Page 95 of The King's Pawn
I turn the idea over and over in my mind, searching for some thread of logic I can pull on, some rationale that explains why Nikolai would demand both Morozovs to be under the same roof. Viktor, I understand. But Alina…
Unless cruelty is the point.
The possibilities spiral quickly, each one darker than the last. An execution staged with theatrical poise. Perhaps one designed not just to eliminate problems but to send a message so loud, it will echo through the Pact for decades. A reminder of consequences. Of our hierarchy. That all that love and attachment will get you is your loved one bleeding out at your feet.
I can already imagine it clearly—Viktor first, dispatched with indifference, his life reduced to a footnote in a larger correction. Then Alina, placed directly in my line of sight, her fate used as a weapon meant to cut me open and cauterize whatever weakness Nikolai believes I’ve allowed to fester.
Forcing me to remember exactly why men like us are never allowed to want.
Nikolai has always favored lessons that linger. It will be calculated, symbolic, and mercilessly effective. He will want it to hurt. He will want it to reshape me back into someone obedient and sharp-edged and hollowed out like him. Someone who no longer reaches for what he cannot keep.
Whatever awaits us Friday evening will be brutal.
“Okay,” I manage to say.
“Good,” Nikolai says pleasantly. “I’ll see you then.”
Then the line goes dead.
I lower the phone slowly, staring at the black screen like it might offer me something other than my own reflection staring back at me.
The silence that follows is unbearable.
For the first time in years, I feel utterly powerless.
21
ALINA
The first few days spent at Nikolai Malyshko’s estate pass by strangely.
There is no instruction given to me when the guards bring me to and from my room. No list of rules to follow and no schedule to abide by. No explanation of where I am allowed to go or what is expected of me.
The guards simply step aside and allow me to go wherever without ceremony.
None of them speak to me, not even when I attempt to ask questions or offer polite greetings. Their faces remain impassive beneath the cold white glow of the hallway sconces. The estate’s walls absorb every sound, turning even my breathing into something intrusive and out of place.
These men are not like the ones at Sasha’s estate. Sasha’s men, for all their ruthlessness, are unmistakably human. They curse under their breath. They crack jokes when they think no one else but them is around. They fidget when they have been standing for too long. Some even avert their eyes when they see me pass.
Nikolai’s guards, however, are cut from something much colder.
They move with a coordinated precision that has nothing to do with military discipline and everything to do with their unwavering obedience. They are reapers wearing tailored suits, keeping their hands folded behind their backs until the moment they are ordered to do something else.
At first, I cling to the one small comfort Nikolai offered me when I arrived—his promise that I would be treated as a guest.
The word settles strangely in my chest. Guest, not prisoner. After weeks of living under Sasha’s roof where every kindness came wrapped in control and every silence felt like judgment, I want to believe the word means something here. I want to believe that Nikolai Malyshko, ruler of the Iron Pact, will honor it simply because he said he would.
For a day or two, the illusion almost holds.
The room his guards give me is expansive in a way that feels deliberate rather than indulgent. I can wander the halls freely, pass servants who bow their heads and avert their eyes, drift through rooms that feel like museum exhibits rather than living spaces.
It’s enough that, for a few fleeting moments, I almost forget why I’m here.
Almost.
But by the second day, the unease begins to creep in.
Since my first conversation with Nikolai, he’s been conspicuously absent. For a man who commands an entire city with a flick of his wrist, his silence feels intentional. Less likeindecision and more like strategy. Is he testing me? Letting me stew? Waiting for Sasha to make the first move?
