Page 30 of The Darkness is Calling

Same thing, either way.

Chapter 7

Ekaterina

I manage to keep my cold and indifferent mask in place until the moment Voron closes the bathroom door behind him.

The second he does, my legs give out and I drop to the floor, my hands trembling in my lap. My eyes sting, and a wave of tears threatens to flood my vision while I struggle to breathe past the knot in my throat.

Fear has embedded itself in my body, mixed with a strange sensation that makes my blood boil through frozen veins. It is a feeling I do not recognize, and it frightens me just as much as Pakhan’s threats.

My father always warned me that my sharp tongue would cost me my life one day, but in that regard, I take after my mother. He often repeated that if cancer had not taken her five years ago, there would have come a day when she drove some Pakhan insane, making him lose control because of her.

Her answer, whenever my father warned her, was always, “Not if I kill him first.”

And that is exactly why my mother was the kind of woman I admired and loved from all my heart.

Now neither of them is by my side.

Instead, I am trapped in the house of one of the most dangerous men I know.

Not only in his house, but in his bedroom.

By the time I hear the shower turn off, I manage to calm down a little. More importantly, I manage to put the mask of indifference back on my face.

I wipe away the traces of the tears that escaped my control and get up from the floor, this time settling into an armchair in the corner of the bedroom.

The light around me is bright, but I feel as if I am sitting in darkness, like a small child lost in a world she once trusted, trapped in a corner of hell where other people’s blood is worn proudly on thousand-euro suits and almost angelic faces.

If I knew nothing about him, I would have said some child had played a terrible prank on him and splashed him with red paint. But there is nothing innocent about this man, and children are surely taught to stay far away from him.

Baba Yaga.

The bathroom door suddenly opens, making my heart jump again. But my fear is replaced by the dangerous heat I felt the first time I met him.

The major problem is that now my eyes trace every perfectly defined muscle and every tattoo loaded with more meaning than any mere mortal could imagine.

But I was raised in the Bratva, so I know the black stars on his shoulders signify supreme authority. Once, they were the symbol of the Vor, but for many years now, some very powerful Pakhans have adopted them too. Then there is the cracked crown tattooed over his chest, which means his power was earned, not inherited, while on the other side of his torso there is a cross. Along his ribs, a highly detailed raven looks like a personification of the man himself.

Every design carries a powerful meaning, meant to send a direct message to those who see them and are not allowed to ask what they mean. You never ask a Pakhan what his tattoos represent, just as you will never see skulls, famous quotes, or meaningless drawings on his body.

A Pakhan’s body is a lethal declaration.

And the one standing in front of me now, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, cannot help but make my blood heat with the way he looks.

I must admit he is the most beautiful man I have ever seen, even if he has the power to kill me in a second, without anyone ever finding my body again.

Of course, this monster is perfect from head to toe, from his black, wet, tousled hair, which looks as if it was styled to fall that way, to his long, powerful legs.

Why does the bastard have to look this good?

“How long do I have to stay in here?”

He places his palms on his hips, making him look even larger in front of me, and that is exactly why I feel the need to stand. I have no chance of matching his height, not even in my high-heeled stiletto, but at least I no longer feel quite so small.

“Until you learn some respect,” his reply is calm, but harsh.

“Are you serious? I’m not a little child.”