“Go to sleep,zayka,” I murmur into her hair.
She doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t pull away. She closes her eyes, and for the first time in my life the silence doesn’t feel like a threat. It feels like a truce.
But as I watch her breathe, I know the truce is temporary. Tomorrow, the gala begins. Tomorrow, the wolves will be circling. And tomorrow, I have to remember how to be the man who can let her go if it means keeping her alive.
Right now, though? Right now, she’s exactly where she belongs.
22
LENA
Consciousness returns in slow, warm waves. The first thing I feel is the weight of an arm draped across my waist—heavy, solid, and possessive even in sleep. The second thing I feel is the heat of a broad chest against my back. I’m tucked into the curve of Razvan’s body like a missing piece of a puzzle, and for one blissful, hazy minute I don’t try to move.
I burrow deeper into the linens, a small, involuntary groan of sleepy satisfaction escaping my throat. The scent of him—sandalwood, cold rain, and something uniquelyhim—is everywhere. It’s the safest I’ve felt since the night the closet door closed on my life.
Then, the memory of the serpent hits me.
It’s like a bucket of ice water over my head. My eyes snap open, the gold-leaf molding of the ceiling coming into sharp, accusing focus.What are you doing?my subconscious screams.This is the man who killed your father. This is the hand that held the gun. And you’re cuddling him like a lover.
Nausea, sharp and acidic, rolls through my gut. The guilt is a physical weight, crushing the air out of my lungs. Every inch of skin that touches his feels like it’s being branded with shame. I am a traitor. I am a daughter who has forgotten the blood on the floor in favor of the heat in a bed.
I pull away abruptly, rolling to the edge of the mattress. The sudden absence of his warmth makes me shiver, but I welcome the chill. It’s honest.
I look back over my shoulder and freeze. Razvan is awake. He’s propped up on one elbow, his dark hair tousled, watching me with an expression I’ve never seen. His eyes aren’t cold or calculating. They’re soft. Vulnerable, almost. The predator has been replaced by something human, and it terrifies me more than his rage ever could.
He reaches out, his fingers grazing the indentation I just left in the pillow. “Lena.”
I can’t look at him. I can’t let him see the war inside me. I scramble out of bed, my nakedness feeling like a vulnerability I need to hide immediately. I grab my robe from my suitcase and tie the belt so tight it hurts.
“Last night was a mistake,” I say, my voice trembling. I’m staring at a painting on the far wall, refusing to meet his gaze. “It was the hotel. The city. I was…I wasn’t myself.”
“You were exactly yourself,” he says, his voice a low, steady rumble.
“No. I hate you, Razvan. I haven’t forgotten. Don’t think for one second that because I…because we…” I swallow hard, the words sticking in my throat. “It won’t happen again. I promise myself that.”
I walk into the bathroom and lock the door, leaning my forehead against the cold wood. I catch my reflection in the mirror—puffy eyes, bitten lips, the flush of a woman who was thoroughly possessed just hours ago. I look like a stranger, a victim who fell in love with her cage.
By the time the sun sets over the Neva, the “truce” is dead.
The afternoon was spent in a series of tense, icy silences as we prepared for the charity gala. For the first time, Razvan didn’t bring me a garment bag. He stood by the window, nursing a black coffee, and told me to choose my own “armor.”
I expected a fight. I had a champagne-colored silk gown ready to go, something modest and elegant that didn’t screamBratva Property. When he didn’t argue, when he simply nodded and said, “As long as you can walk in it,” I felt a strange, hollow disappointment. I wanted the argument. I wanted the friction to remind me why I hated him.
Now, we are at the Winter Palace, or at least a venue that looks like it. The gala is a sea of black ties and floor-length gowns, a masquerade of philanthropy over a foundation of blood money.
Razvan is the sun everyone else orbits. He moves through the room with a lethality that is only sharpened by his tuxedo. I stay at his side, my hand resting on his forearm—lightly, carefully avoiding the wrist where the serpent hides beneath his cuff.
“Smile, Lena,” he murmurs as we approach a group of northern family heads. “The sharks can smell the guilt on you from across the room.”
“Then maybe you should stop standing so close,” I whisper back.
The night is an endless parade of measured words and veiled threats. Every conversation is a chess match. I feel the eyes of the senior wives on me—cold, appraising, wondering if the Sokolova girl is strong enough to survive the Volkov bed. I play my part. I nod, I sip champagne I don’t want, and I pretend that my skin doesn’t burn everywhere Razvan touches me.
We leave around midnight. The adrenaline of the performance is fading, leaving me exhausted and raw.
We climb into the back of the Maybach. Mike is at the wheel, his eyes alert in the rearview mirror. The city is quiet, the streetlights reflecting off the dark river as we head back toward the hotel.
“You did well tonight,” Razvan says, his voice cutting through the dark of the car. He’s sitting on his side of the seat, giving me the space I demanded this morning. “Arkady was impressed. That’s a difficult feat.”