𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐫𝐮𝐠 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬 | 𝟏𝟖+

Everything is terrible.

Not dramatic terrible. Not spilled-coffee-on-my-favorite-white-dress terrible. I mean the kind of terrible that makes the air feel wrong. Like the earth tilted overnight and I was the only one who didn’t get the memo. Like gravity’s still working, but only out of spite, dragging me down a little too hard.

Poppa’s gone. Granny’s gone. Misha’s gone.

And I’m standing in the middle of a place I’ve been told is home, in rural Russia, staring at a monolithic forest of snow-drenched pines.

The land stretches out in front of me, a blinding expanse of white and quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you feel like you’re the last person on earth, or the first person in an empty one. I hate it. I love it. I don’t know.

Sergei said I should come. Said it would help. Said the cold clears the mind. And maybe he’s right. Maybe this vast, unforgiving landscape is the only place left that doesn’t lie to me.

It does help, a little. The cold doesn’t just bite—it clamps down on my lungs when I breathe in, sharp and clean, like a physical shock. It reminds me of when I was little—when Misha would bring me here. I didn’t know why back then. I just knew it felt like pure magic. Like the snow here was different. Like it belonged to me. Like I belonged to it.

Poppa and Granny used to come too. All of them—Poppa, Sergei, Mama Colette, Granny Ruby—they’d sit around the fire like old friends. Laughing. Drinking the dark, strong tea from a samovar. Talking in that low, secret way grown-ups do when they think kids aren’t listening. Maybe they were old friends. Maybe they were something else entirely. I never asked. I just watched.

I take a deep breath and let the freezing air fill me. It hurts, but it’s the kind of hurt that makes you feel alive. A jolt of painful truth. Misha used to say I should come here often, get used to the cold. Said it would make me strong, that it would teach me how to breathe through pain.

It took years. But I did.

I remember him carrying me through the snow, his arms strong and warm, his sun-bleached blond curls whipping in the wind like they were trying to outrun the sky. He’d laugh that deep, rumbling laugh when I threw snow at his face, and I’d laugh when he pretended to fall. We were ridiculous. We were perfect.

I didn’t know who he was. Not really. But I knew he loved me. I knew that when he looked at me, something in him softened. Like I was the only thing in the world that made him slow down.

Now he’s gone. And the snow doesn’t laugh anymore. It just reflects the white, empty sky.

I wrap my coat tighter around me and stare at the trees. They don’t move. They don’t speak. But they remember. I can feel it.

Russia remembers everything.

And so do I.

I sit motionless in the snow, knees numb, fingers stiff, my coat dark against the blinding white. My eyes are dry, but still aching as if they’re crying on the inside, the tears having simply given up. They filed for bankruptcy hours ago, their reserves depleted by a grief too vast to hold.

The cold doesn’t bother me. Not really. It’s a familiar constant, like grief with a clean, sharp edge. It’s the kind of silence that doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t demand a performance.

Maybe everyone was close because they worked in the same... industry. That’s the polite word, isn’t it? Not “drug business.” Not “a sprawling, gilded empire built on powder and blood.” Just industry. A legacy of logistics, chemistry, and cold, ruthless control. Poppa ran his territory like a kingdom. Sergei managed his like a perfectly calibrated machine. Misha and Lucien were the sharp, unseen blades. Mama Colette was the velvet glove, the undeniable soul of the operation. And somehow, they all managed to make it feel exactly like family.

I still don’t care. That’s the weirdest part of my wiring. I should, shouldn’t I? I should be horrified. Disillusioned. Betrayed by the very structure of my life. But I’m not. I never was.

Most of the trust fund kids I grew up with had their little breakdowns when they found out how their families really made their money. Tears spilled in expensive therapy. Rage shouted through yoga breathing exercises. Existential crises over artisanal brunch. Abby and I used to sit in the sterile silence of her father’s penthouse, sipping wine we weren’t old enough to buy, watching our classmates spiral like it was a poorly written reality show.

We didn’t spiral. We didn’t flinch. We understood.

It was obvious, growing up in that world. The way our families taught us to read a room like a battlefield. To spot a threat before it had a chance to smile. To trust our instincts even when they made no logical sense. Abby’s dad taught her how to break a man’s wrist with the stem of a champagne flute. Misha taught me how to step out of the light, how to disappear in plain sight.

Except... they didn’t teach me how to kill.

I already knew.

It’s not something I talk about. Not even with Abby, who knows more of my darkness than anyone. It’s just there. Like breathing. Like blinking. Like something buried deep in my skeletal structure. The first time it happened, I was twelve. A man grabbed me outside the wrought-iron gates of a charity gala. I remember his sickening, stale breath. I remember the way the world tilted onto its side. And then—nothing. Just flashes. A distant, echoing scream. The wet sound of blood. My hands shaking, but not from fear. His body twitching, already folding in on itself.

Wait, no. The very first time it happened, I was around 6 or seven.

Every time a life is on the line, every time someone is almost dead, I black out. Not faint. Not panic. Just... gone. Like something else takes over the controls. Like I become a terrified passenger in my own skin.

I don’t know what that means. I don’t know if it’s trauma or instinct or something far, far worse.

But I do know this: the snow doesn’t judge me. It just listens, a huge, quiet confessional beneath an indifferent sky.

The blackouts stopped when I was fourteen.

Misha taught me how to control them. He said he used to have them too, back when he was younger—back when the world was a high-pitched scream and his body didn’t know how to hold all that contained rage. He showed me how to breathe through it, how to sharpen my awareness until it became a knife that cut through the rolling, red fog. How to stay present even when every instinct inside me demanded to simply vanish.

So I don’t black out anymore.

Now I just go temporarily insane. Much better. People still die, of course, but at least I remember the shape of their faces as the lights go out. I remember the sounds. I remember the feel of my own hands.

I take a deep breath, the cold slicing through my lungs like shards of glass. It’s comforting, in a way. Familiar. My mother, is somewhere in Florida, probably just as depressed as I am, trading blizzards for stifling humidity. I should go home to her soon. I know that. But right now, I need to be here. I can feel it in my bones—Russia is where I’m supposed to be. The snow, the silence, the ghosts of the past. They know me. They’ve been waiting.

“Miss Briar,” someone calls.

A woman’s voice. Soft, careful, and slightly thin against the vast quiet. I turn and see one of the housekeepers—Galina, I think. She’s bundled in a monstrously thick coat, her cheeks pink from the sharp cold, her breath curling away in the air like pale smoke signals.

She used English. That’s a thoughtful, if unnecessary, gesture.

“Yes?” I call back, my voice barely disturbed by the effort.

“Mr. Sergei…” she starts in the halting English, then shakes her head and switches immediately to the liquid ease of Russian. “Попросил меня привести вас в дом.” (He asked me to bring you inside.)

I nod and start the walk toward the distant, dark silhouette of the house, my insulated boots crunching through the dense, squeaky snow. Galina waits patiently for me at the edge of the shoveled path, her thick, gloved hands folded neatly in front of her.

“Спасибо,” I say in Russian. (Thank you.)

“И не нужно говорить со мной по-английски,” I add with a small, genuine smile. “Я свободно говорю по-русски.” (And you don’t have to speak English with me. I speak Russian fluently.)

A flash of relief, a little surprise, and a touch of professional pride crosses her face. She smiles back. I think she likes that. In a world of secrets, it’s a small truth I can give her.

I walk through the heavy, dark-wood door, and the house doesn’t just welcome me—it swallows me whole.

It’s grand in that specific Russian way—everything is carved, gilded, and broodingly heavy with history. The ceilings vault and stretch like they’re trying to touch God, and the massive chandeliers look like loot stolen from a Romanov palace. But there are distinct French touches everywhere, soft and effortlessly elegant, like Mama Colette herself whispered them into existence. Deep, sapphire-blue velvet chairs in jewel tones. Porcelain vases that look far too delicate for this brutal world. Wallpaper, thick and patterned, that smells simultaneously of old lilac perfume, cigar smoke, and secrets.

It’s beautiful. It’s haunted. It’s home.

Galina reaches out for my coat, her hands gentle, practiced. I let her take it, the heavy wool and insulation slipping from my shoulders like a shed second skin, and I immediately feel the air, thick and warm, settle over me.

“Спасибо,” I say, voice low and clear.

She nods, her expression impassive, and disappears down a recessed hall. I head toward the kitchen. I already know exactly where Sergei will be. He’s always there when he’s thinking—when the world’s noise is too much and he needs something warm and honest to hold.

He’s sitting at the immense, granite-topped counter, a glass of amber-brown liquor, likely a single malt older than I am, nestled in his palm. Lucien is perched beside him, arms folded across his thick sweater, eyes sharp and unblinking.

Uncle Lu. The quiet one. The one who watches everything and never needs to ask a single question.

“How are you, my little flower?” Sergei asks, his voice a deep, rough rumble that feels achingly familiar.

I think about lying. About saying I’m fine, or okay, or just surviving. But I never need to lie to Sergei. Not here. Not in this house.

“Sad,” I admit, the word tasting flat and simple against the truth.

“I know,” he says, taking a slow, measured sip of his drink and nodding. “Someone’s been calling you. We don’t know who it is, but your phone has been ringing off and on.”

I glance at the far end of the counter and see it—my phone, screen dark, waiting like a small, patient bomb. I cross the room, pick it up, and my thumb is already sliding across the glass.

“How long have they been at it?” I ask.

“Fifteen minutes, maybe,” Uncle Lu says, his voice like gravel wrapped in velvet—a low sound you have to lean in to hear.

I open my call log. My stomach drops to my knees.

“Fuck,” I mutter, then cringe internally, but Sergei just chuckles.

It’s Poppa Beau’s lawyer. The poor woman’s been trying to reach me for days, a paper-thin connection to the world I’ve been hiding from. Beau’s been gone two weeks now, and I’ve been dodging every reminder, every duty, like it might physically bite.

“I’ll go and call her back in private,” I say, already turning toward the shadowed hallway.

“Thank you,” I add, glancing back at them.

Sergei raises his glass in a silent, perfectly understanding acknowledgment. Uncle Lu just offers a quick, imperceptible nod.

I walk out, the weight of the house, the family, and the call pressing heavy against my ribs.

I climb the central staircase slowly, each step under my weight letting out a faint, mournful creak, like the wood itself is remembering every version of me that ascended these stairs. The second floor opens into a long, hushed hallway lined with silent portraits—heavy Russian oil paintings, delicate French sketches, and one faded photo of me as a toddler in a ridiculously fur-lined coat, cheeks puffed out like I was trying to intimidate the snow into melting.

My room waits at the very end, behind a pale rose-colored door with a heavy brass handle shaped like a swan. Colette’s touch is everywhere; she redecorated it every few years, nurturing it as if it were a physical extension of me. Now it’s a sanctuary of crème and rose gold—soft, warm, and quietly regal. The walls are creamy ivory with delicate stenciled gold trim, and the curtains are thick rose velvet that pool on the floor like expensive, spilled wine. The massive chandelier overhead is a tiered cascade of crystal and blush-toned glass, casting a glow that makes everything look like it’s been dipped in honey.

The bed is a centerpiece, draped in layers of satin and fur, with pillows stacked like royalty was permanently expected. There’s a curved vanity in the corner with a collection of antique perfume bottles and a full-length mirror that’s seen every secret, exhausted, and angry version of me. A plush chaise lounge sits under the tall window, where I used to hide and read ridiculous spy novels, pretending I wasn’t already living one.

I sit on the edge of the bed, sinking into the luxurious softness, and pick up my phone. The lawyer’s name is still sitting there in my call log, insistent and unavoidable, a ghost tapping on the glass.

I call her back immediately.

She answers on the second ring, her voice crisp and professional, yet infused with a kind, practiced sympathy. “Miss LeBlanc. Thank you for returning my call.”

“Sorry,” I say, the word flat. “I’ve been… elsewhere.”

“I understand completely. I won’t keep you long. I just wanted to inform you that the final reading of your grandfather’s will has been processed. You’ve been left the LeBlanc estate in New Orleans.”

I blink, staring up at the honey-light reflecting off the crystal chandelier. “The house? Just the house?”

“No, Miss LeBlanc. The house and a full financial inheritance totaling approximately four hundred and twelve million dollars.”

The number lands in the quiet room with the weight of a stone.

“Right,” I say, my voice sounding distant. “Okay.”

“There are documents to sign, of course. We can arrange a secure meeting at your earliest convenience.”

“Sure,” I say, because what else do you say when a professional stranger informs you that you’ve just inherited a small kingdom?

“Miss LeBlanc,” she adds, her professional composure finally breaking with a note of gentle sincerity, “he loved you very much.”

“I know,” I whisper, and the admission is the first truly honest thing I’ve said all day.

We hang up. I sit there, phone still warm in my hand, surrounded by rose gold and silence.

Four hundred million dollars. A house full of ghosts in a city built on secrets. And a gilded, suffocating legacy I never asked for.

I finally lie back, pulling the satin up to my chin, and stare at the ceiling.

Four hundred and twelve million dollars.

I sit there on the sumptuous bed for a suspended second, just letting that impossible number echo around my skull like a rogue sound wave, searching for a place to land. Four hundred million. That isn’t just money. That’s empire money. That’s “redefine the map of the entire operation” money. That’s “change the course of your life and everyone else’s” money. And Poppa Beau left it to me like it was a love letter sealed with pure gold.

A heavy, authoritative knock echoes on the front door downstairs, a sound too loud for the quiet of the house.

I hear it, but I don’t move. Low, resonant voices follow—male, speaking in rapid, deliberate Russian. I know I’ll have to go down eventually, but right now I need one more precious second. Just one more breath in this rose-gold cocoon before the world starts spinning again and demanding my attention.

I stand and walk to the antique vanity mirror. The blush-toned light hits me soft, attempting to be gentle. At least I don’t look devastated anymore. Just mildly annoyed. My resting face has finally upgraded from “grieving” to “mildly inconvenienced.”

I see Poppa Beau in my reflection—his full, bow-shaped lips. His deep brown eyes that always looked like they were withholding a brilliant secret, but there are hints of grey in my eyes I can never quite place. I don’t see Robin in my face. Or George, thank God. And I definitely don’t look like Sawyer or Kai. They’re handsome, sure, but I have no desire to be the girl version of either of them.

My curls are wild today—a mess of dark, chaotic energy. They frame my face like they’re trying to protect it. I take one last deep breath, square my shoulders under the silk of my blouse, and head downstairs.

The voices grow clearer as I descend. I pause halfway down the sweeping, curving staircase, hidden by the deep mahogany banister. Sergei’s voice is unmistakable—low, deliberate, with that gravel-and-smoke cadence that makes everything he says sound like a coded warning.

He’s speaking to someone. A man. He’s tall, whip-lean, with a razor-sharp posture and icy blue eyes that look like they’ve never blinked in a Siberian storm. His tailored black coat looks like it was stitched directly onto his bones.

Alexei Volkov. I vaguely remember him coming here when he and I were younger with his father. I recognize his slim shape and the distinct color of his eyes. He would sit next to his father, next to his brother -who’s name I can’t remember for some reason-, just watching as Sergei and his dad talked, his brother doing the same. He and his brother look similar yes, but his brother is bigger than he is, even though he’s younger he’s wider, with more body mass. Alexei’s just taller. I would see them, but they could never see me, Misha and Uncle Lu made sure of that.

I stay on the stairs, unmoving. Watching. He hasn’t seen me yet.

Sergei’s voice is measured and calm, but there’s a wire-tight tension humming beneath his words. He’s measuring every syllable before he lets it fall.

And Alexei—he’s smiling. That kind of smile that doesn’t touch his crystalline blue eyes. The kind that says, I know something you don’t, and it’s going to be very bad for you.

I grip the cold mahogany railing, my heart steadying into a slow beat. My breathing is deep and quiet.

The men keep talking, their voices low, like they’re trading classified state secrets instead of simple sentences. I stay fixed on the stairs, half-shadowed by the deep curve of the banister, watching Alexei Volkov with a quiet, lethal curiosity.

He’s sharp. Too sharp. Every movement is calculated, every syllable dipped in something cold, ancient, and prohibitively expensive. His black coat fits like it was tailored by someone who knows how to measure danger, not just cloth. He’s beautiful in that unnerving way—like a polished blade, mirror-bright, promising a clean cut.

Then, his head snaps up. His icy blue eyes lock directly onto mine.

“Сколько времени ты там стоишь?” he demands, his Russian clipped and aggressive. (How long have you been standing there?)

Sergei turns, sees me framed against the rose-gold light of the upper hallway, and his lips twitch into a smile—the punchline to a joke only he and I understand.

“Кто знает,” he says easily, the answer an invitation for chaos. (Who knows.)

I don’t move. Not even when Alexei’s gaze shifts—first surprised by my presence, then intensely intrigued, then something else, something heavier and possessive. He’s looking at me like I’m a complex puzzle he is eager to solve with his hands.

And then, Malice pads into the hallway, silent as snowfall in the dead of night. Her coat gleams in the low light, a stunning mosaic of sleek, spotted gold and black, every muscle rippling beneath the skin like controlled water. She is the physical embodiment of the quiet danger in this house. She climbs the stairs toward me, tail flicking once like a warning shot, her huge amber eyes locked on mine.

Alexei sees her and actually freezes mid-sentence. His tailored posture snaps into a desperate rigidity.

“Что за хрень это такое?” he whispers, the aggression gone, replaced by pure, instinctive terror. (The fuck is that?)

He actually backs up. One desperate step. Then another, bumping slightly into a stenciled ivory wall.

Malice lets out a low, guttural growl that vibrates through the heavy air, but she doesn’t break her stride. She reaches my side and presses her heavy, massive head against my thigh like I’m her favorite tree. I scratch her firmly behind the ears, and she answers with a deep, vibrating purr that sounds like distant thunder.

I let a genuine smile touch my lips, then chuckle, a sound that feels foreign after weeks of grief.

“She’s family,” I say, still addressing him in crisp Russian. “Не волнуйся. Она кусает только тех, кто заслуживает.” (Don’t worry. She only bites people who deserve it.)

Sergei erupts in a laugh, deep and warm, a sound of victory. Uncle Lu doesn’t even blink, continuing to study the scene as if it were a tactical map.

Alexei Volkov stares at me, his icy control finally shattered. He looks as though I’ve just rewritten the fundamental laws of physics in the room.

Good.

Let him wonder. Let him worry. Let him understand that the new guard doesn’t play by the old rules.

“Come with me, Briar,” Mama Colette says, her voice suddenly filling the large, high-ceilinged hall. She steps into the space like she owns the very air, moving with the impossible grace of a dancer. Her voice is warm, but utterly firm—the kind that makes you move even when every fiber of your being insists on remaining fixed. “Before you and Malice finish terrifying our guest.”

I glance down at Malice, who’s still pressed against my leg, a solid, warm presence that feels like a physical dare to Alexei to blink the wrong way. Her tail flicks once, a silent, rhythmic beat of warning. Alexei still hasn’t moved from the spot where he saw her, his entire body rigid. He’s still watching me like I’m a particularly dangerous riddle wrapped in rose velvet and polished teeth.

I let a slow, genuine smile spread across my face. It’s not sweet. It’s not polite. It’s just enough to let him know I saw his fear, I understood his threat, and I won the first round.

Then, I turn on my heel and walk away, heading toward the kitchen and the promise of heat and coffee. Malice pads silently beside me, a sleek, spotted shadow with claws retracted.