Chapter 4
KIREN
Grief doesn’t come the way stories promise. There are no tears. No hollow wail. No collapse beneath the pressure of loss. There’s only inevitability, the same cold acceptance I’ve carried since I was old enough to understand what my father's world demanded.
He taught me early that love was leverage. That attachment invited weakness. That survival demanded distance. He wasn’t gentle, but he was precise. He shaped me into a weapon because that was the only inheritance he believed worth leaving behind.
I honor him by accepting the world as it is. By accepting what must be done. I don’t rage or mourn publicly. I allow myself exactly one private moment, lying alone in a reinforced room with my body stitched together by violence and necessity.
I remember his hands correcting my grip on a knife when I was twelve, his fingers cold and firm over mine, guiding the blade until the angle was perfect.
I remember the pressure of his gaze when he told me power belonged to those willing to take it, his voice low and unwavering, and his eyes like steel.
I remember the silence he left behind in every room he ever entered, the way conversations died when he appeared, replaced by tension and deference.
Then I let him go, because holding onto ghosts won’t keep me alive.
By the third day, the pain is manageable. By the fifth, I can sit upright without blacking out, though the effort leaves me sweating and nauseous. By the seventh, I can stand, my legs trembling beneath me, but holding.
They move me at dawn. The warehouse fades behind armored glass as the convoy snakes through back roads toward my estate, winter fog clinging to the trees like a warning. Every mile feels earned. Every jolt reminds me how close I came to dying in an alley.
I touch my side without thinking, my fingers brushing the place where stitches pull tight beneath fresh bandages.
The skin is tender, the wound still raw beneath layers of gauze and tape.
Beneath them, the memory of her hands lingers.
The pressure and the warmth. The way she refused to let go, even when she should have run.
The scarf.
Mikel returned it to me on the second day, cleaned and folded, the cream wool no longer stained but still carrying her faint scent, clean and understated like soap and cold air. I keep it in my pocket now, my fingers finding it without thought, tracing the soft fabric until it becomes a ritual.
I don’t know her name. I don’t know her face beyond fragments burned into memory: gray eyes, brown hair pulled back, the determined set of her jaw as she pressed down against my wound. But I know she refused to let me die.
The estate gates open smoothly, iron scrollwork parting to reveal the long drive lined with bare trees. Men line the path, heads bowing as the vehicle passes, their loyalty humming beneath the surface.
Inside, the house smells of furniture polish and old stone, history, blood, and power that has survived worse than this. It’s familiar and unchanged. It has stood for generations, weathering wars, coups, and betrayals.
They settle me into my room overlooking the frozen grounds, the windows tall and arched, glass frosted at the edges. Doctors rotate through, checking vitals and changing bandages. Mikel oversees everything, his watch never lifting, his attention absolute.
By nightfall, I’m alone. I sit in the chair by the window and stare out at land that has been defended in blood for generations. The grounds stretch endlessly, white and silent under the glow of security lights that dot the perimeter.
My phone rests in my hand, the screen dark.
Not silent, managed. Mikel filtered the noise, answered what needed answering, and shut down what didn’t.
Demands, challenges, and feints, all contained for now.
The captains are still watching, searching for weakness in the space my father left behind. I don’t give them time to invent one.
On the seventh night, I summon the captains.
They arrive dressed in power and caution, tailored suits and polished shoes, eyes watchful and bodies coiled.
They study me openly, searching for vulnerability in my posture, my breath, and my movement.
They want to see if the attack diminished me, and if my father’s death fractured my resolve.
They find nothing.
I stand at the head of the table, my hands resting on the dark wood, and my posture straight despite the pain that still flares with every breath. The room is silent, tension curling in the air like smoke.
“I assume leadership of the Sovarin Bratva effective immediately,” I announce, my voice bearing the authority my father drilled into me since childhood. “Any challenge will be addressed as betrayal.”
Silence answers me, thick and oppressive. Then one by one, they bow, heads dipping in acknowledgment, submission settling over them like a shroud. The crown settles without ceremony, heavy and final.
Arkady Voronin is the last to lift his head. When he does, his face is composed and respectful, with the lines around his eyes relaxed rather than calculating. He steps forward calmly, hands folding loosely behind his back.
“You speak with your father’s certainty,” he says, inclining his head. “He prepared you well. The Bratva will be stronger for it.”
I meet his gaze, his expression giving nothing away. Arkady has served this organization longer than I have been alive. He knows every fault line and every tradition. Men like him don’t survive by misreading the room.
“My father valued loyalty,” I reply. “Above all else.”
A faint smile touches his mouth. “As do I. You have my counsel, pakhan. As you always have.”
The captains leave in order, the sound of their footsteps fading as the doors close. The room empties until only Mikel remains beside me. I stand there for a moment, letting the silence settle. Then I speak. “The woman,” I say quietly. Mikel looks at me, already understanding. “Find her.”
Mikel inclines his head, understanding implicit in the gesture.
I watch the snow begin to fall, thick flakes drifting down and coating the grounds in fresh white. The world outside looks clean and untouched, as if violence and betrayal don’t exist beyond these walls.
Somewhere in this city, a woman walks unaware that she has tied her fate to mine with a single act of defiance and a scarf soaked through with my blood. I will find her. And when I do, nothing will take her from me again.
Want to know what happens next? Find out in this explosive new series from Kat Steele!
Yes, I want to read His to Claim!