Chapter One
~ Andrei ~
Moscow’s night never truly sleeps.
Even out here—at my estate, beyond the reach of city lights and government noise—the shadows still move. Trees stand like sentries, their limbs skeletal and swaying, brushing against the dark in a silent warning. The snow, freshly fallen, looks clean. Untouched. But I know better. Blood can hide beneath it. So can monsters.
I light a cigarette, the flick of my silver lighter breaking the hush. My boots crunch over frost-laced stones as I walk the path along the eastern ridge of the property. From here, I can see the security perimeter—infrared trip lines, roving guards, heat-detecting drones. Nothing gets in or out without my say. At least, that’s what I told myself before he resurfaced. Kazimir Lebedev.
The Barabinsk Butcher.
Now calling himself the new voice of the old ways. Leader of the Vors Voskresenie—the Resurrection of the Thieves. Poetic, if you like corpses and delusion.
He was a lieutenant under Viktor Tembovskaya, thought long buried after the Kirov Bratva fell. Turns out he was just waiting. Feeding on the silence. And now he’s crawling back out of the grave, rebranding the worst of the old guard into something uglier. Less Bratva, more cult.
And he’s chosen her as the match to light it all.
Nora Anastasia Bezpalov.
I taste her name like sin. Smooth. Dangerous. Addictive. She’s staying in the main house, under heavy guard. Not that she asked for protection. Nora doesn’t ask. She snaps. Her sharp tongue cuts deeper than most blades I’ve taken in war. But I see the cracks. I see the grief under her glare. The walls she builds to convince herself she doesn’t belong in this world.
But she does. She does.
And that’s what makes this dangerous. Because I can’t afford to care.
Not with Kazimir watching. Not with the Vors Voskresenie moving like a snake through the ruins of fallen dynasties. And not when Nora might be the noose they’re planning to pull tight around all of our necks. She doesn’t know they’ve marked her. She doesn’t know I haven’t slept a full night since she came back.
Or that I rewired every panic alarm in this house myself after Vivienne announced she was pregnant and then we had that intruder. She doesn’t see how my hand always lingers near my gun when she enters a room.
Not because I fear her.
Because I fear what I’d do for her. That’s what makes her a liability.
I finish my cigarette and flick the butt to the ground, grinding it beneath my heel. Frost curls in my breath as I turn back toward the house. Light spills from the windows like gold poured over ice. Inside, the family is warm. Together.
Nikandor sits in the lounge with Vivienne asleep on his shoulder. My little sister looks...at peace. A fragile thing. She fought for that peace. Bled for it. She deserves it.
But peace doesn’t last. Not for us. It’s just the breath between battles. I enter through the back, stepping into the kitchen. Warmth hits me first. Then scent—tea, cinnamon, and clove. Domestic. Disarming.
A note from Vivienne sits on the counter. Her careful script lists out things she will need once the baby is born; diapers, formula, wipes. Nikandor couldn’t follow a list to save his life, so it’ll fall to me. I fold the paper and slip it into my breast pocket. Then I freeze. She’s there—standing in the hallway’s edge like a damn ghost conjured by thought. Nora. Barefoot. Dressed in one of Vivienne’s oversized sweaters and a pair of black leggings. Her hair is damp from a shower, braided over one shoulder. She stares at me with those sapphire eyes—cool, assessing, and just a little tired.
“You’re stalking the house again,” she says flatly.
“I live here,” I reply.
"You patrol like it’s a battlefield.”
“It is a battlefield.” Her brow rises.
“In what war?”
“Pick one.” I cross to the fridge. “There’s always another.”
I feel her watching me. She always does. She has a way of standing—rigid shoulders, chin high—that turns presence into pressure. Most men flinch. She wants them to. She thrives on confrontation.
But I don’t flinch. She doesn’t scare me. She tempts me.
And that’s far more dangerous.
“You haven’t said a word to me in three days,” she says, voice tight.
“Was there something that needed saying?”
“I don’t know, Andrei.” She folds her arms. “Is there?”
I twist open a bottle of water, drinking slowly. Let the cold dull the heat building behind my ribs.
“You’re safe here,” I say. “That’s all that matters.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“And I’m not giving more.”
The silence that follows is thick. But not empty. It’s full—of things unsaid, tension drawn like a bowstring between us.
“You think I’m weak,” she says.
“No.” I shake my head once. “I think Kazimir Lebedev doesn’t care how strong you are.”
There it is. The shift in her posture. Slight, but real. A fracture in the mask. She steps closer. “You know something.”
I don’t answer.
“Andrei.”
I finally meet her eyes. “Kazimir is alive. Not hiding. Recruiting. They’re calling themselves the Vors Voskresenie.”
“Resurrection,” she whispers. “They believe Viktor’s death left the Bratva hollow. They want to restore it—with chaos.”
“And me?”
“They know who your grandmother was. They see you as legacy. Symbol. Leverage.”
Her mouth tightens. “I’m none of those.”
“To you,” I say. “Not to them.”
Another pause. Then her fingers curl around the counter’s edge.
“So I’m bait.”
“No.” I take a step toward her. “You’re family. That means you’re mine to protect.” Her voice drops. “Is that all I am to you?”
I should lie. I want to lie. But I don’t.
“No,” I say. “Not even close.”
Her breath hitches. The silence between us is charged now—no longer bitter, but raw. Real. She looks like she wants to say something. She doesn’t. She straightens, pushes off the counter.
“Good,” she murmurs. “Because I’m not the kind of girl who needs saving. I’m the kind who fights.”
She walks away, down the hallway, her braid swaying behind her like a whip. She doesn’t look back. But I watch her go, every step, until she disappears into the dark.
She’s afraid. And I can’t blame her because I am, too.
Not of Kazimir. Not of his wolves or their knives. Not of war.
No, what terrifies me is what I feel when she says my name. What I’d burn to keep her safe. What I’d destroy if someone touched her.
I grip the edge of the counter, jaw tight.
Feelings are a weakness. Love is a liability.
But this thing—this slow, spiraling hunger for her—it grows like rot under skin. It thrives in silence.
And one day soon, I won’t be able to pretend it’s not there.
When that day comes— God help anyone who tries to take her from me.
