Chapter 7
Ekaterina
I manage to keep my cold and indifferent mask in place until the moment Voron closes the bathroom door behind him.
The second he does, my legs give out and I drop to the floor, my hands trembling in my lap. My eyes sting, and a wave of tears threatens to flood my vision while I struggle to breathe past the knot in my throat.
Fear has embedded itself in my body, mixed with a strange sensation that makes my blood boil through frozen veins. It is a feeling I do not recognize, and it frightens me just as much as Pakhan’s threats.
My father always warned me that my sharp tongue would cost me my life one day, but in that regard, I take after my mother. He often repeated that if cancer had not taken her five years ago, there would have come a day when she drove some Pakhan insane, making him lose control because of her.
Her answer, whenever my father warned her, was always, “Not if I kill him first.”
And that is exactly why my mother was the kind of woman I admired and loved from all my heart.
Now neither of them is by my side.
Instead, I am trapped in the house of one of the most dangerous men I know.
Not only in his house, but in his bedroom.
By the time I hear the shower turn off, I manage to calm down a little. More importantly, I manage to put the mask of indifference back on my face.
I wipe away the traces of the tears that escaped my control and get up from the floor, this time settling into an armchair in the corner of the bedroom.
The light around me is bright, but I feel as if I am sitting in darkness, like a small child lost in a world she once trusted, trapped in a corner of hell where other people’s blood is worn proudly on thousand-euro suits and almost angelic faces.
If I knew nothing about him, I would have said some child had played a terrible prank on him and splashed him with red paint. But there is nothing innocent about this man, and children are surely taught to stay far away from him.
Baba Yaga.
The bathroom door suddenly opens, making my heart jump again. But my fear is replaced by the dangerous heat I felt the first time I met him.
The major problem is that now my eyes trace every perfectly defined muscle and every tattoo loaded with more meaning than any mere mortal could imagine.
But I was raised in the Bratva, so I know the black stars on his shoulders signify supreme authority.
Once, they were the symbol of the Vor, but for many years now, some very powerful Pakhans have adopted them too.
Then there is the cracked crown tattooed over his chest, which means his power was earned, not inherited, while on the other side of his torso there is a cross.
Along his ribs, a highly detailed raven looks like a personification of the man himself.
Every design carries a powerful meaning, meant to send a direct message to those who see them and are not allowed to ask what they mean. You never ask a Pakhan what his tattoos represent, just as you will never see skulls, famous quotes, or meaningless drawings on his body.
A Pakhan’s body is a lethal declaration.
And the one standing in front of me now, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, cannot help but make my blood heat with the way he looks.
I must admit he is the most beautiful man I have ever seen, even if he has the power to kill me in a second, without anyone ever finding my body again.
Of course, this monster is perfect from head to toe, from his black, wet, tousled hair, which looks as if it was styled to fall that way, to his long, powerful legs.
Why does the bastard have to look this good?
“How long do I have to stay in here?”
He places his palms on his hips, making him look even larger in front of me, and that is exactly why I feel the need to stand. I have no chance of matching his height, not even in my high-heeled stiletto, but at least I no longer feel quite so small.
“Until you learn some respect,” his reply is calm, but harsh.
“Are you serious? I’m not a little child.”
“All the more reason for you to know how a Pakhan should be treated. Or any man in Bratva who has the power to kill you in an instant.”
“No one has the power to kill me,” I say with a touch of pride, not arrogance, knowing my father’s reputation protects me from most of the madmen in the mafia.
Most of them.
“They don’t have the right to do it. But they do have the power. Anyone can do it with a gun or a knife.”
He advances toward me, stopping only a few inches away.
“Or with his own hands, wrapped tightly around your throat, while you can do nothing to stop him.”
The words are spoken slowly, making the air harder for me to breathe, while his bare body radiates a heat that ignites every cell in mine.
My lips are dry.
“I did do something about it. I left Bratva behind.”
He watches me with intensity for a moment before deciding to speak again.
“You cannot leave Bratva behind, unless you are dead, Ekaterina. And you look very much alive to me. For now.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he turns his back and walks toward a set of sliding doors, opening them to reveal a walk-in closet almost as large as the bedroom.
“We all die someday, don’t we?” he calls from inside.
I move toward him to confront him, but the moment I reach the doorway, the towel drops at his feet, revealing a muscular, perfectly rounded ass.
Oh, fuck!
Since when am I fascinated by a man’s ass?
Does even that part of him have to look so good?
I don’t even want to think about what he looks like from the front...
“If you want to see more, then stay exactly where you are.”
In all his splendor, he turns toward me, and my reaction is to immediately spin around with my back to him.
But I do it one second too late, which gives me the chance to see the shape of a perfect cock, long and thick enough to satisfy every erotic fantasy.
I swallow past the dryness in my throat.
And why was he hard?
Oh my God! I must have lost my mind if I am thinking about things like that!
I am a woman getting married in less than a month, and I am staring at the body of a monster who keeps reminding me he has the power to kill me?
With quick steps, I return to my armchair, where this time I prefer to make myself small, especially because I can swear I hear him laughing.
I didn’t know he could laugh, so there is a very good chance I am hallucinating.
By the time he returns to the bedroom, fully dressed in another impeccable three-piece suit, I am lecturing myself about everything that has happened since I walked into his room.
What madness pushed me to play with him on his own territory?
I fell into my own trap, and that proved he is an opponent worthy of his reputation.
And for the first time, I want the time before the wedding to pass faster, just so I can escape the presence of the man who gestures for me to step through the door he politely opens for me.
Fortunately, dinner is more relaxed thanks to his brothers.
More precisely, the youngest, who seems like the most cheerful and relaxed of the three.
Yaroslav has inherited the same solemn expression as his middle brother, but at least he can ask civilized questions, and I do not think he is quite as eager with death threats.
Who am I kidding?
I have heard too many horrific things about them to be convinced that even Sasha’s bright smile hides a lethal dose of madness.
Like a respectful guest that I was reminded to be, of course, I say nothing.
I prefer to enter their pleasant little masquerade and remember myself the reason we are all sitting at this table: because our fathers made an agreement.
To sell my soul to a man I will never love, even if he seems to have developed some love for me.
“Katya, why aren’t you wearing your engagement ring? Is it ugly?”
The award for most talkative dinner member goes to... Sasha!
At least he is trying to break the silence floating around the table full of delicious food, even though his question makes me feel a little awkward.
But his oldest brother’s deep voice cuts in right away, scolding him.
“Aleksandr.”
“I was just curious,” he defends himself with an innocent look.
“It’s fine,” I tell Yaroslav with a comforting smile, then look back at the youngest brother. “It’s not ugly. It’s just too big, and it bothers me when I play the piano, so I decided not to wear it for now.”
A brief silence falls before he asks another question.
“How did your passion for piano begin?”
This is an easy one.
“I was six when my father brought me a piano.”
“And you loved it so much you started lessons?”
I stop moving my fork through my food and take one extra second to decide whether to tell the truth or not.
“I didn’t like it at all at first, and I hated the teacher,” I admit without sugarcoating it.
He looks at me, confused, but he is not the only one. Apparently, my answer makes all of them stop eating and look at me while they wait for an explanation.
“It was the image my father wanted for me. A princess must know how to play the piano and be graceful like a ballerina,” I add, deepening my voice just enough to imitate, rather poorly, my father’s deep tone.
I shrug and force a smile in their direction, especially Artem’s.
“In the end, isn’t that what we all do? Follow our fathers’ orders?”
My question does not seek an answer, which is exactly why silence settles between us again.
Until Pakhan himself decides to speak for the first time since we walked down the stairs together and sat at the table.
Him at the head of the long table, Yar and Sasha on the right side, and me in the chair to his left.
“Not exactly,” he says, lightly chewing a small piece of asparagus.
His gaze settles on my questioning face as he explains.
“You probably know, just like everyone else, that our father’s wish was for us to remain in Moscow and rule the city together.”
Of course, I know that detail, but there is no point exposing the information I possess, information that could cost me my life in certain situations.
“And before that point?” I ask, my eyes still locked on his glacial gray one, which I now notice carries a faint shade of blue. “Your father introduced you to this lifestyle without offering you any other options.”
He does not blink, but he continues to study me until the corner of his mouth lifts very slightly in a smile that actually appears sincere.
“You are perfectly right about that. Our father had great influence, but he did not force us. He simply knew his sons would never take up fencing or play on computers the way others our age did. Sometimes I think he would have wanted us to be that way. Unfortunately for him,
his sons were born hungry for blood and screams of pain. And he gave us exactly the method through which we could do what we wanted.”
His confession frightens me as much as it fascinates me.
Not only does he confirm that he and his brothers were born to be the monsters people whisper about in fear, but he does it with a natural honesty that disarms me.
Artem Voron does not say much. But when he does, he certainly knows how to leave you speechless.