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MAKSIM

The gravel crunches too loudly beneath my tires as I pull into the private archery range, like the place is announcing my arrival to an audience I don’t have the patience for. I kill the engine but don’t move right away, my fingers still curled around the steering wheel, my jaw locked so tightly it aches.

Anton’s Mansory Range Rover is already parked nearby. So is Alex’s matte-black G-Wagon, both of them sitting there like sentries.

Of course they’re here.

When Anton decides it’s “brother time,” you show up. No excuses. No disappearing act. Even if your mind is trying to claw its way out of your skull and your body still feels like a crime scene.

I shift in the seat and immediately regret it. A deep, bruised ache pulses low in my ass, radiating up my spine with every small movement. Three days later and I still feel him—Tristan—thick, relentless, buried to the hilt while he called me baby and filled me until I couldn’t tell where he ended and I began. My throat is still faintly tender from his grip. The bite mark on my shoulder throbs under my shirt like a filthy secret I keep catching in the mirror.

He wasn’t lying when he said I’d feel him for days.

Perfect. Exactly what I need before facing my brothers. A walking reminder that I let our family lawyer bend me over my father’s desk and fuck me senselessly.

I shove the car door open and step out before more memory can sink its teeth in deeper. The afternoon air is crisp, carrying the scent of cut grass and oiled wood. It should be calming. Instead, it irritates me, like everything else today. Everything about this place feels designed for people who have their shit together. People who can stand in silence without their thoughts turning feral.

So, obviously, not me.

The outdoor range stretches ahead under clean lights, targets lined up in the distance like silent enemies waiting to be punished. I spot Anton first—tall, composed, already nocking an arrow like he’s got all the time in the world. Alex stands a few feet away with his arms crossed, expression blank in that way that means he’s either perfectly calm or imagining violence. With him, honestly, it could go either way.

There’s still tension between Alex and me.

I know what happened was weeks ago, but it’s still there, ugly between us like broken glass neither of us feels like cleaning up. I know he has every right to be angry. I haven’t apologized. I still don’t know how. I don’t even know why it was easier to apologize to Lucas than to look my own brother in the eye and admit I was wrong.

I’m also upset with him because he’s never looked at me like that before. Not once. I’ve spent years rage-baiting him, pushing every button I can find, and he’s always been patient with me. Always. But that day… he felt like a stranger. If Lucas hadn’t stepped in, I’m almost sure Alex would have put his hands on me. The thought still stings more than I want to admit.

There’s a tightness in my chest that won’t settle and is lodged too deep to reach. I can’t tell whether it’s irritation, dread, or some pathetic kind of hope that maybe today won’t go completely to shit. I used to like days like this. I used to look forward to being with my brothers, even if half our conversations sounded like arguments and the other half like threats wrapped in affection.

Now all I feel is restless.

Part of me wants to turn around, get back in the car, and disappear before anyone says something that makes this day worse. Maybe it’s just my brain doing what it does best by taking every chance at peace and grinding it into dust before I can enjoy it.

All I know is that I shouldn’t be here.

And yet I came anyway.

Because there’s one rule Petrovs don’t break unless they’ve got a death wish or a very convincing excuse: You don’t ignore family.

I roll my shoulders, drag my usual half-smirk into place, and start walking towards them, even though each step drags Tristan back into my body all over again.

“Well,” I drawl as I get close, my voice thick with sarcasm, “if it isn’t the mandatory brotherhood gathering. Should I have brought ice cream, or are we just shooting arrows at each other’s egos in this heat?”

“You’re late,” Anton says.

His voice is hard as gravel, and he doesn’t even glance at me. He just lifts his bow, settles into position, and draws the string back with perfect focus. His stance is clean and balanced in that deeply irritating way Anton does everything. Then he lets go.

The string snaps softly.

The arrow cuts through the air and lands dead center in the target with a neat, satisfying thud.

“Wow,” I say, genuinely impressed even though I’ve seen him do this a thousand times. “Would you look at that. Still disgustingly good at everything.”

Anton says nothing.

Alex’s eyes meet mine for one brief second, and for some stupid reason, I almost say something. I don’t know what. Hi. Sorry. You still mad? Want to fistfight about it? Take your pick. But before I can decide, he looks away and turns his attention back to his bow like I’m not even there. Irritation spikes fast and hot, flooding through me before I can control it. My jaw tightens, teeth grinding as I roll my eyes hard enough to hurt.

“Come on,” Anton says, gesturing for me to stand between him and Alex.