27. Wendell
Oksana doesn’t bother looking up when I enter.
She’s seated behind her desk, one leg crossed over the other, a glass of deep red wine cradled loosely in her fingers. The room smells faintly of smoke and something floral—expensive, another performance. Power, bottled and perfumed.
She takes a slow sip before speaking, as if I am an afterthought.
“Well?” she asks.
I school my expression, burying the familiar spike of irritation. Being summoned like this, called instead of invited, sets my teeth on edge. I am not her errand boy. I am not her hound. Not for much longer.
Soon—very soon—everyone will remember who I’m meant to be. Even her.
I slide my hands into my pockets, grounding myself. “I had a promising meeting with the prince of North Sosova,” I tell her. “Someone with interests of their own.”
Her eyes flick up then, sharp and assessing. “And Zurdonia?”
I shake my head once. “Nothing yet.”
She exhales slowly, exaggerated, her lips thinning as she studies the wine in her glass. Disappointment radiates off her in waves. “Unfortunate,” she murmurs. Another sip. “We can’t afford the possibility that one of them talked.”
The words settle heavily between us.
I lift a brow. “Are you suggesting what I think you are?”
She smiles.
It’s a small thing, just the barest curve of her lips, but it’s enough to make something cold slide down my spine. She sets the glass on her desk with deliberate precision, the crystal clicking softly against the polished wood.
“You don’t become feared,” she purrs lightly, “by leaving loose ends.”
I consider that, watching the wine tremble once in the glass before going still. “And if they remain silent?” I ask. “All the way to the end?”
Oksana leans forward, elbows resting on the desk now, her gaze bright and merciless. “Then they should have succeeded,” she replies. “And we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
She presses a button on the intercom. “Send him in.”
The door opens moments later. Her second enters, head bowed, posture obedient. He doesn’t look at me. Smart man.
“What can I do for you?” he asks.
“Eliminate the leverage,” Oksana orders without hesitation. “Consider it punishment for failure.”
He bows again. “It will be done.”
She waves him away, already dismissing his existence. The door shuts sharply behind him, sealing the fate she’s just pronounced.
I study her for a moment, the way her fingers stilled around the glass, the way her attention sharpens when she thinks she’s finished speaking.
“And Ivan,” I broach carefully. “Are you going to tell me why all of this is meant to avenge him?”
Her gaze flicks up, cool and dismissive. “No.” The answer is immediate. Final. “That isn’t for you to know.”
I don’t move. Don’t flinch. “I’ve proven myself.”
Her brow lifts, unimpressed. “Have you?” she asks, glancing toward the door, the one her second disappeared through moments ago. “My men failed to bring me what I wanted.”
A spark of irritation flares. I let it show this time. “Your men,” I correct. “I got them into Zurdonia. I gave them time. I did my part.”
The silence that follows is taut and testing.
Then she smirks.
It’s slow, thoughtful, almost indulgent, as if she’s turning my words over like a coin between her fingers. She exhales, settling back into her chair, and for the first time there’s something rigid in her posture, something barely contained.
“Do you remember,” she says, voice even, “how it felt when the Markova line was chosen to lead?”
My jaw tightens. Of course I remember. The story passed down to every Popova family member. The hollowing realization that lineage meant nothing when power decided otherwise.
“They chose him,” she continues, “over those who were smarter. Stronger. More capable.”
I give a curt nod.
Her hand tightens on the armrest. When she speaks again, the composure is there, but beneath it, something sharper coils.
“Ivan was my father,” she discloses. “And still, he chose Alyssa. Always Alyssa.”
The words are clipped, each one carefully controlled. Anger hums beneath them, old and festering.
“That,” she continues, eyes burning now, “is why I’m doing this. For once, no one will take my place. I will be at the top.” She holds my gaze. “And I will remain there.”
Something settles in my chest, cold, satisfied.
At last, I understand what drives her.
I shift my weight. “What’s next?”
Oksana doesn’t answer immediately. One finger lifts, tracing the rim of her glass in a slow, thoughtful circle. The motion is almost hypnotic.
“We continue,” she tells me at last. “Zurdonia still burns until there is nothing left.”
My jaw tightens, but I remain silent.
“There’s something beneath that field,” she adds, eyes finally meeting mine.
“And I need it.” Her gaze sharpens, intent narrowing like a blade finding its mark.
“No one knows Zurdonia the way you do. Every weakness. Every secret path.” She pauses in that infuriating way that makes me want to put my fist through a wall. “You’re going to help me get it.”
The corner of my mouth lifts slightly.
After all, I’ve always known how this would end.