Chapter 2
KIREN
I move in and out of consciousness like I’m being dragged through water that burns my lungs.
There is shouting. Engines. The metallic taste of blood pooling at the back of my throat, thick and warm, coating my tongue until I want to gag.
My body jerks with every bump in the road, pain ripping through my ribs and abdomen in white-hot waves that leave me blind and shaking.
The world tilts and spins, nausea rising in my gut as my head rolls against cold leather upholstery.
Hands grip me, firm and familiar, unmistakably my men.
I recognize the cadence of Russian barked low and urgent, the way commands snap through the dark without hesitation.
Someone presses down hard against my side, and I feel the pressure before I feel relief.
The bleeding slows, but nowhere near enough to matter.
My shirt clings to my skin, soaked through and cooling, the fabric sticking to the wound in ways that make my stomach turn.
I try to open my eyes. They flutter uselessly, the lashes catching on themselves, my vision blurring into shadows and streaks of light that hurt to follow.
Faces blur in and out. The smell of oil and cold metal fills my lungs, mixing with the copper tang of my own blood until I can’t tell where one scent ends and another begins.
Rage simmers beneath the pain, slow and poisonous. Someone tried to kill me and nearly succeeded. The thought sharpens my focus for half a heartbeat before it dissolves again, pulled under by another wave of agony that steals my breath and leaves me gasping.
Then there is her. Not a face at first, but a voice. Low and firm, carrying an unyielding authority that cuts through the chaos.
“Stay with me.”
The words echo through the dark like a command my body recognizes even as my mind fractures.
I cling to that sound, to the authority wrapped in compassion, because it cuts through the chaos in a way nothing else does.
Not the roar of engines. Not even the pain that threatens to drag me under completely.
My vision clears for a moment, and the world narrows to a single point of focus. Storm-gray eyes locked onto mine, their intensity unsettling and impossible to ignore.
Her hands are small but sure as they press against my wound, fingers splayed wide to cover as much area as possible.
The pressure hurts, sending fresh pain lancing through my torso, but it also keeps me from drifting away completely.
There is warmth beneath her palms, wool bunching under her touch, absorbing blood faster than seems possible.
A scarf. I register it distantly, the way a man drowning registers the surface of the water far above him.
“Look at me,” she insists, her breath trembling but voice firm.
I want to obey. I want to tell her I’m trying, that every second I keep my gaze on her face is an act of will and defiance against the darkness pulling at the edges of my vision.
The world tilts again, and I lose her for a moment.
The sound of engines grows louder, closer and familiar in a way that registers even through the haze.
My men. They’re close now. Her face tightens with fear she tries to hide, but I see it in the way her pupils dilate, and the slight tremor that runs through her shoulders.
I feel her hesitate, and the moment she chooses survival over loyalty to a stranger bleeding out in an alley.
She presses down harder, whispering hurried words I can’t quite hear through the roaring in my ears. An apology laced with regret.
Then she’s gone, and the loss of her presence feels more profound than it should.
The pressure remains for a second longer, her scarf still wedged against my wound, the fabric soft and blood-soaked, and then hands replace hers, larger, rougher, urgent. Mikel's hands. I would recognize his touch anywhere, the way he moves with purpose, never wasting a single motion.
Someone swears in Russian, in harsh, frantic words. The vehicle lurches forward, the tires screaming as we accelerate into the night, and I slip under again.
I wake burning.
Every breath feels like it scrapes against raw bone, like my lungs are lined with broken glass that cuts deeper with each inhale. Pain pulses through my torso in heavy, rhythmic waves that leave me clenching my jaw until my teeth ache and my temples throb in time with my heartbeat.
I’m flat on my back. The air smells sterile, tinged with antiseptic and the faint chemical bite of disinfectant that can’t quite mask the scent of my own blood. A single light hums overhead, the fluorescent buzz drilling into my skull.
Safehouse.
I know it before I open my eyes. The concrete ceiling and reinforced beams built for function, not comfort. This is one of our secondary locations, stripped down and anonymous, designed for exactly this: extraction, stabilization, survival.
My body is immobilized beneath layers of bandages and compression wraps, stitches pulling tight every time I breathe.
My movements are restricted in ways that make my pulse spike with instinctive panic.
Heat radiates from my side, my ribs, and the place just below where my heart beats too fast and shallow.
I force my eyes open, blinking against the harsh light.
The walls are bare, painted industrial gray that has faded and chipped in places.
A metal chair sits beside the narrow bed, its surface scratched and dented.
Medical supplies are stacked on a fold-out table against the wall.
Gauze, tape, bottles of saline, and instruments I do not want to examine too closely.
A chair scrapes softly against the floor, the sound cutting through the stillness.
“Kiren.”
Mikel's voice breaks through the haze, low and even. I turn my head a fraction, pain flaring through my neck and shoulder, bright enough to make my vision blur again before it clears.
He stands beside the bed, arms crossed over his broad chest, his expression carved from stone.
His face is all hard lines and angles, cheekbones prominent beneath pale skin, and jaw locked in a way that tells me he hasn’t slept.
Dark blonde hair falls across his forehead, longer than usual, and his eyes, dark and watchful, track every movement I make.
There is blood on his cuff, a crimson smear against the black fabric of his shirt.
“How long,” I rasp, my voice coming out rough and cracked.
“Eight hours since extraction,” he answers without hesitation, his accent thick. “You drifted in and out. The doctor stabilized you enough for transport.”
Doctor.
The word stirs awareness inside me, pulling at threads I don’t want to examine yet. Gray eyes. A voice telling me not to die. Hands pressing against my wound with more certainty than fear.
I swallow carefully, my throat dry and aching. “Status.”
Mikel adjusts his posture, a subtle movement that tells me everything before he speaks. His shoulders tighten almost imperceptibly, and his jaw ticks. “Your father is dead.”
The words land without ceremony, delivered without softening, hesitation, or any attempt to lessen their impact. I stare at the ceiling, waiting for grief to break inside me, or rage, sorrow, or disbelief to surface. Nothing does.
There is only the dull ache of inevitability, the confirmation of what I already suspected the moment I woke in this room instead of a hospital. My father would not have allowed this, the vulnerability, exposure, and weakness of needing anyone. He would have preferred to die on his feet.
“How,” I ask, my voice flat.
“Coordinated assassination. Internal support confirmed it.”
Of course. The words settle over me like frost, cold and unforgiving. My father built an empire on fear and discipline, but fear breeds resentment, and resentment breeds betrayal when given enough time to fester.
The room feels too quiet. The hum of the light presses against my ears, drilling into the silence. Somewhere in the distance, footsteps move through the warehouse. The empire endures, even though its king was cut down.
“A coup is already in motion,” Mikel continues, his tone clipped. “Several captains are posturing. Arkady Voronin and two others have gone silent.”
That draws my attention from the ceiling back to his face. I turn my head slightly, ignoring the pain screaming through my ribs and the way my muscles protest the movement. “Gone silent?”
“Yes.”
Arkady, my father’s strategist and one of the old guard. Not a man prone to impulsive disappearance. I close my eyes, letting the information settle as much as my current state allows.
“We believe the order on you came first,” Mikel continues. “Your father was killed less than an hour after you were attacked.”
A test, then. Remove the heir. Remove the king. Let the board fracture while everyone scrambles to fill the void.
I inhale slowly, forcing my body to obey even as every breath tears at stitched flesh and sends fresh waves of pain radiating through my torso. “Secure Elya.”
“She’s already moved and guarded.” Mikel's response is immediate, his tone brooking no argument. “It’s a safe location. No one knows where.”
“Good.” The relief is brief, a small mercy in the chaos. My sister is the one piece of my father's world I will protect at any cost.
Silence stretches between us, heavy but not awkward. Mikel has never filled space with words that don’t serve a purpose. He stands like a sentinel, back straight and shoulders squared, his presence reassuring.
“My orders stand,” I tell him finally. “No retaliation until I am vertical.”
He nods once, the gesture curt. “They’ll test that.”
“They can try.” I let the words carry the promise of what will come when I’m whole again.
His gaze sharpens, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. “There’s another matter.”
I open my eyes fully, ignoring the way the light stabs at my vision. “Speak.”
“The woman in the alley.”
There it is, a subtle tightening in my chest that has nothing to do with injuries, blood loss, or the fact that I nearly died on cold concrete.
“She ran,” Mikel continues, his tone neutral but watchful. “No identification or security footage clear enough to trace.”
I nod slowly, aware of the resentment that lingers despite the fact that I told her to leave. “She saved my life.”
“Yes.”
“She didn’t go immediately,” I add quietly, my voice rough. “Even though I told her to leave.”
Mikel studies me for a long moment. “She didn’t disobey you.”
I glance at him, confusion flickering through the pain.
“She hesitated,” he clarifies. “Then she chose survival. That isn’t disobedience. It’s intelligence.”
A corner of my mouth twitches despite myself, the pain, and the knowledge that my father's body is cooling somewhere. “Find her.”
He doesn’t ask why, question the order, or push for clarification. “We’re already trying.”
“Discreetly.” The word comes out edged with urgency I can’t quite mask.
“Always.”
He turns to leave but pauses at the door. His hand rests on the frame, his fingers curling slightly. “You’ll need to be moved soon. This place is temporary.”
“I know.”
The door closes behind him with a loud click. I lie there, staring at the ceiling, feeling the truth of my father's death sink into my bones without ceremony or grief. There’s no room for mourning when survival demands every ounce of focus I possess.
Nikolai Sovarin is gone. And the crown has already found my head, whether I want it or not.