Chapter 3 Off-Limits
Off-Limits
—Maksym—
Iwoke up early, rested, steady. No dreams, no guilt, no twitch in the hands—just that familiar, heavy stillness that always followed a clean job.
I trained first. The mat was laid out as always, the space quiet and focused.
The pull-up bar was bolted into the wall with exact precision, the free weights lined in perfect order.
The leather punching bag swung under my fists with satisfying resistance.
I didn’t need a fancy gym. Just a place where I could sweat and burn and feel every inch of control press back into my muscles.
By the time I finished, my shirt was soaked through and my arms hummed with fatigue. I got in the shower—hot, fast, like ripping off a bandage. No indulgence. Just a scrub-down and the comfort of feeling like myself again.
After the shower, I kept the routine moving. I ground beans into powder and let the coffee drip—black as ink. I cooked eggs, seared sausage, buttered thick bread. I was halfway through my plate when the news came on.
“...the body of what appears to be Alexey Ostapenko, a mid-ranking officer in Kyiv’s anti-smuggling division, was found in his apartment early this morning.”
I took another bite of sausage.
“The body was reportedly disfigured beyond recognition. No signs of forced entry. No known suspects at this time.”
The anchor didn’t blink. Just read the cue card like it was weather.
“The incident has sparked quiet concern in law enforcement circles, though official statements have not yet been released.”
That was more than enough.
I turned the volume down and kept eating.
This wasn’t just a report.
It was a warning.
Now the whole country knew exactly what happened to men who got too curious.
And more importantly, they knew who’d done it.
The Reaper had a new employer.
Istarted working for Pakhan officially that week.
There wasn’t any ceremony, no warm welcome or raised glasses. Just a stack of new folders on the desk, more names to learn, more instructions to follow.
I never expected praise—not from a man like him, and not in this world. I didn’t need it anyway. What I needed was motion. Purpose. The next task to sink my teeth into.
The jobs started coming quickly.
Collecting debts from a crooked MP hiding cash in his grandmother’s name.
Dragging a former enforcer out of a poker den after he thought he could run his own side hustle on Pakhan’s turf.
He cried for mercy—I gave him a dislocated jaw.
And more shit to deal with—always more. A never-ending to-do list written in blood and fear.
Pakhan gave me men when I needed them—never questioned how many. Some were young and too eager, others were older, worn down, and tired of bleeding for someone else’s power. None of them spoke to me unless they had to.
They were afraid.
Whether it was my face, my reputation, or the way I could crack a joke one minute and slit a throat the next—no one ever quite knew what to expect from me. And that uncertainty was its own kind of power. They followed my lead like dogs trained not to question.
I never tried to be their friend. Brotherhood was a fairytale, best left to men who hadn’t seen what I had. Results—that’s what mattered. That’s what kept me alive.
But there was one person in that entire mansion who didn’t seem even remotely afraid of me.
Fucking Kira Sokolova.
Didn’t matter how I looked at her—dead-eyed, cold, ready to snap her neck—she’d still bat her lashes like I was just another toy for her spoiled little collection.
One morning, I was outside the mansion, smoking before a meeting with Pakhan. She was strutting to her car, all legs and attitude, probably on her way to school.
“You should ask my father to assign you as my bodyguard,” she said, pausing just long enough to smirk.
“I’d rather shoot myself.”
She grinned. “Fine. But only after we take a cute selfie together—my friends don’t believe you exist.”
I rolled my eyes, finished my cigarette, flicked it to the pavement, and walked off without another word.
Another time, I came back from a job at five in the damn morning—blood on my gloves, exhaustion in my bones. I handed a briefcase to one of Pakhan’s men in the kitchen and poured myself a black coffee.
Then her voice.
“You drink your coffee black?”
I didn’t turn around. “You shouldn’t be awake yet.”
She walked closer. I could hear it in the floorboards—barefoot.
“Neither should my attraction to emotionally unavailable assassins,” she said lightly. “And yet here we are.”
I glanced at her over my shoulder.
“Go back to bed.”
She ignored that completely, eyes dropping to my hands.
“You’re bleeding,” she observed, like she was commenting on the weather.
“Congratulations. You have eyes.”
She stepped closer anyway.
“Did you punch a wall?” she asked. “Or a man?”
“Kira.”
“I’m just narrowing it down.”
I took a sip of coffee.
She moved right into my space and caught my wrist before I could pull away.
Her thumb brushed over my knuckles.
“That’s going to swell,” she said. “You should ice it. Or—”
“Or what?”
Her mouth curved. “I could kiss it better.”
I stared at her.
She held my gaze, unbothered.
“It’s a legitimate medical method,” she said, her tone dipping into something unmistakably flirtatious. “Very nurturing.”
My patience snapped.
I caught her hand and pressed it flat against the counter. Not hard. Just enough.
She inhaled sharply.
“Don’t,” I said quietly.
Her pulse jumped under my grip. She didn’t pull away.
“Don’t what?” she asked.
There was a spark in her eyes now.
“Offer first aid?” she tilted her head. “You’re kind of rude for someone dripping on my kitchen.”
I leaned closer.
“Careful who you try to provoke.”
Her mouth twitched.
“Relax,” she said. “I don’t scare that easily.”
Her fingers flexed under my hand like she was testing my grip instead of resisting it.
“That’s a strong grip for a man who claims he’s not interested,” she said sweetly.
For half a second, neither of us moved.
Then I released her.
“Go back to bed.”
She rubbed her wrist like she was considering something.
“You should probably nap,” she concluded. “You’re cranky.”
She walked out like she hadn’t just tested every line in the room.
And she wasn’t done. Never was. Every time I thought I could ignore her, she found a new way to get under my skin—another bold comment, another look, another smart-ass line. Like it was a game she was determined to win. Like my silence only dared her to push further.
She was insufferable.
And clever.
And too goddamn tempting for someone who was supposed to be off-limits.
But mostly, she pissed me off.
A couple of weeks after that 5 a.m. kitchen ambush, I had a job at one of those overpriced nightclubs where rich kids blew money to feel important and poor kids blew money trying to look rich.
Neon lights pulsed like seizures, velvet ropes snaked through the entrance, and bass rattled the floors hard enough to fake a heartbeat.
Vodka and perfume hung heavy in the air, but it was the scent of craving—money, power, attention—that really choked you.
The owner had fallen behind on his payments—again. Rumor was, he thought his connections made him untouchable. Pakhan didn’t like rumors like that. My job was to remind the man whose city this was.
It didn’t take long. A brief conversation in the back office, a few cold threats, and the money was in my jacket pocket. Done.
I was heading out when I saw her.
Of course she was fucking here.
Perched in one of the VIP booths above the dance floor, legs crossed, drink in hand, dress so short it didn’t look legal.
Like she wanted every man in the room to want her—and every woman to hate her for it.
Her laugh was bright, detached—like she wasn’t the daughter of the most dangerous man in Ukraine.
Of all the fucking places.
My night was already shit. Now it was worse.
I stood by the edge of the crowd, watching her like a problem I didn’t want but couldn’t ignore.
She was grinding on some slick-haired trust fund clown, throwing her head back like nothing mattered.
My jaw clenched. I shouldn’t have cared.
I didn’t. But the way that dress hugged her ass, the way her legs wrapped around that boy’s thigh like she’d done it a hundred times—fuck.
She was reckless. Insufferable. Tempting in all the wrong ways.
And it made me want to throw that idiot over the railing and drag her out by the hair.
Every inch of me screamed to walk away. Let her choke on the mess she made. But if something happened to her—and I’d been here, seen her, and left?
Pakhan wouldn’t care what I did. He’d put a bullet in my skull before anyone asked a question.
I muttered a curse under my breath and started moving.
Everyone in the club knew who I was. No one stopped me. Not the bouncers, not the bartenders, not even the big guy guarding the VIP area. I unlatched the little rope like it was nothing and climbed the steps.
She saw me the second I got close. Smirked like she’d won something.
“Came to dance, Reaper?”
I ignored the sass. “What the hell are you doing here?”
She shrugged, like it was no big deal. “Having a good time. Dancing. Existing.”
I glanced down at her—legs bare, skin glowing in the low lights, body moving like sin itself. The kind of sight that made men do stupid things. And I wasn’t immune.
“If your father finds out—”
“Relax.” She cut me off, rolling her eyes. “My mother’s high. She said I could go.”
“You’re coming with me.”
She took a sip of her drink, unbothered. “I’m not done. Still drinking. Still dancing.”
“You’re done now.”
“What are you, my babysitter?”
“Your father finds out I saw you grinding on frat trash and didn’t intervene? He won’t ask questions—he’ll just start digging my grave. Is that clear enough for your pretty little brain?”
Her smile widened. “What if I don’t go?”
I stared at her, jaw tight. “Don’t test me tonight, Malaya. Wrap it up—we’re leaving.”