Page 68 of Savage Pakhan

“We’ll have to burn the couch. There’s no saving that.”

“Perfect. It will give Mia a chance to burn her wedding dress. I want to gather some ashes from it and send it to Ivan.”

Nikolai tosses his head back, cackling like an evil villain. “I like it. Mia makes you feral.”

“Mia opened my eyes. I have raised a terrible son. His actions are my fault. I owe Mia.” I start walking down the steps and Nikolai snags my arm, uncaring about the dead body at the base of the steps or the blood on the walls.

“Ivan isn’t your fault,” he states, harshness wrapped in the words.

“How is it not? I am his father. You should have read the things he has done to her. He should be dead for touching her and speaking to her in those ways.”

“Exactly. You didn’t teach him that. He is a grown man. I’ve was there every step of the way. Don’t forget that. He is sick.” He taps his temple. “In the head. I noticed it at a young age, and I know you did too. It’s why you tried so hard to instill the good qualities in him. He never understood the good parts, only the bad, and that’s not on you. That’s on this.” He taps his temple again. “The mind. And his isn’t right.”

I sidestep a puddle of blood and inch by a piece of scalp sticking to the wall.

Just another day as Aleksandr Bykov.

I jump off the bottom step and snag his arms while Nikolai grabs the legs, then climbs the staircase backwards.

I can’t help it. I start to laugh.

“What?” He asks, smoke swaying from his lips.

“You say he’s sick in the head but here we are loading bodies in the van.”

“That’s different,” he shrugs. “Not the same.”

“It’s kind of the same,” I argue.

“No. You were protecting Mia. I’d do the exact same thing for the person I love.”

I almost trip going up the steps. “You know?”

He rolls his eyes. “Da. I know. I’ve known for three years. It’s the way you look at her.”

“I didn’t mean to fall in love with her. It’s impossible not to. I didn’t think we had a chance⁠—”

“Because you’re ancient.”

“Because of Ivan.”

“Same thing. It only proves you’re old.”

We toss the second body in the trunk and the guy’s head slams against the metal floor with a hard thud. If he wasn’t dead, that hit might have killed him.

“Fuck you.”

He flicks the cigarette on the ground, stomps the embers out with this foot, and grins. “You aren’t my type.”

I throw my cigarette on the ground next. “I’m everyone’s type.”

He shoves me, hitting me in the spot that’s sore and bruised. I groan from agony.

“Do you have any wounds that need stitches?” he asks.

“No. Just some nasty bruises. I’m fine.”

We step inside the house, both of us heading to the couch. From the bottom, we pick up the sofa, and carry it outside where I usually burn any and all evidence.