Chapter 2 #2
Since her death, I have trusted few. Every betrayal since has taught me to suspect coincidence and see traps where others see chance.
The Yegorov family, who smiled at my mother's funeral while plotting to steal our Seattle operations. The Gusev cousins, who swore loyalty while selling information to federal agencies. My own second cousin Boris, who tried to convince my father that I lacked the ruthlessness to lead. Each lesson cost blood. Each mistake taught me to question everything and assume deception until proven otherwise. Which is why I know Sage didn’t stumble into my path without reason.
I should leave. Walk out, call Vega back, and let her disappear into the anonymity she clearly craves. But I stay because something about her unsettles me, and I need to know why.
The bell above the door jingles as a new wave of tourists flood in, their laughter bright and grating.
A family with teenagers immediately starts complaining about the lack of Wi-Fi.
An older couple want to know if the café has sugar-free syrups and oat milk.
A group of women in their thirties order complicated drinks while discussing their weekend plans, which include visiting hot springs and antique shops.
I watch Sage move among them, calm and capable.
She belongs to this place, to the crisp mountain air and cinnamon-scented mornings.
Yet when she finally circles back toward the counter where her phone lies, she dares another look at me.
The flush has faded from her cheeks, but the wariness remains.
She knows I’m not a typical customer. Something about my presence disturbs the peace she has built for herself in this small corner of the world.
“Your dog has questionable loyalty,” she mutters, her voice low but clear enough for me to hear.
The words are directed at Vega, but her eyes remain fixed on mine. A challenge wrapped in observation. She wants me to know she isn’t intimidated, even though she should be.
I arch a brow. “Or excellent taste.”
Her eyes narrow and the flush in her cheeks reappears. “You think that's charming?”
“I do not think. I know.”
She huffs, turning away to pour another drink. Her hands move quickly, though the redness still stains her throat. I rattled her. Good. She should know I don’t play games.
The espresso machine hisses as she works, creating the soundtrack that probably fills her days.
Steam and grinding beans, and the gentle clink of ceramic against ceramic.
Peaceful sounds that belong to a quiet life.
The existence my mother might have chosen if she had not fallen in love with a man who commanded the Bratva and collected debts in blood.
Still, when I see Vega lean into her touch as she absently scratches his ear, something hot stirs in my chest. He is rarely this gentle with strangers.
At home, he tolerates the household staff but shows affection only to immediate family.
His trainer warned me that German shepherds choose their pack carefully, and loyalty cannot be forced or bought.
Yet he has chosen her. And I wonder if he senses what I do, that this woman matters.
The thought should alarm me. I’ve spent years building walls and creating distance between myself and anyone who might become a weakness.
Emotions are liabilities in my world. Love is a target painted on everything you value.
But as I watch Sage move through her morning routine, serving coffee, deflecting tourist questions, and pretending I don’t exist, I feel something crack in the defenses I have constructed. Not breaking but definitely splintering. Like ice beginning to thaw under unexpected warmth.
I rise at last, my chair scraping back against the floor.
Conversations falter as I cross the café.
My height, my suit, and my silence all announce me before I ever utter a word.
The businessman glances up from his laptop.
The mothers pause their discussion of soccer schedules.
Even the teenagers stop complaining about the Wi-Fi long enough to stare.
Sage notices. Her hands still on the counter as I stop in front of her, close enough to smell her shampoo beneath the coffee and cinnamon. Something light and floral that reminds me of the gardens my mother tended when I was young.
“You should be more careful with your messages,” I murmur, tilting my phone so she can see the thread open on my screen.
Her breath hitches, just for a second, before she steadies herself. “Delete it.”
“No.”
“It wasn’t meant for you,” she insists.
“You already sent it to me.”
“That was yesterday,” she snaps through clenched teeth.
“And today,” I murmur, leaning closer, “you are still mine to read.”
The words escape before I can stop them, carrying more truth than I realized. She is mine to read, study, and understand.
Her chest rises quickly, indignation tightening every line of her body. “I don't belong to you.”
“Not yet,” I reply matter-of-factly.
Her hand tightens on the portafilter, her knuckles white. “You're unbelievable.”
I smile faintly. “So, I have been told.”
The expression is not one I wear often. Smiles suggest warmth and approachability. But something about her fury brings it out of me, this small curve of my lips that feels foreign and surprisingly comfortable at the same time.
Silence lingers between us, drawn tight like a violin string ready to snap.
The café continues around us, but we exist in our own bubble of tension and possibility.
She breaks it first, slamming the metal portafilter into place and starting the machine.
Steam hisses, filling the air with white clouds.
I let the moment hang, then reach down to call Vega.
He obeys, reluctantly leaving her side to return to his place at my feet.
My hand brushes over his head as I straighten, feeling the familiar texture of his thick coat beneath my fingers.
He leans into the touch briefly before resuming his alert posture.
“I will see you again, printsessa,” I tell her. It’s not a promise, it’s a fact.
The endearment slips out in Russian, soft and intimate in a way that makes her eyes widen. She hears the possession in it, the certainty, and the hint of something darker and more complex than simple attraction.
I turn on my heels and leave.
Outside, the air is sharp with pine and smoke, the aspens blazing gold in the afternoon sun.
Tourists bustle past, but I move through them quickly.
My mind is already elsewhere, circling her.
The café door is at my back, yet I feel the pull as if an invisible thread ties me to the woman inside.
She thinks she can slam her portafilter, snap her words, and banish me from her world.
She is wrong. Whether she admits it yet or not, she has already stepped into mine.