“That’s why last night…” she whispered. “The shouting. The blood. The gunshots. It all came back. Like it was happening again.”
She turned toward me, her voice barely more than breath. “I thought I was gone. But then I heard you. And I wasn’t alone anymore.”
I wanted to speak but couldn’t. My throat locked around the words. My girl had just handed me a piece of her soul—and I was grateful. Even as it shattered something deep inside me.
Everything made sense now. The way she carried herself. The things she hid. The darkness in her didn’t scare me—it mirrored my own.
We were both children when the monsters came.And whatever this was between us, it was more than lust. It was deeper than anything I’d ever touched. Bound by blood. Shaped by the same kind of pain.
She wasn’t alone anymore. And neither was I.
I cupped her face like it was something sacred. “You don’t even fucking know how proud I am. Through all that terror, you still pointed that gun. You still fought. Just like I showed you. Fierce as hell.”
I traced the line of her cheekbone with my thumb, voice rough. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but fuck… if there’s a luckier bastard alive, I haven’t met him.”
She kissed me—slow, certain, like she already knew—and in that moment, something inside me cracked wide open. I was hers. Completely. For the first time in this wreck of a life, I knew what it meant to be in love.
27
Blonde Ones Fetch Double
—Maksym—
It took days to clean the house.
Pakhan brought in professionals—the kind that didn’t ask questions and didn’t leave stains. Walls were repainted, carpets replaced, glass reforged. By the end of the week, you could walk through the mansion and almost believe that no one had died screaming there.
Almost.
Moscow had gone quiet. Too quiet. They were licking their wounds, counting their losses, planning how to answer.
By the time they were ready to strike again, Pakhan would already be a corpse. Not buried. Not mourned. Just rotting in the ground—put there by my own hands.
After the attack, Pakhan was in one of his fucking excellent moods. Because he won, while the rest of us did the dying. So of course he demanded a celebration. Which meant we all had to sit there smiling, drinking, and pretending we weren’t enduring him.
He summoned the entire inner circle. Family. Lieutenants. The great dining hall buzzed with low conversation until he stepped forward, silencing the room with a single glance. He stood at the head of the table, heavy rings flashing as he raised a glass of dark liquor halfway.
“You were brave,” he said, voice measured. “You didn’t run. You held the line. We defended our home. We bled, and we fucking won.”
Approval murmured through the room. He let the silence stretch a moment longer.
“And as for Felix?” He paused, then chuckled, low and cold. “Honestly? Let the worms have him. I don’t care anymore. Moscow can grieve him if they want.”
Laughter rippled across the table.
Then he sobered. “But that victory wouldn’t have happened without one man.”
His gaze landed on me. “I watched the footage,” he said. “From the safe room.”
I didn’t react.
“You moved like a predator. Precise. Unshakable.” He leaned forward, smiling. “I’ve made my decision. From this day forward, Maksym stands as my right hand.”
I hadn’t seen it coming.Right hand. What a fucking honor.
The room approved, politely. Applause, nods, forced admiration.A show of respect, maybe, but all I felt was the noose tightening around my throat.
Once the circus act ended, he motioned for me to follow. We slipped into the corridor, where the air was cooler, quieter—just the two of us and the echo of clinking glasses behind closed doors.
