Chapter 5
I pulled away from him like touching fire.
My body screamed to stay — his warmth, his scent, the impossible security of his arms — but my mind revolted. *Your monster.* As if ownership was romance. As if caging someone was care.
"Don't touch me," I said, stumbling back.
Viktor let me go. His hands dropped to his sides, expression unreadable. But something moved behind those silver eyes — disappointment? Hunger? Pain?
"You asked for the truth," he said.
"The truth doesn't mean you own me."
"I don't expect you to accept it immediately."
"I won't accept it at all." My voice cracked despite my determination. "My mother — if what you're saying is true — she ran from you. There was a reason."
Viktor's jaw tightened. "She ran from everyone. I wasn't the danger."
"Then who was?"
He turned away, walking to the window. The morning light carved his profile in sharp relief — god-like and terrifying.
"There are families in this world," he said quietly, "older than governments. We don't just control cities. We control bloodlines. Legacies. Power passes through specific lines."
"Like royalty," I said.
"Like destiny." He turned back. "Your mother's bloodline was one of the oldest. The Karev line."
The name hit me like a brick. "Karev? My mother's name was Sarah Miller."
"A fake name. To hide."
My legs felt weak. I sank into the nearest chair.
"Your mother was Katarina Karev," Viktor continued. "Last surviving daughter of Alexei Karev — a man who controlled half of Eastern Europe's underground before he was assassinated."
My vision swam. A waitress. That's all I was supposed to be. Coffee and tips and aching feet.
"So I'm — what — mafia royalty?"
"You're the heir to the Karev bloodline. The only one left."
I laughed — raw, broken. "And what does that mean for me? More cages?"
Viktor crossed the room slowly, crouching before my chair until our eyes were level. This close, I noticed things — the faint scar below his left eye, the darker ring around his silver irises, the way his pupils widened slightly when he looked at me.
"It means people will kill for you," he said softly. "Or kill you. And I'm the only thing standing between you and that."
"How convenient for you," I spat.
"You think I enjoy this?" Something cracked in his voice. Just a fracture, sealed instantly. But I heard it. "You think I wanted to feel—"
He stopped. Stood abruptly. Turned away.
"Feel what?" I whispered.
Silence.
"Viktor."
He didn't answer. But his hands were fists at his sides, knuckles white.
"Feel what?" I pressed, standing.
He spun on me — and for one heartbeat, the mask was gone. Raw, exposed. Those silver eyes blazed with something so intense it stole my breath.
"Everything," he said. "Since the moment I first saw your face."
The air between us ignited.
I should have stepped back. Should have reminded myself he was a criminal, a killer, a man who'd bought me like cargo.
But my feet moved forward.
"When?" I breathed. "When did you first see me?"
His chest rose and fell. "Six months ago. You were leaving the diner. It was raining. Your hair was wet and you were laughing at something on your phone."
Six months. He'd been watching for six months.
"You could have just... talked to me," I said.
His smile was bitter. "And said what? 'Hello, you were promised to me before birth, I've been hunting you for twenty-three years, and looking at you makes me forget I'm a monster'?"
My breath hitched.
He stepped closer. "Every night for six months, I watched you walk home alone. Every night, I had men ensuring no one touched you. And every night, I told myself to walk away."
"But you didn't."
"I couldn't."
The space between us was nothing now. His breath ghosted across my forehead.
"This isn't fair," I whispered.
"No," he agreed. "It isn't."
His hand lifted again — slower this time — and his fingers slid into my hair. Not gripping. Cradling. I closed my eyes, hating my body for responding, hating the electricity that pooled in my stomach.
"I won't force anything," he murmured. "But I won't pretend I don't want you."
My eyes opened. His were right there — storm-colored, desperate, burning.
"You're dangerous," I said.
"To everyone else." His forehead touched mine. "Never to you."
I stood on the edge of something irreversible. One step forward, and I'd fall into him. One step back, and maybe I'd survive intact.
I took a breath.
Then the window exploded.
Glass erupted inward. Viktor's body slammed against mine, driving us both to the floor. His weight covered me completely — chest to chest, his arms caging my head.
Gunfire erupted outside. Shouting. Russian. The crack of automatic weapons.
"Stay down," Viktor growled, his voice shifting from velvet to iron.
He was off me in a heartbeat, a gun materializing in his hand from somewhere I hadn't seen. His men poured into the room. More glass shattered. Smoke billowed.
And through it all, one name cut through the chaos — shouted by the scarred man from earlier:
"Volkov's here!"
Viktor's eyes found mine across the room. Something savage and protective ignited in them.
"Get her to the vault," he commanded. "Now."
Hands grabbed me. I was dragged away.
The last thing I saw was Viktor walking toward the gunfire, weapon raised, face carved from stone.
And I realized — with sickening, terrifying clarity — that I didn't want him to die.
My body screamed to stay — his warmth, his scent, the impossible security of his arms — but my mind revolted. *Your monster.* As if ownership was romance. As if caging someone was care.
"Don't touch me," I said, stumbling back.
Viktor let me go. His hands dropped to his sides, expression unreadable. But something moved behind those silver eyes — disappointment? Hunger? Pain?
"You asked for the truth," he said.
"The truth doesn't mean you own me."
"I don't expect you to accept it immediately."
"I won't accept it at all." My voice cracked despite my determination. "My mother — if what you're saying is true — she ran from you. There was a reason."
Viktor's jaw tightened. "She ran from everyone. I wasn't the danger."
"Then who was?"
He turned away, walking to the window. The morning light carved his profile in sharp relief — god-like and terrifying.
"There are families in this world," he said quietly, "older than governments. We don't just control cities. We control bloodlines. Legacies. Power passes through specific lines."
"Like royalty," I said.
"Like destiny." He turned back. "Your mother's bloodline was one of the oldest. The Karev line."
The name hit me like a brick. "Karev? My mother's name was Sarah Miller."
"A fake name. To hide."
My legs felt weak. I sank into the nearest chair.
"Your mother was Katarina Karev," Viktor continued. "Last surviving daughter of Alexei Karev — a man who controlled half of Eastern Europe's underground before he was assassinated."
My vision swam. A waitress. That's all I was supposed to be. Coffee and tips and aching feet.
"So I'm — what — mafia royalty?"
"You're the heir to the Karev bloodline. The only one left."
I laughed — raw, broken. "And what does that mean for me? More cages?"
Viktor crossed the room slowly, crouching before my chair until our eyes were level. This close, I noticed things — the faint scar below his left eye, the darker ring around his silver irises, the way his pupils widened slightly when he looked at me.
"It means people will kill for you," he said softly. "Or kill you. And I'm the only thing standing between you and that."
"How convenient for you," I spat.
"You think I enjoy this?" Something cracked in his voice. Just a fracture, sealed instantly. But I heard it. "You think I wanted to feel—"
He stopped. Stood abruptly. Turned away.
"Feel what?" I whispered.
Silence.
"Viktor."
He didn't answer. But his hands were fists at his sides, knuckles white.
"Feel what?" I pressed, standing.
He spun on me — and for one heartbeat, the mask was gone. Raw, exposed. Those silver eyes blazed with something so intense it stole my breath.
"Everything," he said. "Since the moment I first saw your face."
The air between us ignited.
I should have stepped back. Should have reminded myself he was a criminal, a killer, a man who'd bought me like cargo.
But my feet moved forward.
"When?" I breathed. "When did you first see me?"
His chest rose and fell. "Six months ago. You were leaving the diner. It was raining. Your hair was wet and you were laughing at something on your phone."
Six months. He'd been watching for six months.
"You could have just... talked to me," I said.
His smile was bitter. "And said what? 'Hello, you were promised to me before birth, I've been hunting you for twenty-three years, and looking at you makes me forget I'm a monster'?"
My breath hitched.
He stepped closer. "Every night for six months, I watched you walk home alone. Every night, I had men ensuring no one touched you. And every night, I told myself to walk away."
"But you didn't."
"I couldn't."
The space between us was nothing now. His breath ghosted across my forehead.
"This isn't fair," I whispered.
"No," he agreed. "It isn't."
His hand lifted again — slower this time — and his fingers slid into my hair. Not gripping. Cradling. I closed my eyes, hating my body for responding, hating the electricity that pooled in my stomach.
"I won't force anything," he murmured. "But I won't pretend I don't want you."
My eyes opened. His were right there — storm-colored, desperate, burning.
"You're dangerous," I said.
"To everyone else." His forehead touched mine. "Never to you."
I stood on the edge of something irreversible. One step forward, and I'd fall into him. One step back, and maybe I'd survive intact.
I took a breath.
Then the window exploded.
Glass erupted inward. Viktor's body slammed against mine, driving us both to the floor. His weight covered me completely — chest to chest, his arms caging my head.
Gunfire erupted outside. Shouting. Russian. The crack of automatic weapons.
"Stay down," Viktor growled, his voice shifting from velvet to iron.
He was off me in a heartbeat, a gun materializing in his hand from somewhere I hadn't seen. His men poured into the room. More glass shattered. Smoke billowed.
And through it all, one name cut through the chaos — shouted by the scarred man from earlier:
"Volkov's here!"
Viktor's eyes found mine across the room. Something savage and protective ignited in them.
"Get her to the vault," he commanded. "Now."
Hands grabbed me. I was dragged away.
The last thing I saw was Viktor walking toward the gunfire, weapon raised, face carved from stone.
And I realized — with sickening, terrifying clarity — that I didn't want him to die.