Page 34 of The King's Pawn
Nikolai would not have bothered pretending she was a guest. He would have stripped her of every comfort within hours, turned her into a warning to anyone foolish enough to believe blood ties offer protection, and punished her every moment she decided to open her mouth and defy him. With him, there would have beenno patience, only the cold inevitability that would lead to her rotting away in a prison cell under his estate.
Compared to them, what she has here is mercy. But I know better than to voice that argument.
Suffering is not comparative to the person enduring it. Telling her that others would have been crueler does not make my control feel any less suffocating to her. It does not make the cameras disappear or the doors unlock or her future suddenly belong to her again.
And perhaps that is the most dangerous truth of all.
Because if I go to her now and try to explain myself, to justify my choices, to frame this as protection rather than possession, it will not be strategy motivating me. It will be something else.
Something… softer, and far more reckless.
I cut the feed.
This is not a desire I can afford to indulge. Honesty, in this context, would be sentiment. And as my sister said, that is also a luxury that will not survive long in this world.
The morning breaksgrey and heavy with a dawn that promises nothing good.
Low clouds press down on the estate, muting the world into shades of steel and ash. There is no sun to greet the day, no warmth filtering through the tall windows. Only a dull, persistent light that makes everything feel suspended and unfinished.
I have already been awake for hours. What little rest I managed was shallow and fractured, interrupted by thoughts that refuse to be caged. I spent most of the night staring at the ceiling, listening to the low hum of the estate while cataloging contingencies out of habit rather than necessity.
I am halfway through my first coffee when my phone rings.
The vibration against the polished wood of my desk is sharp and intrusive. It irritates me instantly. Not because of the interruption, but because of what it implies. Phones do not ring this early unless something has already gone wrong, and frankly, I’m not in the mood to be dealing with anything today.
I don’t need to look at the screen to know who it is.
Some instincts are honed well enough over years that they no longer require confirmation. They live somewhere deeper than thought, coiled and ready, whispering warnings long before the mind catches up.
Still, I glance down and see a familiar name.
Aleksandr Volkov.
I nearly sigh.
Of course it’s him.
Calling far earlier than etiquette would ever allow, far earlier than he would risk on a normal day, knowing my patience. Volkov is a man who prides himself on appearances and civility, layered over cruelty and following the unspoken rules that keep men like us from tearing each other apart prematurely.
For him to abandon that decorum means one thing and one thing only.
This call is not social.
I answer without greeting. “What.”
There is a pause on the other end of the line that is brief but telling. Volkov is used to being indulged, used to people currying favor with him before he speaks. My refusal to play along never sits well with him, and normally, that alone would be enough to sour his tone.
However, today, it seems, is a different story.
When he speaks, the smug satisfaction that usually colors his voice is gone, stripped away to reveal something closer to unease.
“There’s been another bombing,” he says.
I don’t react or shift in my chair or tighten my grip on the phone. My expression remains carefully neutral even as the emotions settle in my chest with cold familiarity.
“Local to you,” he finishes.
That earns him my full attention.
