."
"Tell me more."
So she does. She tells me about college, about her classes, about the time she accidentally walked into the wrong lecture hall and sat through forty minutes of advanced organic chemistry before she realized.
She tells me about her mother, about the way Diane hums off-key when she cooks, about the apartment they shared before the wedding.
She tells me things that don't matter and things that do, and I sit there and listen and realize I'm learning her.
Cataloging her. Memorizing the way her mouth moves, the way her hands gesture when she's excited, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she's nervous.
"Why didn't you ever have a boyfriend?" The question comes out harsher than I mean it to.
She shrugs. "I just wasn't into anyone."
"And now?"
"Now what?"
"You into anyone now?"
Her eyes flick to mine. Hold. "Maybe."
My cock throbs. I shift in the chair. Press my palm against the ridge straining my jeans. "Go to bed, Wren."
"Why is everyone always telling me what to do?"
"Why? What did Lev tell you?"
"To leave him alone."
"And did you?"
She smirks. Shakes her head. "No."
I laugh. Can't stop it. The sound comes low and rough, surprised out of me. I stand. Cross the room. Sit next to her on the couch, close enough that our thighs touch. Take her chin between my fingers. Tilt her face up.
"You're a brat."