35. Wendell
Aknock lands against the office door, measured, confident, not the fumbling tap of someone unsure of their place. I don’t turn toward it. I stay where I am, seated across from Oksana’s desk, letting the silence stretch a fraction longer than polite.
She’s kept me here for nearly twenty minutes.
Not waiting, no, she doesn’t wait for anyone, but circling. Probing. Each question is placed carefully, like stepping stones across a river she expects me to slip into. What happened in the cave. How I survived Alexei and his men. What I felt. What I took.
What I became.
I give her enough so she will stop asking questions.
A fracture of truth, polished until it reflects exactly what she wants to see. I have the ability to control earth elements. Instinctive, but unstable. Useful, but limited. A gift, not a weapon.
Not as useful as the throne she currently sits upon.
Her eyes, sharp, tireless, study me as if she can peel back skin and bone and find what I’ve buried underneath. She suspects. Of course she does. A woman like her doesn’t build an empire by believing in coincidences.
But suspicion isn’t proof. And I don’t deal in proof.
“Come in,” Oksana calls, finally, her voice smooth as cut glass.
The door opens, and her second in command steps in, precise, efficient, the kind of man who measures his breath against her expectations. He doesn’t look at me. He never has. I’m a tool in his mind. A temporary one.
He leans in close, murmuring into her ear.
I don’t catch every word, but I don’t need to.
The plane. They’ve landed.
That’s enough.
The corner of her mouth lifts, not a smile, not yet, but the promise of one. Satisfaction flickers across her face like a shadow passing over flame. She doesn’t react any further. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t betray urgency.
Instead, she lifts a single finger and points toward the door.
Dismissed.
He straightens immediately, stepping back with quiet obedience, and exits without another word. The door clicks shut behind him, sealing the room again.
Leaving us alone.
My gaze drifts to hers, slow and calculated. I let tension creep into my jaw, grinding my teeth enough to sell the performance. A man waiting. A man hoping.
A man beneath her.
Her nails drag lightly across the surface of her desk, tap, tap, tap, each movement unhurried, indulgent. She enjoys this. The control. The certainty.
“It appears our guests of honor have landed,” she informs at last.
I lift a brow, as if the thought has only just occurred to me. “As you said they would,” I reply, letting a hint of admiration slip into my tone. “You have a way of making people crawl.”
Her smile widens now; full, pleased, edged with something sharp enough to draw blood.
“And now they have,” she agrees. “And with your… new abilities, there’s no path left for them to win.”
If only she knew.
“Then we should celebrate when it’s over.” I let a smile answer hers, eager, almost boyish. The kind of smile men wear when they believe they’ve finally been chosen. “A toast,” I add, as if I haven’t already imagined the moment a dozen different ways.
She nods, pleased. “A toast.”
She leans forward, elbows brushing the desk, her grin widening enough to reveal the imperfection in her teeth, as is with everything in her home. Immaculate, clean, and perfect. It’s almost laughable against the myth she’s built around herself.
“And then,” she continues, voice lowering, “you will have your kingdom.”
For a moment, I say nothing.
I nod.
Because that’s what she expects. It’s what she thinks she’s giving me.
“We work well together,” she adds, studying me with renewed interest. Not suspicion this time, something else. Calculation shifting into possibility.
I feel it before she utters her next words.
Power recognizes power, even when it doesn’t fully understand it. She sees enough to be intrigued—but not enough to be afraid.
Not yet.
“We do,” I agree.
“Our partnership…” She tilts her head slightly, considering the shape of the future. “It could be… fruitful. Beyond this.”
There it is.
I let the pause linger long enough to suggest I’m weighing the offer. As if I haven’t already decided exactly how this ends.
“When I have my kingdom,” I start carefully, adjusting my tone into something agreeable but noncommittal, “it might be.”
Her eyes narrow a fraction. She catches the deflection, but she lets it pass. For now, the prize ahead is larger than the question.
“Shall we?” she asks.
I rise from my chair, smoothing my jacket down the front, pulling it straight before fastening the button at my stomach. The motion is practiced. Controlled. A ritual before something inevitable.
“Ending the Markova line is long overdue,” I remark, my voice steady, almost conversational.
But beneath it, something coils. Anticipation. Hunger. “I’m looking forward to finishing it.”
And when it’s over…
She’ll learn exactly what I brought back from that cave.