Page 137 of Marrying My Ex's Brother
“You are still my son.”
“No.” The word is simple. “You do not get to claim that word when it suits you,” Yaromir says. “You spent years making sure I understood exactly where I stood.”
“And now you think stealing from me will heal old wounds?”
“No,” Yaromir says. “It pays old debts.”
Kirill’s eyes darken. “Be careful,” he says. “You are building enemies faster than you are building an empire.”
“I build both well.”
“You think the men following you will stay loyal when blood starts spilling?”
Yaromir’s voice drops. “I know what they say about me. They call me a monster, and they’re absolutely right, because I fucking am one.”
Kirill leans closer. His voice is low enough that only we can hear. “You have taken territory. You have taken men. You have taken a bride meant for my family. Keep pushing, and I will remind you what happens to bastards who confuse patience with weakness.”
The word lands like a slap.
Bastards.
Yaromir goes completely still. I feel the change in him before I see it. His hand leaves my back. For one terrifying second, I think he will hit his father in the lobby the way he hit Dmitri in the bathroom.
I slide my hand into his. His fingers are rigid at first, but then they close around mine. Hard. Not hurting me but still holding on.
He doesn’t look at me, but I know he understands.
Not here.
Not for him.
Yaromir’s voice is calm when he answers. “That is the last time you use that word for me.”
Kirill watches our joined hands. Something cold and satisfied touches his expression, as if he has found a new weakness. “You should teach your wife when to stay out of family matters.”
Yaromir smiles then. It’s small. It’s terrible. “She is family now.”
Dmitri looks at me like the words physically hurt.
Kirill’s eyes move to the emeralds at my throat again. “Then I hope she survives what that means.”
Yaromir steps forward, but I squeeze his hand.
He stops. Barely.
The tension between them feels like a wire pulled too tight. One wrong word and it will snap.
Then Viktor appears beside us. “The car is ready,” he says.
Yaromir doesn’t move immediately.
Neither does Kirill.
Finally, Yaromir turns first. Not away in defeat. Away like the conversation has become unworthy of more time. He leads me toward the doors.
My legs feel steady until we step outside into the cold. Then I realize I’ve been holding my breath. The press noise rises beyond the security line, cameras flashing against the night. Yaromir keeps my hand in his, his grip still tight. The emeralds are cold against my throat.
Before we reach the car, I look back once.
