13. Rowan
ROWAN
The first blow comes directly at my left cheek.
I see it coming.
Ivan has never been a sloppy man. Not in politics, in punishment, and certainly not in violence. His hands have always moved with purpose, fast enough that most men on the other side of them would only register the pain after impact.
But I know him too well. I see the shift in his shoulder, the flex of his fingers, that slight turn of his body to make sure the strike lands with the full force of his anger and not merely the weakness of an injured man lashing out.
I could stop it.
That knowledge moves through me in the same instant his hand arcs toward my face.
I could catch his wrist or step back from it completely, turn my head enough to lessen the impact. Any half-trained man could, and I am far beyond that. My body knows a hundred ways to avoid getting hurt without thought.
But I don’t.
Pain detonates across my cheek with enough force to rattle my teeth and send me crashing to my knees on the floor at his feet.
The room lurches sideways, heat bursting behind my eyelids.
It is white hot and blinding, and for a second all sound narrows to the violent crack of his palm catching the other side of my face.
Blood fills my mouth, the coppery taste unfortunately familiar.
I don’t flinch, nor do I defend myself. I kneel and take it because Ivan has every right to punish me for disobeying him so blatantly. I have earned every single strike. Sometimes, loyalty demands blood to hold the line.
Ivan stands above me, breathing harder than before.
“Get up,” he tells me.
And so I do.
Another hit comes, then another, each one weaker than the last as Ivan’s healing body limits the strength behind them. But the emotional blow cuts deeper than any physical pain ever could.
I have been Ivan’s blade for fifteen years. His shadow. His weapon. His son in all but name. Never, not once, have I gone against his wishes intentionally. Until her. Until Sofia walked into this house and made me forget the only rule that has ever defined me.
When Ivan finally stops, he stands over me breathing hard and sways. For one dangerous second, I fear he may crash to the ground too, but he surprises me by staying upright.
His voice, when it comes again, is quiet. Almost gentle. “What has gotten into you?”
I have no answer.
Because I genuinely do not know.
I don’t understand why I let Sofia sway me today. Why her curiosity overrode my discipline and caused me to break the single iron law that has kept me alive and useful all these years.
Ivan steps forward, grabs a fistful of my hair, and uses it to force my head up so our eyes meet. “I did not drag you out from those fighting rings only for you to forget who made you. Who gave you purpose.”
I swallow the blood in my mouth, nearly choking on it. “I’m sorry, Pakhan.”
Ivan releases me with one final strike. “Leave. When I see you again, there will not be a single drop of rebellion left in you. Do I make myself clear?”
My entire body is shaking by the time I manage to push myself back up onto my knees.
“Yes, Pakhan.”
I rise slowly to my feet. Shame coils low in my stomach, completely overriding the pain pulsing through every muscle in my body. As I walk out, the guards stationed outside the door suddenly find the floor very interesting. I don’t bother acknowledging them as I pass by.
My feet drag as I move down the hallway.
What am I becoming?
Who am I becoming?
I have always obeyed, always served my Pakhan without fight, without any argument because I had no reason to. I always believed loyalty was my anchor, the purest way I could show my gratitude.
Yet the moment Sofia Kuznetsov stepped into my life, I faltered. I chose her questions over Ivan’s command, her hunger for truth over his authority. And now in the aftermath, I am stunned by the enormity of what I’ve done.
Tomorrow, I will be Ivan’s perfect weapon again.
I have to be.
I don’t go to my room. I can’t face the silence there. Instead, I retreat to the small sitting room at the end of the east corridor, the one with the large armchairs and the fireplace that always seems to be lit.
My hands shake horribly as I pour myself a drink. The first swallow burns, the second one numbs the worst of the shaking. It isn’t enough to erase the ache spreading through my body or the deeper one settling heavily in my chest, but it quiets the roar in my head just enough to be bearable.
Eventually, I sink into one of the chairs and allow my eyes to close as I tilt my head back and rest it on the cushion behind me.
I don’t hear her enter.
Not until cool fingers slip the empty glass from my loose grip.
I startle, instincts flaring, but it’s only Sofia.
She’s already moving, crossing to the wet bar with quiet grace to pour another glass of amber liquor as if she’s done it for me a hundred times before.
I should turn away and hide the darkening imprint of Ivan’s knuckles on my cheekbone, the split in my lip that burns, the swelling near my temple.
I should shield her from the reality I’ve lived under from her uncle for years.
But… I don’t.
Some quiet, reckless part of me wants her to see this. Wants her to understand the cost of the world she’s so eager to dissect and enter. She needs to know that power is bought not through secrets but with spilled blood. Sometimes your own.
She returns and hands me the glass without comment, then she sits beside me on the wide arm of the chair.
There is something in her hand that catches my attention first, and it isn’t until she raises it to press against the knot forming at my temple do I realize it is a small towel packed with ice.
The cold shocks me but the tenderness shocks me more.
No one has ever touched me like this before.
Her gaze softens. Guilt clouds her expression.
“I’m sorry I got you in trouble,” she murmurs.
My throat works. “Don’t ever apologize to me. I took what I earned.”
She looks like she wants to argue, maybe even to tell me I deserved none of it. But she swallows whatever words are burning on the tip of her tongue and presses the ice a little more firmly against my skin, a silent rebellion wrapped up in compassion.
Then, slowly, Sofia begins to speak.
She tells me about a memory she has of her mother in a warm kitchen. Her small hands guided by larger ones as she learned how to knead dough. The way her mother’s laugh filled the room like sunlight and the love that was shown to her so gently, it left shadows in its absence when it was gone.
I listen, eager to hear more. Her voice wraps around me like a balm I didn’t know I desperately needed.
For the first time in years, I let someone lull the torrent in my head into silence.
She talks until the ice melts inside the towel and the glass in my hand grows warm.
Until the bruises stop throbbing quite so viciously and the shame in my chest feels a fraction less suffocating.
When she finally falls silent, I set the glass aside. My hand finds her wrist, tugging the towel away from my face.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I say quietly.
She lifts her other hand up, threading her fingers through my hair. “Where else would I be?”
The simple question unravels something inside me.
I pull her closer, slow enough that she can pull away if she wants to.
To my surprise, she comes willingly, sliding into my lap, her knees bracketing my hips.
Her hands frame my face with infinite care, thumbs brushing over the swelling on my cheekbone.
My heart thuds hard in my chest.
“I hate that he did this to you,” she whispers.
“It is my fault. I deserved it.”
“Stop letting him decide what you deserve, Rowan,” she says softly.
I don’t stop her from leaning in and kissing me.