2. Alina #2
Yuri sits in the driver’s seat and my father is in the passenger’s. Their bodies are rigid, both of them hardly moving at all. No one speaks. The tension sits thick between all of us, pulsing with every passing kilometer.
Sleet begins to tap against the window, soft at first, then harder.
It blurs the world outside until everything becomes a wash of color and motion, like the city is weeping as I leave it behind.
The farther we drive, the more the landscape changes.
Urban sprawl gives way to quiet roads flanked by tall trees, their canopies dusted with snow.
The sheet eventually turns to snow.
It’s around forty minutes later—maybe more, maybe less, because time feels so foreign now—when the estate finally appears in the distance.
A fortress of stone and steel rises from behind a dense line of firs, its silhouette enormous against the storm-dark sky.
The main structure is cold and imposing, flanked by watchtowers and long windows that reflect nothing, reminding me of the eyes of a haunted painting that refuse to reveal what they’ve seen.
It’s not a home. It’s not even a mansion.
It’s a stronghold.
An iron gate stretches across the entrance road, black and monstrous, with intricate knotwork woven into the metal that looks more decorative than it really is.
I vaguely recognize it from CCTV footage years ago before Papa banned me from sneaking down to the control room in the basement to watch the feeds when I couldn't sleep.
This place belongs to someone powerful. Someone feared. Someone no politician, no matter how connected, would dare cross.
My pulse stutters.
Despite never being here before this, I know exactly where we are.
The car slows as we pull up to the gate.
Cameras swivel to zero in on our vehicle.
Armed guards step out of small, heated booths to verify our arrival.
They don’t wear government uniforms, nor do they greet us politely.
They simply wave us through after Yuri verifies who we are, the iron gate ahead of us slowly opening.
The estate is massive, larger than I realized at first glance.
Buildings sprawl outward—garages, barracks, storage structures, all connected by stone walkways that have been plowed expertly and salted fresh from the falling snow.
Tall evergreens sway in the wind, their branches heavy with ice, bending under the weight of winter.
The main house towers above everything else with its dark stone walls, large windows, and balconies that look like perches for predators.
Yuri pulls the car into a wide circular drive, the tires crunching over gravel. The engine rumbles to a stop. He steps out first, his hand hovering near the weapon strapped at his hip while his eyes scan the environment with trained focus.
Papa emerges from the car next.
The moment his shoes hit the ground, two men in black coats step down from the doors and approach him. They move with predator-like precision, long strides with hands that rest casually near the concealed weapons under their jackets.
“Viktor Morozov. You’re expected,” one of them says.
My father nods once and gestures for me to follow.
Yuri opens my door. “Come, Devushka .”
His tone is gentler than usual, but gentleness from him is just another alarm bell ringing inside my head, drowning everything else out. I slide out, boots touching the gravel while my hand grips my bag straps. The cold hits my face immediately, sharp enough to sting my nose and cheeks.
I follow after my father because what else can I do?
The men flank us as we approach the massive front doors.
They’re carved with intricate designs, wolves woven through thorned branches, their jaws open as they maw at the sky as if in warning.
The air inside smells like cedar and smoke, expensive cologne, and something faintly familiar, like the ghost of something I once knew.
We step into the foyer.
That’s when I see him.
At first, he’s just a silhouette by the grand staircase—tall, broad-shouldered, hands clasped behind his back. A man carved from horrors more than flesh. But when he steps into the light, the air in the room shifts immediately.
I recognize him instantly.
The name whispered in back rooms. The Devil Papa has been bargaining with for years.
Sasha Sokolov, in the flesh.
A man I haven’t seen in years.
His presence hits like a physical blow—cold, commanding, devastating in its intensity.
He looks younger than I expected but no less dangerous.
His features are sharp and symmetrical, too striking to be entirely human.
His eyes are dark and unreadable, as if he could see straight through you with one glance.
He’s tall, easily over six-two, with the kind of build that speaks of quiet, functional strength rather than vanity.
One that’s earned through violence and command rather than regular visits at the gym.
His shoulders alone could easily fill a doorway.
His posture is straight and controlled, looking as if he’s perpetually bracing for the next attack… or preparing to deliver one.
His hair is dark, almost black, thick and slightly tousled in a way that suggests he either ran a hand through it recently or simply doesn’t care enough to fix it from rolling out of bed this morning. When the light hits it, hints of deep mahogany glint beneath the near-obsidian strands.
But his face…
God forbid anyone ever forget it.
High, sharp cheekbones cut in angles too perfect to be accidental.
A straight, aristocratic nose. A jawline so precise, it couldn’t have been drawn more perfect than perhaps by a doctor holding a scalpel.
His mouth is neutral, the lower lip fuller than the upper, giving him an unintentional sensuality that contradicts the coldness of the rest of him.
And then there are his eyes.
Dark. Not brown but dark . Near black. They don’t just look at you. They dissect you. Weigh you. Strip you down to your last secret.
Sasha studies my father first, then he looks at me.
The world stops.
His gaze pins me in place, unblinking. Assessing, not with curiosity but like he’s cataloging me, memorizing me. There is an expression there, fleeting and indecipherable, but it makes my pulse trip all the same as if it had been locked on me for hours.
Papa clears his throat, but his voice cracks when he speaks. “I brought her. As agreed.”
My blood runs cold.
As agreed.
The words hit me harder than the explosion did.
Sasha’s face doesn’t shift.
“So I see,” he answers, his voice low and smooth sounding, too calm for my nerves to handle. “Right on time.”
He descends down the staircase one step at a time. His movements, while slow, are fluid. When he finally reaches the bottom, he doesn’t stop. I feel Papa tense next to me like a wire stretched too tightly the second Sasha crosses the distance between us.
“You and I have business to attend to,” he says quietly.
Papa opens his mouth, maybe to protest, but Sasha lifts one hand. It’s a simple gesture, but it somehow feels more threatening than a gun pointed at his head.
Papa falls silent immediately.
My heart slams painfully against my ribs when two of Sasha’s guards peel away from the wall and head for me. I don’t fight or protest when my bag is taken from me, nor do I turn around and beg my father to change his mind when I’m gestured to follow.
I know better than to think whatever plan is happening, whatever deal has been struck, can be that easily changed.
When I catch his eyes, Sasha’s attention flicks to me again, his expression remaining unreadable.
“Alina,” he murmurs, tasting my name on his tongue. “Welcome.”
I’m taken to a room on the east side of the estate, far away from the foyer and my father, and far away from the man whose roof I’m now going to be living under for the foreseeable future.
The walk feels endless.
Long corridors stretch beneath chandeliers made of cut glass, scattering fractured light across marble floors.
Every footstep echoes, swallowed by the vastness of the place.
The walls are lined with framed maps, oil portraits of unfamiliar men with stern eyes, and sconces that flicker with amber light like the estate is trying to replicate warmth but can’t quite get it right.
The guards stop at the last door on the right. One turns the handle. The other gestures for me to step in first.
The room is larger than the one back home.
Actually, it’s nearly three times larger, maybe more.
It’s all cream and gold, gleaming softly under the warm lighting coming from the chandelier inside.
A four-poster bed sits elevated on a slight platform, draped in pale silk that looks impossibly smooth.
Delicate gold threading runs through the canopy like constellations trapped in fabric.
It’s beautiful. Too beautiful. It reminds me of the kind of beauty that feels curated in magazines, staged intentionally to look as opulent as possible.
Both men enter behind me and set my bags down onto the bed.
Someone has laid out fresh toiletries on the vanity nearby with near military precision.
Bottles of shampoo and conditioner are aligned perfectly, a folded robe pressed without a single wrinkle sits on the bench, a hair brush placed parallel to a neatly rolled towel.
Even the toothbrush is still in its packaging, resting atop a small linen cloth.
The room smells faintly of jasmine and something crisp—expensive cleaner, maybe—but beneath that, there’s a whisper of cedar smoke. His scent. The man whose presence seems to bleed through the walls no matter how far away he is.
I wrap my arms around myself.
The windows stretch from floor to ceiling, draped with sheer curtains that glow with the last traces of dusk. When I pull one back, I see the courtyard below. There are stone paths winding through patches of winter-bitten garden and the skeletal branches of dormant trees scratching the grey sky.
Farther beyond that, I see the perimeter wall. Twenty feet high, topped with coils of dark metal that don’t look decorative.
Beyond that are only forest and snow.
I sigh softly.
“There’s a call button if you need anything,” one of the guards says behind me. “Someone will be up with dinner in a few hours.”
Before they leave, I manage one question. “Can I see my father before he leaves?”
They both hesitate, exchange glances that are clearly uncomfortable.
“If you’re called down. You’re to stay in your room otherwise.”
My stomach twists.
If I knew that would be the last time I’d see Papa for a while, I would’ve tried to hug him.
The door shuts behind them with a soft click.
I stand alone in the cavernous room surrounded by silk drapes and gold accents. A place designed for comfort but which radiates captivity instead. The silence presses around me like velvet, soft yet suffocating.
I walk across the room and sink onto the edge of the bed. The mattress dips beneath my weight, too plush to bring me any kind of comfort, as if this place is trying to lull me into complacency.
My hands curl around the silk comforter.
I should cry or… scream.
Actually, I should run downstairs and call for Papa and demand answers before he leaves, demand that he take me home and not leave me in a place like this despite the pretty picture it’s trying desperately to paint.
But instead, I sit still.
I know no matter what I do, the outcome won’t change.
I’ve been brought here for a reason.
I just don’t know why yet.