6. Ilya #2
He hits the floor with a dull, limp thud, his eyes rolling back into his head, his blood pooling on the white carpet inches from Via’s bare feet.
I stand over him, my chest heaving, my face covered in his blood. I look down at Via.
The sight of the kill has completely shattered her.
She let out a sharp, piercing shriek that cuts through the hum of the siren.
She’s clawing at her own skin now, her nails digging into her arms until she draws blood, her eyes wide, wild, and completely vacant.
She’s hyperventilating so hard, her chest is moving in violent, unnatural jerks, her lips turning a faint, terrifying shade of blue.
"Mama," she gasps, her voice a tiny, broken sob. "Mama, don't look. The red... the lilies are red. Papa, make them stop. Please, make them stop."
I drop the gun, not caring that there might be more of them in the hall. I slide into the closet, ignoring the blood on the floor, and pull her into my lap.
"Via," I growl, wrapping my arms around her. She fights me, her hands clawing at my face, her nails digging into the fresh cuts on my cheek, but I don't let go. I hold her tight against my chest, my body a solid, heavy wall against her panic. "Stop. You’re in my house. It’s over."
"Let me go! Monster! You're going to kill her!" she shrieks, her voice breaking. She’s shaking so hard, her teeth are chattering. "The red... there's blood on my dress. There's blood on my face."
"It’s not yours," I rasp, my mouth near her ear. I take her hands, forcing them away from her face, pinning them against my chest. Her fingers are ice cold, wet with her own sweat. "Look at me, Via. Look at my face."
She thrashes, her head shaking from side to side. "No! No!"
"Look at me!" I roar, and the command is loud enough to make her freeze.
She opens her eyes. They’re wide, dilated with terror, but as she focuses on my face, the wildness starts to recede. She looks at the blood on my cheek, the graze on my ribs, the raw, bleeding mess of my knuckles.
"Ilya..." she whispers, her chest still heaving, her breath coming in short, ragged hitches.
"I’m here," I say, my voice dropping into a low, gravelly vibration. I release her hands and cup her face, my bloody palms staining her pale cheeks. "You're safe. Nobody is touching you."
"You... you're bleeding," she whispers, her fingers rising to touch the cut on my jaw. She’s still shaking, but the hyperventilation is slowing down, her breathing starting to match the heavy, rhythmic thud of my heart.
"It's not my blood," I say, and for a split second, I want to kiss her. I want to taste the salt of her tears and the vanilla of her skin until the scent of the dead men in the hall is gone.
Before I can move, a radio on the dead mercenary’s vest crackles to life.
The static is loud, a sharp, metallic hiss that makes Via flinch.
"Team leader, report," a voice says through the speaker. It’s deep, older, and carries the weight of twenty years of absolute authority.
Petr Denisov.
My body goes rigid. The protective warmth in my chest instantly turns back into the cold, heavy stone of the Pakhan. I reach down, rip the radio off the dead man’s vest, and press the receiver.
"Your team is dead, Petr," I say, my voice sounding like it was dragged through a grave.
A long, heavy silence stretches over the airwaves. I can hear Petr’s ragged breath through the speaker.
"Ilya," Petr growls. "If you’ve touched her—"
"She’s sitting on my lap, Petr," I say, my eyes fixed on Via’s face. She’s staring at the radio, her lower lip trembling, her eyes wide with a mixture of hope and terror. "She’s covered in the blood of the men you sent to save her. She’s shaking. She can barely breathe."
"Let me speak to her!" Petr roars. "Via! Via, are you there?"
"Papa—" she tries to cry out, but I press my thumb against her mouth, cutting off the sound.
"Listen to me very carefully, old man," I say into the receiver, my voice a low, terrifying rasp. I keep my eyes locked on Via, watching her tears spill over my thumb. "Every time you send a man into my territory, I’m not just going to kill them. I’m going to take a piece of her sanity. I will make her watch. I will make her live in the blood until there’s nothing left of your precious princess but a hollow shell. "
"You son of a bitch!" Petr screams, his voice cracking with rage. "I’ll burn your city to the ground! I’ll—"
"Back off, Petr," I cut him off, my voice cold as ice. "Or the next outing you attend will be her funeral. You have forty-eight hours to recall your men from the northern ports. If I see one of your flags on my docks, I’ll send you her fingers."
I let go of the receiver and hurl the radio against the concrete wall, shattering it into a dozen plastic pieces.
Via is staring at me, her eyes wide with a horror that has nothing to do with her mother's death and everything to do with the man holding her.
"You... you wouldn't," she whispers, her voice shaking. "You wouldn't do that to me. You held me. You... you saved me."
"I’m a Pakhan, Via," I say, my voice flat, my cold exterior firmly back in place.
I stand up, pulling her with me, but I don't set her down. I carry her out of the closet, ignoring the way she tries to push against my chest. "To your father, you’re a prize. To me, you’re leverage.
Don't mistake my protection for weakness. "
I know it’s a lie. I know as I say the words that I could never touch a hair on her head. I know that if my captains asked for her fingers, I’d take their heads instead. But she can’t know that. Petr can’t know that.
"I hate you," she says, her voice a low, ragged thread as I set her down on the edge of the bed. She’s crying again, but the panic is gone, replaced by a deep, hollow grief. "I hate you more than anyone in the world."
"Good," I growl, my jaw set so tight it hurts. "Keep that hate, Via. It’s the only thing that’s going to keep you alive in this house."
I turn and walk out of the room.
As the door chirps shut behind me, I lean my head against the cold stone wall of the corridor. My side is bleeding, my ribs are screaming, and my hand is still shaking.
I’m in a sour mood. A frustrated, dangerous mood.
Because the monster who is supposed to be using her as a pawn just realized he’d kill everyone in this city before he let anyone else see her cry.
"Clean this wing," I growl to Dmitri as he approaches, his face covered in soot. "And double the guard on her door. If she so much as sneezes, I want to know about it."
I stalk off toward my office, my blood boiling, my mind trapped in the memory of the way her small, cold hand felt against my face.
She’s a problem.