Chapter 8
I dreamed of him.
Not the polished don in the tailored suit. The raw one — the version I'd glimpsed in the kitchen, unguarded, aching. In the dream, his hands were on my skin, and his mouth was at my throat, not violent but reverent. Whispered words I couldn't quite hear. Heat I couldn't escape.
I woke gasping, tangled in sweat-damp sheets, my body alive with sensation.
*This needs to stop.*
But it didn't stop. Couldn't.
Morning came cold and gray. I showered, dressed in the provided clothes — fitted black jeans, a cashmere sweater that probably cost more than my monthly rent used to be — and went downstairs.
Viktor was already there. Suit on, mask on.
"Dimitri will stay with you today," he said, not looking up from his phone. "I have business in the city."
"What business?"
"The kind you don't need to know about."
I bristled. "I'm tired of being kept in the dark."
He finally looked up. His eyes swept over me — quick but thorough — and something hot flashed before he controlled it.
"You look..." He stopped himself. "Ready for the day."
I folded my arms. "Don't change the subject."
Viktor pocketed his phone. "I'm meeting with someone who has information on Volkov's next move. That's all you need."
"What if I want to come?"
"No."
"Viktor—"
"I said no." His voice hardened. "The city isn't safe for you. Not until Volkov is neutralized."
"And what do I do? Sit here and wait like some princess in a tower?"
He stepped closer. "You stay alive. That's your job."
We were too close again. That gravitational pull between us — relentless, suffocating. His cologne wrapped around me — woodsmoke and spice. My breathing quickened despite my anger.
"Fine," I said, stepping back. "Go."
Something in his jaw tightened, but he said nothing more. He left, and the house felt colder without him.
I hated that I noticed.
Dimitri was quiet company. He sat in the living room, cleaning a gun with methodical precision, barely acknowledging my existence. I tried reading. Tried walking the perimeter. Tried ignoring the itch beneath my skin that told me something was wrong.
By afternoon, the feeling was unbearable.
I was in the library when I heard it — a vehicle. Not Viktor's convoy sound. Something smaller. Faster.
Dimitri heard it too. He was on his feet instantly, gun drawn.
"Stay here," he ordered. "Don't move."
He left the room. I heard him speaking into a radio. Then — silence.
Too much silence.
My heart hammered. I moved to the window and peered through the slats.
A black car sat in the driveway. Engine still running. No one had gotten out.
Then Dimitri's voice, muffled: "Identify yourself—"
A gunshot.
I ducked, hands over my head, a scream caught in my throat. More shots. Glass breaking somewhere. Then running footsteps — not away from me. Toward me.
The library door burst open.
A man stood there — lean, blonde, with ice-blue eyes and a smile that made my blood freeze. He wore a tailored gray suit, pristine despite the violence. A gun hung loosely in his hand.
"Sera Novak," he said pleasantly, like we were meeting at a dinner party. "Or should I say... Sera Karev."
I backed against the bookshelf.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he said, stepping inside. "Unlike Viktor, I actually plan to give you a choice."
"Who are you?"
His smile widened. "Alexei Volkov. Your grandfather's old friend. Your mother's godfather." He tilted his head. "Has Viktor told you about me? I imagine he has. All lies, I'm sure."
My mouth went dry. *Volkov.* Here. In Viktor's safe house. That meant—
"Dimitri," I whispered.
"Alive. Unconscious. I'm not a barbarian." Volkov slid his gun into his jacket. "I came alone, as a gesture of good faith."
"You shot at us three days ago."
"A miscommunication." He waved a hand. "My men were overzealous."
I didn't believe him. Every instinct screamed danger. But his demeanor was so different from what I'd expected — calm, almost paternal.
"What do you want?" I asked.
"To offer you what Viktor won't — freedom." He pulled a chair from the desk and sat, crossing his legs. "You don't have to be anyone's prisoner, Sera. You don't have to be locked away like a treasure in a vault."
"I'm not—"
"Aren't you?" His brow arched. "Has he let you leave? Called anyone? Gone anywhere alone?"
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
"I thought so." Volkov leaned forward. "Your mother ran from him for a reason. She didn't trust him with you. And she was right not to."
The words burrowed into the cracks Viktor had already made.
"Your grandfather — my friend — wanted you to be free. To choose your own path. The fortune, the legacy — it's yours to claim or destroy. But only if you're free to decide."
"And you'd give me that freedom?"
"I'd give you the key to walk away from all of it. Viktor, the blood wars, the legacy. One meeting, one handshake, and you'd disappear with enough money to live ten lifetimes."
It was tempting. God, it was tempting.
But something felt wrong.
"Why would you help me?" I whispered. "What's in it for you?"
Volkov's smile didn't falter. But his eyes — for just a second — went cold.
"Let's just say... I made a promise to your mother."
Before I could respond, the front door exploded open.
Viktor.
He filled the doorway like wrath incarnate — coat flaring, gun raised, face carved from fury so absolute it was almost beautiful.
"Get away from her," he snarled.
Volkov stood slowly, hands raised.
"Ah, Viktor. Impeccable timing, as always."
"I won't say it again."
Volkov glanced at me. "Think about what I said, Sera. The offer stands."
Then he moved toward the door — and Viktor let him pass. I didn't understand why until I saw Viktor's hand trembling. His trigger finger. Restraint. He wanted to kill Volkov, but couldn't. Not yet.
The car drove away.
Viktor strode to me, eyes blazing. His hands gripped my shoulders.
"Did he touch you?"
"No—"
"Did he hurt you?"
"No, Viktor, I'm fine—"
His grip tightened, then released. He stepped back, running a hand through his hair, jaw clenched so hard I thought it might shatter.
"He found this location," Viktor said, voice flat. "He shouldn't have been able to."
"He said he came alone—"
"He's a liar. Everything he told you was designed to manipulate. Every word."
"How do you know what he told me?"
Viktor's eyes snapped to mine. "Because I know him. Better than anyone alive."
I stared at him — this man who killed to protect me, who cooked me eggs at 2 AM, who watched me for months and trembled when he touched me.
"He offered me freedom," I said.
Viktor went very still.
"He said I could walk away. From everything. From you."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Viktor's face — usually so controlled — fractured. Just for a moment. Just enough.
"And?" His voice was barely audible. "Do you want to?"
I looked at him. The man who'd taken me. The man who might destroy me.
The man whose eyes looked like they'd shatter if I said yes.
"I don't know," I whispered.
And that was the most honest thing I'd ever said.
Not the polished don in the tailored suit. The raw one — the version I'd glimpsed in the kitchen, unguarded, aching. In the dream, his hands were on my skin, and his mouth was at my throat, not violent but reverent. Whispered words I couldn't quite hear. Heat I couldn't escape.
I woke gasping, tangled in sweat-damp sheets, my body alive with sensation.
*This needs to stop.*
But it didn't stop. Couldn't.
Morning came cold and gray. I showered, dressed in the provided clothes — fitted black jeans, a cashmere sweater that probably cost more than my monthly rent used to be — and went downstairs.
Viktor was already there. Suit on, mask on.
"Dimitri will stay with you today," he said, not looking up from his phone. "I have business in the city."
"What business?"
"The kind you don't need to know about."
I bristled. "I'm tired of being kept in the dark."
He finally looked up. His eyes swept over me — quick but thorough — and something hot flashed before he controlled it.
"You look..." He stopped himself. "Ready for the day."
I folded my arms. "Don't change the subject."
Viktor pocketed his phone. "I'm meeting with someone who has information on Volkov's next move. That's all you need."
"What if I want to come?"
"No."
"Viktor—"
"I said no." His voice hardened. "The city isn't safe for you. Not until Volkov is neutralized."
"And what do I do? Sit here and wait like some princess in a tower?"
He stepped closer. "You stay alive. That's your job."
We were too close again. That gravitational pull between us — relentless, suffocating. His cologne wrapped around me — woodsmoke and spice. My breathing quickened despite my anger.
"Fine," I said, stepping back. "Go."
Something in his jaw tightened, but he said nothing more. He left, and the house felt colder without him.
I hated that I noticed.
Dimitri was quiet company. He sat in the living room, cleaning a gun with methodical precision, barely acknowledging my existence. I tried reading. Tried walking the perimeter. Tried ignoring the itch beneath my skin that told me something was wrong.
By afternoon, the feeling was unbearable.
I was in the library when I heard it — a vehicle. Not Viktor's convoy sound. Something smaller. Faster.
Dimitri heard it too. He was on his feet instantly, gun drawn.
"Stay here," he ordered. "Don't move."
He left the room. I heard him speaking into a radio. Then — silence.
Too much silence.
My heart hammered. I moved to the window and peered through the slats.
A black car sat in the driveway. Engine still running. No one had gotten out.
Then Dimitri's voice, muffled: "Identify yourself—"
A gunshot.
I ducked, hands over my head, a scream caught in my throat. More shots. Glass breaking somewhere. Then running footsteps — not away from me. Toward me.
The library door burst open.
A man stood there — lean, blonde, with ice-blue eyes and a smile that made my blood freeze. He wore a tailored gray suit, pristine despite the violence. A gun hung loosely in his hand.
"Sera Novak," he said pleasantly, like we were meeting at a dinner party. "Or should I say... Sera Karev."
I backed against the bookshelf.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he said, stepping inside. "Unlike Viktor, I actually plan to give you a choice."
"Who are you?"
His smile widened. "Alexei Volkov. Your grandfather's old friend. Your mother's godfather." He tilted his head. "Has Viktor told you about me? I imagine he has. All lies, I'm sure."
My mouth went dry. *Volkov.* Here. In Viktor's safe house. That meant—
"Dimitri," I whispered.
"Alive. Unconscious. I'm not a barbarian." Volkov slid his gun into his jacket. "I came alone, as a gesture of good faith."
"You shot at us three days ago."
"A miscommunication." He waved a hand. "My men were overzealous."
I didn't believe him. Every instinct screamed danger. But his demeanor was so different from what I'd expected — calm, almost paternal.
"What do you want?" I asked.
"To offer you what Viktor won't — freedom." He pulled a chair from the desk and sat, crossing his legs. "You don't have to be anyone's prisoner, Sera. You don't have to be locked away like a treasure in a vault."
"I'm not—"
"Aren't you?" His brow arched. "Has he let you leave? Called anyone? Gone anywhere alone?"
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
"I thought so." Volkov leaned forward. "Your mother ran from him for a reason. She didn't trust him with you. And she was right not to."
The words burrowed into the cracks Viktor had already made.
"Your grandfather — my friend — wanted you to be free. To choose your own path. The fortune, the legacy — it's yours to claim or destroy. But only if you're free to decide."
"And you'd give me that freedom?"
"I'd give you the key to walk away from all of it. Viktor, the blood wars, the legacy. One meeting, one handshake, and you'd disappear with enough money to live ten lifetimes."
It was tempting. God, it was tempting.
But something felt wrong.
"Why would you help me?" I whispered. "What's in it for you?"
Volkov's smile didn't falter. But his eyes — for just a second — went cold.
"Let's just say... I made a promise to your mother."
Before I could respond, the front door exploded open.
Viktor.
He filled the doorway like wrath incarnate — coat flaring, gun raised, face carved from fury so absolute it was almost beautiful.
"Get away from her," he snarled.
Volkov stood slowly, hands raised.
"Ah, Viktor. Impeccable timing, as always."
"I won't say it again."
Volkov glanced at me. "Think about what I said, Sera. The offer stands."
Then he moved toward the door — and Viktor let him pass. I didn't understand why until I saw Viktor's hand trembling. His trigger finger. Restraint. He wanted to kill Volkov, but couldn't. Not yet.
The car drove away.
Viktor strode to me, eyes blazing. His hands gripped my shoulders.
"Did he touch you?"
"No—"
"Did he hurt you?"
"No, Viktor, I'm fine—"
His grip tightened, then released. He stepped back, running a hand through his hair, jaw clenched so hard I thought it might shatter.
"He found this location," Viktor said, voice flat. "He shouldn't have been able to."
"He said he came alone—"
"He's a liar. Everything he told you was designed to manipulate. Every word."
"How do you know what he told me?"
Viktor's eyes snapped to mine. "Because I know him. Better than anyone alive."
I stared at him — this man who killed to protect me, who cooked me eggs at 2 AM, who watched me for months and trembled when he touched me.
"He offered me freedom," I said.
Viktor went very still.
"He said I could walk away. From everything. From you."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Viktor's face — usually so controlled — fractured. Just for a moment. Just enough.
"And?" His voice was barely audible. "Do you want to?"
I looked at him. The man who'd taken me. The man who might destroy me.
The man whose eyes looked like they'd shatter if I said yes.
"I don't know," I whispered.
And that was the most honest thing I'd ever said.