03
And looking at Anastasia Morozov, tucked so primly on her end of the couch, clearly taught to take up as little space as possible, I wonder if she’ll be a good enough match for me.
I can’t deny that she’s attractive — with perfect posture, a slim, model-like figure, unblemished skin, creamy and porcelain smooth, and long, shiny blonde hair .
. . the list goes on. Her high cheekbones and big eyes scream her brand — innocent.
Perfectly curated for me to save her family.
I wonder if they’re ashamed of selling off their daughter like this.
I couldn’t care less.
My father and Yuri talking, but the Morozov boss refuses to even look at my father, who stares at Yuri like he’s about to pull a knife on him. And from the way both sides are crawling with soldiers, it’s clear that this is no amicable engagement.
“We want the north territories,” my father says.
Given that Yuri is handing over his daughter, asking for land is a bit too ambitious.
“No,” Yuri huffs.
Expected.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out to find Luca’s name in a notification on my screen.
When I turn to look him, he’s sat upright on the velvet couch, thumbs on his phone. I narrow my eyes. My little cousin never really grew out of his high school phase.
Exhaling, I press the power button on the side and the screen fades out. My hand shifts to pocket my phone, but it starts vibrating incessantly before I can.
LUCA has invited you play 8 ball.
LUCA has invited you play 8 ball.
LUCA has invited you play 8 ball.
I clench my jaw, sliding back to his messages as I type, I have a gun on me.
Instead of replying, I accidentally press accept on his fucking invite and I’m transported to a pool table. The cold, begrudging war between the Yuri and my father is still on. Sighing, I decide to give in to my idiotic cousin.
Ten minutes later, he loses.
Rhaegar’s bark outside cuts my attention from my phone. Suddenly, a girl enters the front door, shutting the door behind her abruptly, slicing the uneasy, hushed silence in the room. I can’t say I’m not thankful for the intrusion.
This meeting was already beginning to bore me.
I fix my gaze on the girl. She looks filthy, dressed in beaten down Docs and grease-stained overalls that conceal any shape of her body, her hair is pulled back in a long, unruly fox-brown braid that starts from the crown of her head.
Her skin is warmed by the sun—nothing compared to our deeper Italian coloring, but not as milky white as the rest of the Morozov line. And she’s covered in so much grime that I can’t make out any scars, or whether her skin is smooth or not.
Rhaegar, my bullmastiff, trots into the house from the other entrance.
I expect him to return to my side after terrorising this maid-girl, but he doesn’t.
Instead, he sidles up to her, licking her hand.
And she allows it, looking down at him with a barely-there smile, like she didn’t just barge in here because of him.
Rhaegar is loyal. He doesn’t warm to strangers fast. In fact, he’s borderline hostile with them. Narrowing my eyes, I decide to ignore it. Maybe he likes her scent.
They call me the Hellhound. They say it’s because I can scent fear.
It’s not true. I doubt humans can actually scent fear unless someone pisses their pants.
I’m merely good at reading people. Anastasia was taught to hide her fear well, but I still sense the undercurrent of it there each time I talk to her.
This girl — the one breathing hard at the door while petting my dog — she has little fear.
By the amount of dirt and grease covering her body, my first suspicion is that she’s a maid. But even a maid would know basic etiquette. And a maid would feel more remorse after barging in with such little decorum.
This girl is caught like a deer in headlights, yes, but still she doesn’t look afraid. She looks calculating. Like she’s trying to figure a way out of this mess. And when her eyes settle on me, they blaze.
Hatred.
And then I notice it — the Morozov emblem glinting from a chain around her neck.
And suddenly, I’m not so bored anymore.
My lips twitch upward.
Found you.
I’ve never set eyes the little Morozov before, only heard of her in whispers. Like a myth. But she hates me. Of course she fucking hates me. I’m the bad guy who’s stealing her sister.
They hid her.
From me.
It’s laughable — because it only piques my curiosity. Her eyes are lit up with a flickering flame of hatred. I want to snuff it out. Choke it with my bare hands. Tame it.
“Change of plans,” I announce, clearing my throat.
Greta Morozov, Anastasia’s mother, frowns.
My gaze lands deliberately on the girl across the room. “I want her hand in marriage, instead.”
The room erupts. Greta and Anastasia’s faces fall.
“What?” Yuri barks.
At the far end of the room, the younger Morozov’s eyes go wide, like she can’t believe what she’s hearing.
Yuri doesn’t meet my gaze. “She is just a maid.”
He should know better than to spit such blatant lies. I lift a brow. “Is she?”
Yuri blanches like his deepest fears have been given flesh. Across me, I catch the caution in Luca’s features. Vito touches my shoulder in warning. “Forse dovresti pensarci per un po’.”
I have thought about it. I’ve thought about it for years. Become obsessed with the idea of finally exacting my revenge.
It doesn’t take that long for me to consider the variables. There’s a wide range of reasons why the younger Morozov would be a better choice. Anastasia was prepped and primed her entire life to marry me, so she’ll expect my attention. Maybe even my affection. Two things I can never give her.
But this girl, with her improper etiquette and dirty overalls — completely untrained and spoilt into a normal life by her father — she seems like the last person to care about what I’m doing.
I said I wanted her hand in marriage, but that’s not technically the truth. I don’t really want her. I just want payback without anyone prying in on my business.
Five years ago, I killed Lucky before he could tell me her name.
It left a little to the imagination. Made me hungry for the game.
I’ll admit, I never put enough effort into actually getting to know our little launders.
I knew only vaguely of the existence of the younger Morozov — two years younger than her sister, sheltered, protected, highly adored by her father, and kept safe like a secret.
I can’t deny that I often pictured how she would look. And none of them scratched up to seeing her in the flesh. Seeing her father’s face drained of colour when I demanded her hand in marriage instead of her sister’s.
It amuses me.
“She’s not ready for marriage,” Yuri says, “I refuse.”
“She’s twenty-one,” I counter.
Shock enters Yuri’s light eyes, like he wasn’t expecting me to know so much. Like he wasn’t extending me to know anything at all. He glances at my father. “This was not the agreement.”
My father shrugs, then says something that reminds me why I should’ve let the old man stay at home this time. “L’accordo era per una puttana Morozov.”
The agreement was for one Morozov whore.
The tension in the room is thick enough to slice through. Yuri’s light eyes blaze, and he does something I never would’ve anticipated.
He reaches for his gun.
He’s brave. But stupid. So fucking stupid.
I’m too quick for him. It takes less than a second for me to reach for my own gun and fire, aiming for his right arm.
They say Italians are hot-blooded, Russians, cold. It’s a load of horseshit, because Yuri Morozov’s blood is warm as it splatters across my face.
Fucking great.
“Cazzo!”
Female shrieks and male curses — both Italian and Russian ring in the air.
Rhaegar barks madly, immediately at my side with a low, seething growl. Finally. The mutt was attached to the younger Morozov like she was the one who fed and housed him for six fucking years.
I wouldn’t normally fire, but the fact that Yuri thought he could pull a gun on me and emerge unharmed was plain fucking stupid.
The little Morozov races from the other side of the room at an impressive speed, flinging herself in front of her injured father and holding on to her sister’s hand protectively.
Anastasia’s eyes are filled with tears as she clutches her sister’s hand like an anchor. Wasn’t she trained to handle a few gunshots and some blood?
And what is it about this girl — the younger Morozov, that drives her father to defend her so brazenly?
Guards on both sides lift their guns. Yuri holds two fingers to the gunshot wound in his upper arm to stop the blood from gushing out his arm.
“Isn’t it bad manners,” I mutter, dryly, “to pull a gun on your future son-in-law and guest?”
Yuri’s breaths are stilted as he staggers through the pain. I’d say I feel bad, except . . . I don’t. The fucker can’t fool me. He’s been shot before. You don’t reach his level without a few dirty deals.
“Not Freya,” Yuri sputters. “That wasn’t the agreement. Over my dead body.”
Freya. I draw a circle around my temple with the barrel of the gun, where a dull ache is already starting. I didn’t know her name. The fucker guarded his daughter well. Over the years, I hadn’t been able to get even a whiff of her. Over his dead body? “That can be arranged.”
“Stop.” The little Morozov — Freya — speaks. She looks me dead in the eye, and if there was hatred there before, there’s a burning fire of a thousand hells there now. Even her hair seems to be shot through with pure fire.
She should know that it was unfair — that she’s so clearly her father’s favorite. That he was willing to fight for her, but not for Anastasia. That her sister spent her entire life preparing for this and now the roles have so cruelly reversed. I’m going to destroy any sense of normalcy in her life.
“Stop.” She says again, more to herself than me. “It’s fine. I agree.”
I conceal my surprise.
Anastasia’s eyes are wide. “Freya—”
Yuri reels. “FREYA, idi v svoyu komnatu! SEYCHAS! —”
“I agree,” Freya repeats, meeting my gaze, her jaw clenched. “I’ll marry you.”
Stubbornness hardens her features, and her eyes tell me what her lips won’t. I hate you. Such insistent hatred. And yet, the heroic little heathen defied her father for me.
To marry me.
It’s entertaining.
So I only meet her gaze evenly and say, “Looking forward to it, little Morozov.”
Standing, I pull out a handkerchief from my pocket as I pause to wipe her father’s blood clean from the side of my face.
Then I lower in front of her and reach for her hand. She tries to wrench it out of my hold, but I only hold on tighter, scooping the diamond ring out of my pocket.
Her hand is surprisingly small in mine, and her pulse flutters madly under my fingers — usually a definite tell of fear, but when I look in her eyes, there’s none of it there.
Only hatred. I clench my jaw. There’s an audible, collective gasp in the room as I slide the ring over her finger — the giant glittering diamond a sharp contrast to the dirt and blood on her hand.
And just like that, the little Morozov becomes my caged bird.
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