I think I don’t like this place.
Scratch that. I’m sure I don’t.
Ever since we got here, it’s been one freak show after another. And that’s saying something, considering all the disasters I left behind in Russia.
First, there’s a woman who fawned over the unfeeling monster Kirill, but called me suspicious. Then, we upgraded to a strange mother who flat out tried to kick her son out the moment he walked in, and then proceeded to slap him.
I wasn’t even through processing all those events when Kirill announced so coldly and emotionlessly that his father had died.
As in, the man I came all the way here for to uncover what happened to my family and the reason they were targeted is gone.
I had all these strategies in mind to get close to him, but none of them will work now for obvious reasons.
I’m still trying to think about this fallout when another crazy woman lunges at Kirill’s back while holding a big kitchen knife.
Usually, people freeze up in situations like these. I certainly did a long time ago when my cousins were slaughtered in front of me.
I couldn’t move and I even considered dying right there and then.
However, that’s not the case right now. I don’t know if it’s the military training, but my reflexes have become sharper, and my response time has gone from average to lightning speed.
In a fraction of a second, I grab Kirill by the shoulder and start to flip him around. I realize too late that if I shove him out of the way, I’ll be the one who’s stabbed—in my still-healing shoulder.
That doesn’t stop me, though. Just when I think I’ve successfully turned Kirill, he effortlessly pushes me away with a strength that throws me against the wall. Pain explodes in my injured shoulder, but my good one takes most of the hit.
The knife slashes the side of his arm, and blood pours out, soaking his white shirt in bright red, then drips onto the floor.
Due to the force of her lunge, the girl, who looks about my age, crashes against the wall next to me. In no time, she stands upright, a shimmering rage shining in her eyes that are a shade darker than Kirill’s. Her hair is blonde, though, and long, stopping at the hem of her silk sleeping shirt and getting tangled with the buttons.
She tightens her hold on the knife that’s dripping with blood and stares pointedly at Kirill.
He doesn’t even pay attention to his wound or show any signs of discomfort.
Sometimes, I wonder if he’s human or, in fact, a robot in the form of a person. The more I see his cold reaction to events, the surer I am that his insides are icier than those frightening eyes.
“Hi, Karina. Does this welcome mean you missed me?”
“I’m going to kill you!” she snarls from between clenched teeth, then runs in his direction again.
This time, I’m quick enough to grab her from behind. I twist her free arm, and when she starts to struggle, I use force to pin it to her back.
She waves the knife blindly in the air and nearly cuts me. Actually, she does, judging by the delayed burn in my neck.
But I manage to twist her other hand and turn it around. She loses her grip on the knife, and it clatters to the ground. The girl still kicks and thrashes against me, her full attention on Kirill.
“Fight me, you fucking coward!” she shrieks. “Fight me!”
Is this tiny girl really asking Kirill to fight her? Even those in the army never did that, knowing full well they would lose.
“Let her go,” he tells me with deceptive calm.
“But she’s trying to kill you.”
“Take the knife away and release her.”
Slowly, I loosen my hold, then instantly make for the knife and hold it behind my back to be sure.
The girl, Karina, jumps at him, face red, and starts cursing in a stream of unintelligible words.
She does sound American when speaking in English. So did his brother and mother earlier. In fact, so does Kirill sometimes. They’re really Russian royalty in the States.
“You grew up, Kara,” he says in a weird affectionate tone that I’ve never heard before.
She punches him in the chest. “No thanks to you, asshole, jerk, fucking bastard. I was praying you would die every day. Why did you come back alive?”
“Cat with nine lives?”
“Go die. I hate you, I hate you!!”
“I know,” he says with superhuman understanding and strokes her shoulder. “Would you hate me any less if I told you Father died?”
“Fuck you and him!” She kicks him in the leg, then stomps in the direction she came from.
Then she turns around and points a finger at me, then at her red wrist. “You’re gonna pay for this, you stupid motherfucker!”
Then she’s out.
That little—
I’m about to give the psycho a piece of my mind when Kirill steps in front of me and, as if sensing my thoughts, he shakes his head. “She’s mentally unwell. Don’t mind her.”
“Did you forget the part where she was trying to kill you? If she’s mentally unwell, maybe she should be admitted to a psych ward.”
“She’s not violent…except for the incident just now.”
“No shit.”
I inspect the cut on his arm, and my hands get soaked with blood. It’s a huge gash that slashes through some of his tattoos. “This will definitely need stitches. If you could remove me so easily, you could’ve blocked her attack, too.”
“I could’ve, huh?”
“You totally could, but you chose not to. Why?”
“She needed to get that one in, or her anger wouldn’t have subsided.”
“You’re really…weird.”
“Makes two of us.”
I clear my throat. “Is there a doctor in this place? There must be with all the houses and departments. Can’t you ask him to look at this—”
My words are cut off when a warm finger traces the pale skin near the pulse point of my throat. He’s stroking the injury, I realize. “Next time, when something like this happens, do not, under any circumstances, put your life in jeopardy for me.”
I try to swallow, but it’s stuck, just like my breathing. “Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do as a bodyguard?”
“No. There are always better solutions that don’t include being a martyr.”
“I…wasn’t trying to be one.”
“Really, now?”
My lips part, and my train of thought flies out the window because his finger has moved up. He’s fully exploring my throat now, tracing, touching, and leaving an inferno of goosebumps in his wake.
I can’t for the life of me focus on anything other than his sensually dark touch. The feel of his skin on mine is forbidden yet so addictive. So raw. So…wrong.
“You were ready to allow yourself to be stabbed in the same shoulder that’s injured because you were playing the martyr. That business won’t happen again, am I understood?”
“No.”
“No?” The edge in his voice would send anyone running, including me, but I have to put my foot down about this.
“I don’t understand how Viktor and the others claim to be your guards while allowing your so-called family members to attack you. Whatever the reason, I’m not like them. You hired me to be your bodyguard, and I intend to do my job to the fullest.”
“Sasha…” It’s a warning laced with an unspoken threat. His icy eyes shimmer with the hint of danger that’s part of who he is.
He’s a cold, emotionless man who doesn’t seem to care about the danger he brought on himself the moment he stepped foot in his house.
No wonder he chose freezing Russia over this.
He might be emotionless, but I’m not. Kirill has saved my life more than once, and I’m simply not going to stand by when his own life is in danger.
“Yes, sir?”
“Drop the innocent tone, and don’t fuck with me.” His hand flexes on my throat.
I have this weird sensation that I’m caught in the web of a lethal spider. No, maybe I’m trapped in the lion’s den.
“What did I tell you before I agreed to bring you with me?”
“My life is yours.” I speak without difficulty, but I can feel his hand on my throat with every word.
“That’s right. It’s mine.” He digs his thumb into my pulse point. “So when I tell you not to throw it away, you fucking listen.”
“I won’t. If you’re not in danger.”
I can see the shadow falling over his features, and I’m not sure if he’ll snap my neck or squeeze it to death.
For a moment, he goes for the second. His grip tightens, and I’m robbed of oxygen in a swift movement.
But then he lets go as fast as he grabbed me. “Go.”
“How about your wound?” I realize I’m speaking breathily, almost too much so.
“Are you a doctor now?”
“No, but I can get you one.”
He narrows his eyes for a fraction of a second before they revert back to normal.
“Let me try to stop the bleeding first. Do you have a first aid kit somewhere?”
He nods down the hall and starts walking that way without paying me any attention. I end up following anyway because his wound is dripping on the hallway carpet and definitely ruining it.
Once we reach the last door, he pushes it open and slips inside, then switches on the light.
A large room with an en-suite bathroom comes into view. There’s a black leather seating area and a king-size bed on a high platform, but otherwise, it’s too sterile-looking.
Kirill sits on the bed and juts his chin to the side. “It’s in the bathroom. Make it quick.”
I nod and rush inside, then fetch the kit and come back. My feet falter when I find him unbuttoning his shirt, slowly revealing the hard ridges of his muscles before throwing it to the side.
There’s no doubt that Kirill’s physique was sculpted by a god. He’s not too bulky, nor too lean, but he has a perfect eight-pack and wide shoulders that fit his height.
Various tattoos swirl around his biceps and sides, giving him a darker edge. They’re different in shape and form, ranging from a skull to a gun, a knife, birds, and snakes.
It’s like his body is a map for these haunting images.
He places both hands on the bed and leans against them. “Are you going to stand there all day?”
I blink twice, then jog forward and nearly drop the kit in my haste. Through it all, Kirill watches me with no change in his expression, like a damn robot.
I try not to ogle his physique and tattoos as I sit beside him and start cleaning the wound. He doesn’t whine, wince, or express any discomfort, but then again, I didn’t expect him to.
Silence falls between us, short of any noise I make with my extremely careful movements. Despite my best efforts to act natural, I’m in a state of hyperawareness. My skin tingles, and my ears are so sensitive that they feel hotter with each passing second.
I’m almost sure it’s due to being in this setting with Kirill. Maybe I should’ve let him get a doctor and deal with the wound on his own, after all.
“Why do your family members hate you?” I blurt to dissolve the tension, then follow up with, “If you don’t mind telling me, of course.”
“Why does anyone hate? You’d probably have to ask them that.”
So he won’t answer. Got it.
“I’m sorry about your father,” I whisper, triggering my own feeling of emptiness for losing the only lead I had.
Unless he left some evidence behind? He seemed like the type of man who documented important things.
“I’m not.” Kirill stares at the ceiling, seeming lost in a world no one can reach.
I want to peek into this world. I want to witness a fraction of what a person like him thinks about. His brain must work differently from the rest of ours.
“He was old and sick and had to die one day. This is as good a day as any,” he continues.
He really doesn’t care, does he?
Not about the men who died because they followed him to Russia or about Nadia and Nicholas, who welcomed us into their home.
Not even about his own father.
No wonder he’s hated by every member of his family. Sometimes, I hate him, too.
I also hate that I’m indebted to him. Not that he’ll hold me accountable for it, but he has helped me multiple times, and I can’t just take without giving something in return.
“So what happens now?” I ask after I finish cleaning the blood.
“Now”—a slow smirk tilts his lips—“I take over the world, Sasha. And you’ll be right by my side.”
