My father’s gaze flicked to the door, as if he could already see her standing there. "An omega for my son. Connections. A bloodline that keeps the Irish in check."
I stepped forward, my shadow falling across the table like a dark tide. "And what do I bring? Or does my opinion not matter in this?"
My father’s jaw ticked and for the first time, I saw a flicker of something in his eyes. I thought it was a moment of doubt, but no, it was his usual calculation. "Your opinion matters. But the family’s future matters more."
Ivan let out a bark of laughter. "The family’s future? You’re talking about your legacy. You’re talking about keeping the seat warm for another decade while you play kingmaker."
My father’s face darkened. "Watch your tone, Ivan."
Ivan didn’t back down. "Or what? You’ll arrange a marriage for me next?"
Volkov’s voice cut through the tension like a scalpel. "The girl is here with her parents."
My father nodded. "Take them into the sitting room."
I didn’t wait for permission. I strode toward the door, my shoes thudding against the floor. My pack fell into step behind me. Ivan’s long, angry strides, and Gregor’s silent, measured pace.
The hallway was lined with portraits of Petrov's past, their stern faces watching us like judges.
The sitting room was at the end of the hall, its double doors carved with the Petrov crest. A wolf’s head snarling over two swords. I pushed them open without knocking.
This room was darker than the rest. My father’s favorite. Old wood and deep reds, a space designed to intimidate. And there, perched on the edge of the sofa was a girl.
She was young. Far too young. Black hair, like our omega’s. This girl’s hair was pulled into a tight braid. She was small, dwarfed by the sofa, her hands clenched in her lap. Her dress was a deep green, her tights opaque black. She looked frightened.
“She looks like an elf,” Ivan muttered.
“Do you think I choose—”
“Mary—”
The girl huffed and looked at the woman beside her. Her mother, presumably. She had the same black hair, the same sharp features, but her eyes were cold, and she looked at us like we were a business transaction she was already regretting.
Mary’s eyes flicked back up to mine. They were wide, dark, and her hands shook.
Beside her, a tall, broad man stood. He had the look of a man who was used to getting what he wanted. His daughter, clearly, was no exception. He held out his hand to my father. “Let’s conclude business.”
“Sit.” My father beckoned him with his hand.
Callum nodded, pulled on the pants of his suit and sat on the other side of his daughter, swinging one leg over the other and resting the ankle on his knee. His shoes were polished to a mirror shine.
My father stepped toward the girl, his voice smooth as oil. "Mary, this is my son, Artem.” He gestured my way. “And his brother, Ivan."
Mary’s gaze darted between us. She was only eighteen and she was being sold like a prize heifer at the market.
Ivan’s voice was a growl. "She’s a child."
Mary flinched.
Her father’s hand lifted and tightened on her shoulder, his fingers digging in. "She’s of age. And she understands her duty."
Mary’s voice was barely a whisper. "I don’t want to."
Callum McCarthy’s grip on her shoulder tightened. "It’s already agreed."
I saw red. Actual, fucking red. The kind that made my vision blur at the edges. "Agreed by who?"
My father’s voice was calm, infuriatingly so. "By me. By Callum. The contract is drawn. The deal is set. The alliance is beneficial for both families."
