7. Power Plays and Pominki
Power Plays and Pominki
Zhenya Romanov
Why did the worst things always happen the moment I turned my back?The last time, Vladimir had slipped aphrodisiac into his drink. This time… I had left him alone for less than two minutes.
Two minutes. That was all it took for Mikhail to whisper whatever poison was required to make him draw a blade at his own grandmother’s funeral.
Mother truly possessed immaculate timing.
I had promised myself I wouldn’t leave his side—not today, not after everything.
It was brutal enough watching him navigate the service, unable to mourn properly.
He had stood through the funeral of the only woman who had ever truly kept him safe, yet he wasn’t really there. He was present, but impossibly distant.
Yet when Mother asked for a word, I couldn’t simply ignore her.
She wanted to confirm that White Manor was prepared for the pominki.
Every arrangement was complete; the staff had arrived before dawn, the dining hall was set, and the family would be escorted there directly from the cemetery.
She added that Pavel hadn’t reached St. Joseph’s in time, sending word that he would go straight to the manor instead to see Nikolai after the burial.
She was wrapping up the final details when my gaze drifted back toward the plot.
Mikhail. Standing right beside him.
My stomach dropped. Everyone in our family understood one fundamental truth: neither Romanov twin ever approached anyone with good intentions.
Before I could even excuse myself, I saw Fyodor reach inside his coat. Something small glinted briefly in his grip.
A knife.
Mikhail had already turned to leave, and Fyodor was closing the gap behind him.
I didn’t hear another word Mother said. I moved across the snow-covered ground before my mind could even process the impulse, driven by a single, desperate thought: don’t let him do this. Because if that blade found Mikhail’s back, it wouldn’t just end Mikhail.
It would completely destroy Nikolai.
As my palm closed tightly around the raw steel, the first thing I checked wasn’t the cut on my hand. It was his face.
Had he been crying? Had Mikhail managed to cut that deep?
I searched his features for the sharp edge of anger. I searched for pure rage.
Instead, all I found was a vast, quiet grief.
Not Fyodor’s grief.
Nikolai’s.
The blade slipped from his fingers, striking the frozen ground with a dull metallic clink.
For a heartbeat, he simply stared—at my hand, and at the blood running steadily over my fingers. Then his breathing shifted. The anger evaporated so completely it frightened me, his eyes widening and unfocusing for a second before settling back on my face.
“…Zhenya?”
It was barely a whisper, but something inside me came to a dead stop.
Nikolai.
He looked from my face to my hand, his expression crumpling. “No…” His voice cracked, high and fragile. “No, no…”
He stumbled forward, catching my injured hand between both of his as though he could stop the bleeding through sheer panic. “What happened? What… why are you bleeding?”
Then his gaze dropped to the knife lying in the snow, his shoulders stiffening as he looked back at me, then down at his own empty hand. Understanding arrived piece by piece—slowly, horribly.
“I…” His lips trembled, his head shaking as he took another frantic step closer. “I’m sorry… I didn’t… I don’t know why—”
The tears hit him without warning—not quiet or restrained, but the kind of violent sob that seized his entire body. He covered his mouth with a shaking hand, unable to stem the tide.
“I’m sorry…”
It was all he could say, repeating it like a mantra. Only then did the reality truly settle in: Nikolai was back.
I closed the distance between us and pulled him against me before he could retreat, holding him hard, almost desperately.
He buried his face into my shoulder, still whispering broken apologies against my coat.
I didn’t care—not about the blood, the knife, or the dozens of eyes fixed on us from across the cemetery.
He was here. For one impossible moment, he was finally here.
“My boy…” The words escaped before I even realized I’d spoken them.
His grip on my coat tightened. “I’m sorry…”
“I know.”
“You got hurt—”
“Hey don’t blame yourself.”
“I’m sorry…”
“I know you are.”
“Zhenya.”
Mother’s voice cut quietly through the fog behind us.
I turned just enough to face her. She had already produced a white linen handkerchief, pressing it into my uninjured hand.
Her expression remained impeccably composed, though her eyes lingered on Nikolai, then on the blood pooling over my fingers.
“People are beginning to stare,” she said softly. “This isn’t the place.”
She was right. The cemetery had fallen nearly silent, every conversation dead, every pair of eyes locked on us.
“Take him somewhere quiet,” she continued smoothly. “I’ll handle the guests.”
I nodded once, keeping my arm firmly around Nikolai as I guided him toward the waiting sedans. Several paces back, Lev had already cleared the security detail to give us space, ensuring no one crowded the path.
Just before we reached the car, something pulled my gaze back toward the plot.
Mikhail hadn’t moved. He stood beside the fresh earth, watching us, and then very slowly—the corner of his mouth lifted into a smile. It was small enough that anyone else would have missed it entirely, but I didn’t.
And in that instant, I understood: everything that had just happened was precisely what he’d intended.
* * *
The cemetery had long faded behind us before either of us spoke.
Our convoy remained parked beneath a line of bare, winter-stripped trees overlooking the road. Lev had quietly ushered the rest of the detail back into their respective vehicles, leaving the two of us alone in the quiet cabin of the sedan.
I opened the center console between the rear seats and pulled out the first-aid kit.
Nikolai watched me without a word. Biting the cap off the antiseptic bottle with my teeth, I poured it directly over the open slice in my palm.
It stung sharply—a good sign. Pain meant the blade hadn’t severed any tendons.
“You should let someone else do that,” Nikolai murmured.
“I’ve had worse.”
I cleaned the wound once more before wrapping the bandage around my hand.
His brows drew together as he watched. “You’ve done this before?”
“Frequently.”
He tilted his head slightly. “You know how to treat wounds?”
I secured the final strip of tape in place. “I’m not the Chief Executive Officer of Romanov Pharmaceuticals for nothing.”
For a second, he laughed—a real, soft sound, still slightly damp from crying, but unmistakably Nikolai.
I looked up at him, and despite myself, felt a smile touch my lips.
He caught it instantly. “There it is.”
“What?”
“That smile.”
“I wasn’t smiling.”
“You were.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You definitely were.”
“I believe you’re confusing me with someone far more expressive.”
That earned another small laugh. God, I had missed that sound.
I snapped the kit shut, set it aside, and reached over to pull him back into my arms. This time he came willingly—no hesitation or stiffness. He wrapped both arms quietly around my waist, resting his forehead against my shoulder.
Neither of us said anything as the minutes drifted past. Outside, the convoy remained completely motionless.
Eventually, his voice rose softly against my coat. “…Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
“I do.”
A pause. “Then why are you still here?”
I rested my chin lightly against his dark hair. “I’ve been away from you for seven days.”
“What?”
“I’m collecting what those seven days owed me.”
After another long moment, I finally loosened my hold. “I have to go to the White Manor.”
“The memorial feast?”
I nodded. “The pominki.”
“I’ll come.”
“You won’t.”
His faint smile vanished. “…Why?”
“Because today has already asked enough of you.”
“I don’t want to sit alone.”
“You won’t.” When he looked up at me questioningly, I added, “We’ll have our own.”
“Our own?”
“When I come home.” The word slipped out before I could stop to filter it. Home. Not the penthouse—home. “We’ll remember her properly. Just us.”
He lowered his eyes. “I’d like that.”
“So would I.”
I knocked twice against the tinted glass, and Lev opened the rear door almost immediately. “Sir.”
“Take him back to the penthouse.”
Lev nodded. “And Pavel?”
“Pick him up before you head back.”
“To the manor?”
“To the penthouse.”
Lev’s brows lifted almost imperceptibly, catching the quiet order.
“Nikolai shouldn’t spend the afternoon alone,” I added.
“Understood.” Lev stepped back to give him room to climb out.
Nikolai reached the open door, then paused. He turned back toward me, his hand resting on the frame.
“…Zhenya?”
“Yes?”
“I missed you.”
Simple. Honest. The words hit harder than they had any right to.
I almost smiled again—almost—until my eyes shifted past him to Lev. The man had turned slightly out of courtesy, but a blatant, amused grin was tugging at his mouth, as though he had just witnessed the impossible: the feared Romanov heir left speechless because someone told him I missed you.
I pinned him with a look. “Lev.”
His posture straightened instantly. “Sir.”
“If you have commentary,” I said, buttoning my coat with my uninjured hand, “now would be a particularly unfortunate time.”
Lev cleared his throat with remarkable professional restraint. “None whatsoever, sir.”
“Good.”
Nikolai’s soft laugh echoed as Lev escorted him toward the second vehicle. I waited until his door clicked safely shut before stepping into the lead car bound for White Manor.
The softness left my face the moment I settled into the leather seat. It had to.
The next few hours wouldn’t be played with tenderness; it would be played with Romanovs.
* * *
The gates of White Manor parted as my car rolled through, passing a long line of black sedans already parked along the circular drive.
Guests were arriving in steady waves, greeted by household staff moving between the main entrance in practiced, quiet coordination, all draped in black.