Page 92 of His Contract Queen

Eventually, we’re forced to clean up.

There’s a small bathroom attached to the sitting room that I take her to. I carry her there and set her on the counter. I run warm water over washcloths to clean her, but she pushes me away, insisting on tending to my stitches first. When she unwraps the bandage, both of us are surprised to find minimal fluid leakage. The wound is red and angry, but clean. No major damage.

“Good,” she murmurs, relief washing over her face as she presses a fresh bandage in place.

I catch her wrist, kissing each individual knuckle on her hand. “See? I can’t be that easily taken out.”

She smiles. It’s small and tired but real. When we finally dress, finding a pair of fresh clothes folded on the couch by the timewe leave the bathroom courtesy of Alina, we step back into the hallway.

I take her by the hand and lead her down the hallway to Sasha’s study, finding him already waiting. He looks us over once we enter, noting the way Katerina’s hand is tangled in mine, and gives us both a short nod. “Ramil’s been settled downstairs.”

Katerina goes still beside me, her head whipping to me as soon as the words finally register. I feel her pulse jump under my thumb. Confusion and something unsettled flickers in her eyes. “What happens now?”

I meet her gaze, steady and unflinching.

“Ramil’s fate is yours to decide,” I tell her.

24

KATERINA

Ifollow Sasha down the narrow staircase, each step heavier than the last.

The air grows colder down here. Aleksandr walks behind me, close enough that our arms brush with every movement. His presence is a dark, steady heat against the chill. He doesn’t speak when we finally reach the bottom, and neither does Sasha. The only sounds are our footsteps as we continue on further.

My heart should be racing, but strangely, it isn’t. It beats slowly, steady in a way I haven’t felt in years.

The basement opens into a low-ceilinged room lit by a single harsh bulb. A metal chair is bolted down into it in the center.

And in that chair sits my father.

Bound with thick zip ties at the wrists and ankles, arms wrenched behind the backrest so his shoulders are forced back in unnatural submission. His shirt is torn at the collar, dark stains spreading across the white fabric from his now-dried bloody nose. The skin above his left eyebrow is split open, alsodried. One eye is swollen almost shut. His silver hair, always so meticulously combed, hangs in greasy strands across his forehead.

He looks… small.

The sight hits me harder than I expect. This is the man who once lectured me about honor and duty over breakfast every morning of my childhood, who told me I was born to serve something greater than myself. Now he’s reduced to a bloodied, trembling thing, stripped of every illusion of authority he ever wore like armor.

His good eye finds me the second we step into the light.

“Katya,” he rasps. The childhood nickname sounds obscene coming from his cracked lips. “Thank God. Help me. Please. Tell them this is a mistake. Convince them to let me go. I’m your father. You owe me that much.”

The words land like a slap across my face.

Owe him.

After everything?

I stare at him for a long time. The desperation flooding his face is raw and almost animalistic in a way. There is no shame in how he begs me, no regret that tells me everything he did to me had been a long and complicated set of choices that he now no longer agrees with. All I see is the frantic calculation of a man who still believes he can talk his way out of consequences despite everything.

“Do you even understand where you are? Do you understand what’s happening?” I ask. My voice comes out quiet, almost curious.

He blinks, confusion flickering across the parts of his face that can still move. His gaze darts from me to Aleksandr, then to Sasha, then back again. He tries again, softer this time. Pleading. “Katya… These men, thesemonsters—they’ve taken everything from us. You can’t let them do this. You’re my daughter. You’re better than this. You’re better thanthem.”

Aleksandr steps forward before I can say anything back to him. He moves with the same calm, predatory grace he always has, reaching to something at his hip and drawing a compact black pistol. He doesn’t look at Ramil. He looks only at me.

He places the gun in my hand.

The weight is heavy and unfamiliar, but balanced the same way. My fingers close around it automatically. He doesn’t say a word. He simply steps back, Sasha mirroring the movement on my other side.