10. Kostya
KOSTYA
I stand at the back and let Lev do his thing.
The late pakhan used to need an hour and a raised voice. Lev needs a look. He sits in the chair—the throne, the seat, whatever you want to call it—and says maybe three sentences about loyalty and traitors and what happens when you bet against the Volkov name.
The room goes quiet in a way that has teeth. Men I've known my whole life—men who used to clap Viktor on the shoulder and argue over brandy—stand with their spines straight and their hands at their sides like they're waiting for permission to breathe.
Good.
About time someone in this family scared the right people.
I'd clap if it wouldn't ruin the effect.
The line starts forming. Condolences. Respect.
Positioning. I watch them come forward one by one, read the angles.
Most of them mean it—the fear's genuine, the respect's real.
Volkov isn't just a name anymore. It's a warning.
A few are hedging their bets, playing both sides in case the wind shifts again, but Lev clocks them same as I do.
He doesn't call them out. Doesn't need to.
They'll remember this moment when he comes for them later.
Old man in a suit I recognize from the south side steps up, offers his hand. "Your father would be proud."
Lev takes it. Says nothing. The old man's smile goes tight at the edges and he backs away.
I almost laugh.
Maxim's near the front, shaking hands, saying the right words, making people feel like they're talking to a human instead of a brick wall. Someone's got to. Lev's not built for reassurance and I sure as hell am not going to start now.
Another man approaches. Younger, nervous. His family backed us early, before the ambush. Smart. "Pakhan," he says, and the word lands like he's testing it out for the first time.
Lev nods once. The man exhales and steps back into the crowd.
That's it. That's all it takes now.
I shift my weight, check my watch. We've been here long enough. The room's convinced. The families are in line. Ceremony's over.
Lev stands. Doesn't say a word. Just moves toward the door and the crowd parts like he's got a damn force field.
Yeah. He's going to be a better pakhan than Viktor ever was, and I'm not sentimental enough to pretend otherwise.
We head for the SUV.
The inside of the vehicle smells like leather and gunpowder. Maxim slides in beside me, Lev takes the front. The driver pulls out and the building disappears behind us.
Nobody talks for a minute. We don't need to. The ceremony's done, the mask's off, and the three of us settle back into the easy silence of people who've known each other too long to bother filling the gaps.
Maxim loosens his tie. "Well. That went better than expected."
"Expected what," I say. "A coup?"
"Maybe." He grins. "You never know."
I snort. Lev doesn't turn around but I see his mouth twitch.
The road stretches out ahead—trees, gates, the long way home. The hard edges start coming off. Out there, Lev's the pakhan and we follow. In here, we're just us.
"By the way," I say to Maxim, "the family that backed Yuri?"
"Yeah?"
"Gone."
Maxim blinks. "We didn't?—"
"Nope. Someone else did it for us."
He leans back, processing. Lev glances at me in the rearview. Doesn't say anything. He already told me this morning, and now I'm telling Maxim because that's how it works.
"Who?" Maxim asks.
"Does it matter?" I shrug. "Point is, they're gone. Whole bloodline. Wiped clean. Other families are reaching out to Lev, offering condolences, swearing loyalty. Everyone wants to be on the right side of the name now."
Maxim whistles low. "So we're consolidating."
"We're done," Lev says from the front. Flat. Final. "The danger's over. They know who not to cross."
Maxim grins. "Guess you're terrifying now."
"Now?" I say.
Lev doesn't dignify that with a response.
The conversation drifts. Maxim mentions something about the books, a meeting next week. I half-listen. My brain's already moving past the ceremony, past the families and the bloodlines and the careful dance of power. We're headed home. The compound's ten minutes out.
Home.
It used to be a place to sleep. A roof. Four walls and a bed. Now it's something else, and I'm not stupid enough to pretend I don't know why.
"We should pick her up something to eat," Lev says.
"Nah," Maxim says. "Let's just have it delivered."
Lev considers this. Shrugs. "Fine."
I don't weigh in. Don't need to. This is how it works with her—no rank, no final word, just the three of us figuring it out like equals. Lev's the pakhan to everyone we just left behind. With Wren, he's just another guy trying to make sure she's fed.
The gate comes into view. Black iron, the kind that says fuck off without needing a sign. The driver pulls through and the compound opens up—stone and glass and too much space.
Then I see her.
She's on the porch, painting. Canvas propped against the railing, brush in one hand, hair pulled back in something that used to be a ponytail but isn't anymore. Paint on her fingers. Paint on her forearm. A smudge of it on her jaw she hasn't noticed yet.
She looks up.
Drops the brush.
Rushes toward us.
The want hits me low and sharp, somewhere between my ribs and my gut, and I don't bother trying to name it. She's barefoot, wearing one of Maxim's shirts, and the second she reaches us she throws her arms around Lev first.
He catches her. Kisses her. Says something low I don't hear.
Then she turns to Maxim, and he gets his turn. She laughs into his mouth and he grins against hers, lifts her off her feet for a second before setting her down.
Then she looks at me.
Green eyes. Flushed cheeks. Paint-smudged and barefoot and ours.
She steps into me and I catch her waist, pull her close. Her hands come up to my chest and she tilts her head back, waiting.
I kiss her.
Slow at first. Then harder. Her mouth opens under mine and the want sharpens into something hotter, something that obliterates the last twelve hours of ceremony and bloodlines and careful words.
She tastes like sugar and paint thinner and I don't care.
I kiss her deeper, rougher, and she makes a small sound that goes straight to my cock.
Her fingers curl into my shirt.
The charge ignites.
I tear her clothes off right there on the porch, the thin fabric of her shirt ripping like paper under my hands.
The sound of it—sharp, sudden—cuts through the warm evening air thick with the scent of fresh paint and distant pine.
She gasps, the sound high and surprised, then laughs, wild and breathless, her small fingers grabbing at my shirt like she can’t decide whether to pull me closer or push me away.
I don’t give her the chance to finish whatever smart-ass remark is building behind those parted lips.
I hoist her up, plant her thighs on my shoulders before she can spit it out. Her bare skin is fever-hot against my palms, smooth and trembling, the faint tremor of her muscles betraying how badly she needs this.
“Kostya—”
The rest dies in her throat as I bury my face between her legs.
She’s already soaked, slick and swollen, her scent heady and sweet like honeyed musk that floods my lungs and makes my cock throb painfully against my zipper.
I lick into her rough, deliberate, dragging my tongue through her folds, tasting every drop of her arousal.
She tastes so fucking good—tangy, addictive, pure Wren—that the hunger in my gut sharpens into something feral. Her hands fly to my scalp, yanking hard at the short bristles of my hair, the sting shooting straight down my spine and making me growl into her cunt.
Good. I want her to hurt me. Want her nails to leave red trails, want the ache tomorrow to remind me this is real.
I hold her thighs wide open, my fingers digging into the soft flesh, and eat her like a starving man at a feast. My stubble scrapes the sensitive skin of her inner thighs; her hips jerk against my mouth, grinding shamelessly now.
She’s dripping down my chin, wet sounds obscene in the quiet night air, and I don’t care who hears. Let the whole damn world know what I’m doing to her.
“Oh my God,” she gasps, voice cracking. “Oh—Kostya, I—fuck?—”
I don’t let her finish. I suck her clit between my lips, tongue flicking mercilessly, and she shatters with a sharp cry that echoes off the stone walls. Her whole body convulses, thighs clamping around my head like a vise, muscles fluttering against my tongue as she comes hard.
The rush of fresh wetness coats my mouth, and I keep licking through it, dragging every last spasm out of her until she’s whimpering, oversensitive, trying to squirm away from the relentless pressure.
Only then do I ease her down. Her legs wobble like a newborn foal’s, knees buckling, and I steady her with one arm while the taste of her still burns on my tongue.
Maxim is already there, that easy grin splitting his face even as his eyes burn dark with the same need clawing at me. He grabs her, spins her into his chest, and kisses her before she can suck in a full breath.
She melts against him instantly, a soft, needy sound vibrating between them as she wraps her legs around his waist. He lifts her, his hands cupping her bare ass, fingers sinking into the plush curves while he carries her inside.
The porch door bangs shut behind us, the cooler indoor air brushing over sweat-damp skin.
“Mine,” he murmurs against her swollen mouth, voice low and teasing even now.
“Yours,” she breathes back, the word breaking into a moan as he lays her out on the wide leather couch.
The fabric creaks under their weight. He undoes his belt with a metallic rasp that makes her pupils blow wide.
She watches him with those big green eyes—flushed, panting, lips parted and glossy, paint still smudged across one cheek like some filthy work of art.
Her chest heaves, nipples tight and begging, thighs slick and spread.
He lines up and drives into her in one smooth, relentless thrust. The wet sound of it punches the air from my lungs. She moans loud, back arching clean off the cushions, her small hands clawing at his shoulders hard enough to leave crescents in his skin.
He fucks her slow at first, letting her feel every inch stretching her, then harder, hips snapping forward until the slap of skin on skin fills the room and she’s crying out with every deep stroke.
“That’s it, solnyshko,” he murmurs, voice rough around the edges despite the charm. “Let me hear you. Every fucking sound.”
She comes again, fast and desperate, her whole body seizing up, inner walls clamping down around him so tight I can see the strain in his jaw.
A broken sob tears from her throat as her eyes squeeze shut, tears clinging to her lashes.
He follows right after, burying himself to the hilt and groaning her name into the curve of her neck, hips jerking through the aftershocks while the scent of sex and sweat thickens around us.
He pulls out slowly, a thick trail of their combined release leaking down her thigh. Kisses her forehead with surprising gentleness. Then steps aside.
Lev moves in.
He doesn’t say a word. Just stands over her, gaze dragging over every inch—paint-smudged, thoroughly fucked, trembling and glistening—and something raw flickers across his face.
Something almost soft. Something I’ve only ever seen him wear when he looks at her.
It makes my chest tighten in ways I don’t want to examine.
He leans down and kisses her. Gentle this time. Slow. Like he’s memorizing the taste of her surrender.
"I'm so glad to be home," he says, the words low against her lips.
She smiles against his mouth, soft and sated, her fingers threading through his dark-blond hair. "Me too."
And I believe her.