Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I'm borrowing her characters and giving them some guns (again).

Unbeta'd, unedited.

Anyagal kindly checked and corrected my Russian. I made a few adjustments afterward, so any mistakes are 100% mine. As with some previous chapters, there are quite a few phrases in this one, but you should be able to get the gist via context without immediately having to scroll to the translations.

Happy Monday!

"Ms. Swan, please… please wait one moment."

Channeling my best bitchy Rosalie, I shoot the poor guy – this one, a skinny twenty-something with sandy blond hair and pock-marked cheeks named Pyotr – a withering glare as he waves at Markovsky's pet marksman.

Stationed on the opposite side of the stone guard shack, Oleg the Sniper glances over. For a split second, he scowls like he's going to pop back, but as soon as he catches the irritation radiating from my entire being, he takes a final drag off his cigarette, pushes off the wall, and jogs across the drive.

"Ms. Swan," Oleg says, slinging his weapon – the same brand spanking new A-545 he was carrying the night I took out Andrey – across his back. He ducks his head in polite deference before eying the other guard. "Chto sluchilos'?"

Pyotr angles his chin in my direction. "Ona khochet vyyti."

"Chto?" Oleg's shoulders stiffen beneath the layers of matte black fatigues and body armor, and when his eyes dart back to me, wary and unsure, I almost laugh. "Zachem?"

"Will you two stop?" I say, and I shove enough bite into my voice that they both flinch. My fists ball and drop to my hips. "Like I already told Pyotr, I'm going for a run… like I always do. This isn't a problem."

The two men share a beat of silent communication before Oleg turns back to me, sporting an almost comically uncomfortable grimace. "My apologies, but this… this is not allowed."

"Excuse me?" My brows climb right along with my volume. Ignoring the echo in the empty, late-afternoon courtyard, I flick a hand at the imposing wrought iron gate now blocking the entire width of the drive. "What do you mean not allowed?"

Oleg's grimace deepens, and when he scrubs the back of his freshly shorn head, I almost laugh again.

These guys have no fucking clue how to handle their boss's pissed-off mistress.

Especially the one he's in love with and plans to keep.

"This is order from Mr. Aronov himself," Oleg says, preemptively wincing like he's just waiting for me to go off and make his life miserable. "Entry and exit from complex are not permitted at this moment. It is forbidden even."

"A direct order… from Misha." My voice goes flat, and I roll my eyes. "Are you kidding me?" Crossing my arms over my chest, I let out an exasperated puff of frosty air and tap the toe of my running shoe against the cobblestones. "Yeah, I'm going to need you to explain that. Because that sounds a lot like bullshit to me."

Pyotr mutters a curse under his breath, peers over to Oleg, and hesitantly asks, "Nam razresheno?"

Oleg shoots the other guard a curt negative before inclining his head to me once more. "Perhaps…" he says, pausing to offer me the barest hint of a smile. "Perhaps, it would be best if you discussed this matter with Mr. Aronov directly."

Okay, the kid's got some balls.

He's not stupid, either.

Considering who he works for, not to mention what it took for him to get that sniper badge, I can appreciate that. Now that I've done what I've come out here to do, I can cut him some slack.

Growling out another noise of frustration, I give them both a final pissy glare. "Fine, but this is ridiculous." Not waiting for a response, I spin on my heel and stalk across the courtyard toward the main house. Before I'm out of earshot, I call over my shoulder, "Oh, and you can bet your ass I'll be talking to Misha."

Neither guard says a word, but in my periphery, I catch Oleg's eyes widen, and as he blindly whips out another cigarette from his front vest pocket, his shoulders sag in relief.

You know, it'll almost be a shame if I wind up killing that baby-faced guard.

As soon as I make it back inside, I take a quick detour to the kitchens under the auspices of grabbing some water. Ten minutes later, after chatting up a few of Aronov's starched black and white staff, I leave with an iced-down bottle of some fancy mineral water and a gigantic mug of the best coffee known to man. I've also magically acquired some kind of high-protein granola concoction that might as well be a dessert.

Apparently, Maria thinks I need to consume even more calories.

Let's just say it's a damned good thing I run.

Killing a few more minutes, I take my time meandering through Aronov's massive library. With its floor-to-ceiling shelves of antique, leather-bound books and glass-faced cabinets filled with priceless collectibles, it's an easy distraction. As I skim the gilded bindings, I note yet again the array of languages, titles, and subjects in Aronov's collection, but halfway through, a flash of color in the center of the room grabs my attention.

Slugging back a drink of caffeinated perfection, I stop in front of one of the flat displays and examine a sheet of ivory parchment lit beneath the glass. It's an ancient, perfectly preserved, museum-quality piece, and from what I can tell, the calligraphy-like script is Old Church Slavonic. The bright, rich coloring of the illustrations and embellishments is flat-out incredible, and I have no doubt that I'm looking at something very rare and very valuable.

My lips curve because I also find it just a little ironic.

Aronov's not exactly the religious type.

As I move to the next artifact – yet another centuries-old, colorful parchment – I check my wrist.

At this point, I figure Masen's a solid thirty to forty minutes ahead of me. So, without a backward glance, I exit the library, traverse the sumptuous, elegantly rustic sitting areas, and hit the grand central staircase. Less than five minutes later, I inhale a slow, steadying breath and will my heart and body to unwind.

Then, for the second time since we started this deadly dance, I quietly step into the room adjacent to Aronov's private study to watch the show.

"O chom ty blya dumal?"

Aronov's question booms like thunder, and right on its heels, something heavy crashes and shatters against one of the stone and plaster walls.

Careful not to make a sound, I stop in the center of the receiving room and study Koshmarin's reaction through the intricately carved double doors, still flung wide.

Unlike the last time, there's now a lone, stiff-backed chair positioned across from Aronov's massive desk. The lighting's been changed, too. The sleek, urbane ceiling pendants suspended over the desk barely glow, and instead, a cone of yellow light shines down from an angled fixture high above, bright against the dimness of the room. The thing's basically a spotlight, pinning the blond in his chair and casting shadows all around him.

Dmitri and Feliks flank Aronov on his right, still decked out in their formal, dark-on-dark suits, ties, and twin Lebedev pistols.

Far more relaxed than Aronov's bodyguards, Masen and Markovsky occupy the left. Propping up the opposite wall, those two stand cross-armed and shoulder-to-shoulder. Both eye the room with a loose, casual disinterest that's nowhere close to the truth.

The whole set-up is yet another intimidation tactic wielded by a master, and Koshmarin is not immune.

That arrogant motherfucker's throwing off a dozen tells. Timed to the tremor-like bob of his left knee, his forefinger lightly drums against his armrest. Tiny beads of sweat dot the back of his neck, wetting and curling the hair at his nape. His skin's flushed, too, and as he opens his mouth to answer Aronov's question, a muscle jumps in that Hollywood jaw.

Of course, he doesn't get in a word.

Aronov's fist slams against the heavy, exotic wood. Red-faced, livid, and looking every bit the ruthless tyrant he's repeatedly named himself to be, Aronov looms over the desk, and with another curse, he growls out a loud, fast, furious tirade, ending with a spat-out command.

"Ya khochu znat' zachem ty vstrechalsya s nim vchera!" he yells, already on the cusp of violence. "I ne vri mne!"

Yes, Kaius, please do tell us why you were meeting with that asshole, Basayev.

I make the rookie mistake of swapping my coffee to my other hand. The soft, warm light from the lamp beside me glints off the stainless, and it's just enough to capture Aronov's attention. He freezes mid-curse, his head whips left, and then his eyes fly from the man in front of him through the open double doors and land directly on me.

There's a heartbeat of dead silence, and confusion flashes across Aronov's angry, aristocratic features. No more than a second later, the confusion disappears. Despite the audience and the situation, hints of that now-familiar blind adoration soften his anger. It's slight, a barely-there warming that I'm not sure he's even aware of, but there's no possible way the others don't notice it.

I know Markovsky does.

My internal radar lights off like a fucking air raid siren as his gaze swings around, homing in on me like a hawk.

Ignoring the fist in my gut, as well as the gray-eyed predator across the room, I smile at my supposed lover like nothing's out of the norm. Like it's perfectly natural to see him tearing his subordinate a new asshole.

When my brows lift, Aronov's lips give an involuntary twitch, and then he crooks a finger to summon me. Instead of obeying like I know he expects, I just shake my head and wave him off.

But he's not having any of that today.

Aronov's mouth flattens into a hard, uncompromising line as he simultaneously throws up a hand to silence Koshmarin when he objects. He scans me from head to toe, taking in the curve-skimming lines of my leggings and running jacket, and then he taps the same finger in Markovsky's direction.

Unfazed, the older man levels Aronov a bland, impassive stare. Still watching me, Aronov mutters something too low and fast for me to hear, but whatever he says works. With a tired, resigned sigh that only a handful could ever get away with, Markovsky whispers something to Masen before slowly padding across the room and through the doors to me. He doesn't stop until we're standing side by side.

Hands clasped behind his back in a loose stance borne of decades of rigid military comportment, Markovsky waits for Aronov to turn back to Koshamarin and quietly asks, "What are you doing here, Isabella Swan?"

My nerves flutter because this is the one I really have to watch.

Buying time, I take a slow drink of my coffee as Aronov resumes his furious barrage.

"Well, I was looking for Misha." I offer the man beside me a dry smile. "There were some problems at the gate a little while ago, and I need to yell at him about that."

Markovsky's bushy brows climb, but he doesn't say a word.

Letting out an annoyed huff, I survey the scene in the other room. "But it seems like it might be a bad time for that, don't you think?"

Markovsky thinks for a second. "It is not ideal, but it could be worse."

I know I've said it a hundred times, but truly, this guy has a fucking gift.

"So… since yelling at Misha is off the table," I slowly say as I angle toward him. I pause for a long, quiet moment, broken only by Aronov's fist popping against wood once more, and then my shoulders roll in an easy, seemingly casual shrug. "I thought I'd just hang around and watch Kaius get his ass handed to him."

One corner of Markovsky's mouth tugs up, and those gray eyes of his spark. "Are you certain that is what occurs here?"

My smile drops, and my grip tightens around my mug, turning my knuckles white.

"After Kaius' missteps, as you politely like to call them, including that asshole trying to freaking give me to that creep, Ali, last night…" I stare deep into the other room, allowing just a hint of my own savagery to rise to the surface. When I glance back to the older man, my voice falls to little more than a rough whisper. "Don't you think I'm owed this?"

Markovsky goes motionless, still in the way few can achieve, and he probes me with unnerving intensity and focus. I can feel Masen watching us from across the room. I don't dare look away, though, and after what feels like forever, Markovsky's chin finally tips in a single, quick affirmative.

"Very well," he says, and something akin to approval bleeds into his otherwise impassive features. It's the same expression he wore out on the range when I lost my temper and blew out the target and again, when I told him I was two seconds from deballing Basayev. "You are, indeed, your father's daughter. Perhaps, you will do well here, after all."

In my periphery, I catch Markovsky signal Aronov. There's a long second of wordless conversation between them, and then Aronov's eyes find mine yet again. His brows hit his hairline in question, but when I nod, this time, the adoration staring back at me is cut by pride and a dark viciousness that sends a shiver down my spine.

Aronov spins back to Koshmarin and glares. "Otvechay!"

Koshmarin's shoulders rise and fall beneath the finely tailored fabric of his jacket. It's a bored, apathetic move that belies the tension creeping through his veins. "Ya zhe uzhe skazal, nichego osobennogo. My prosto obsuzhdali sdelku."

Nothing special? A business deal… really?!

I'm not the only one not buying the bullshit Koshmarin's selling.

"Nichego osobennogo…" Aronov rubs his chin, rasping over short-cut beard hairs. "Ty provorachival svoi delishki za moyey spinoy, znaya chto ya ne odobryayu etogo."

Beside me, Markovsky tuts and shakes his head in disappointment.

I give him an unspoken questioning look, keeping up the charade.

Without looking away from the two men squaring off inside the room, he says, "Over past several weeks, Kaius had some illicit meetings with Ali after his inquiries were declined by Misha… not once, but few times."

"Okay?" I ask, squinting, and I almost laugh at his responding incredulity.

"Ublyudok says he simply wished to negotiate good business deal for… products from Mikhail's defense holdings since Misha was busy with other matters." Grunting, he waves a haphazard hand. "This is half-truth at best. Kaius made promises and agreements that he was not authorized to make."

"You mean, like me?"

At that, Markovsky goes still once more, and those probing eyes of his sharpen and narrow. "That is a… separate offense."

I drain the rest of my coffee and watch the sweat trailing down the back of Koshmarin's neck. His cheeks puff out in feigned insult as he rattles off another fast-paced excuse to Aronov's livid inquisition. "Then what's the first offense?"

"Kaius did not intend for Mikhail to know about his dealings and made certain arrangements for payments." Markovsky shrugs, but the movement is uncharacteristically jerky, telling me Aronov's not the only one pissed off by the blond's betrayal. "Misha is not…"

I arch a brow. "Happy?"

A wry chuff of a laugh spills out. "This is one way to say it."

I throw him a conspiratorial smile, but it's a quick one, replaced by something far more serious as I motion to the furious, growling man behind the desk. "Misha seems madder about this than when he first found out he was losing his mines."

"Yes." Markovsky's expression turns inscrutable. Behind us, I pick up the subtle swish of fabric when he adjusts his stance. "Incompetence is one thing, but such willful disobedience and double-dealings cannot be tolerated, especially when such behaviors resulted in events of last evening."

Markovsky looks at me then, and that same hawk-like sharpness returns. "It was yet another misstep, this one a very public one in front of clients and business associates. Worse still, he did this after Misha made his intentions regarding you very, very clear."

I exhale and let my grip tremble and clench around my mug. "I see."

"Do you?" It's a softly spoken question that can be taken so, so many ways.

When I don't reply, instead letting the silence between us eddy and churn, the corners of Markovsky's lips turn down into a harsh scowl. "And there is still another matter."

"You mean, the reason we came back early?"

The older man inclines his head. "Da."

Hesitating, I chew the inside of my cheek, and when I speak again, I feather in a tinge of fear, just a tiny tremble to weaken my voice. "When Edward came by this morning, he said someone was missing." My throat bobs. "Is it another guard… like Andrey?"

"No, this is more complicated situation." Markovsky's features pinch. "But maybe is related."

Shit.

I swallow again. "Sasha, I don't understand."

Markovsky frowns as he debates just how much I get to know. "Misha had… guest staying here at compound."

If that's not an understatement, I don't know what is.

"Guest?" My eyes widen in confusion as I sneak a peek at Masen across the room. Seemingly indifferent to the verbal beatdown in front of him, he's staring at his phone, wearing his usual mask of lazy boredom. Still, I don't miss the tightening in the corners of his eyes nor the subtle bracketing around his mouth. "When? I've not seen anyone here other than us."

Markovsky makes another one of those non-committal grunting noises. "Maybe he was not exactly guest, but we shall leave it like this." When I start to ask, he slices the air, signaling he's not going any further than that. "But now this certain guest is missing, and he should not be."

I steal another glance at Masen, and my gut tightens.

Something's going on, something that surprised him.

And I don't like anything that surprises that man.

I blow out another breath, this one louder, and shove a loose strand of hair out of my face. "You know, I don't understand anything you're telling me right now."

Expecting another one of those half-smiles of amusement, I still when he grimaces. "It is probably better this way."

While I'm tempted to press him, I don't. Instead, I just tilt my head in reluctant agreement, and we quietly watch Aronov and Koshmarin stare each other down across the desk.

With each tick of the ornate, antique clock over the hearth, the air in the room sparks and swells, buffeting my senses like a too-hot caress. Aronov's breathing kicks up in time, sawing in and out of his chest. A sheen of sweat slicks his forehead and darkens the stiff white cotton of his button-up. When his palms slap against the wood, the tendons in his forearms, bare from having rolled up his sleeves, flex and twist like cords pulled too tight, just on the verge of snapping.

Like last night, Aronov's torquing himself up, getting ready to blow, and I know this is not going to be pretty.

And I am a-okay with that.

"Nu, chto ty yemu obeshchal?" Aronov swipes a baseball-sized hunk of silvery ore off the corner of his desk and launches it into the far wall, missing Koshmarin's head by inches. The thing cracks like a bomb when it hits the stone, spraying shards and shimmery debris everywhere. "I otkuda voobshche on znal imya moyey budushchey zheny?"

I have to school my expression when he asks how Basayev even knew the name of his future wife, just like I have to pretend not to notice the split-second of fury that whips across Masen's face.

Instead of cowing, Koshmarin rises to his full height, steps toward the desk, and spits. "Ladno. Ya ne boyus' skazat' vslukh to, chto drugiye dumayut…"

Not afraid?

Yeah, buddy, I doubt that, despite all the bluster and bravado.

"I chto zhe eto?" Aronov's voice, low and ice cold, might as well be a blade.

Koshamarin takes another step closer. "Ty otvlekayesh'sya. Ty neostorozhen." His insults punch out, echoing in the room. "I ty oderzhim etoy yobanoy shlyukhoy."

Okay, he's not exactly wrong.

Aronov is distracted. He is being careless. And there is no denying that that man is obsessed with me to a disturbing degree.

That's by design, after all.

But my teeth grind, and my fingertips itch. And I have to fucking will myself not to grab the weapon I know Markovsky has tucked into the back of his waistband.

Because I really, really don't appreciate that motherfucker calling me a whore.

Neither does Aronov.

No, my future husband freezes in a picture of pure, unadulterated rage.

"Ona igrayet s toboy," Koshmarin croons, mocking in his delivery despite the tempest he has to know is coming. He's either very stupid or too arrogant and blinded by his hatred of me for his own good. "Ona prevrashchayet tebya v duraka."

My heart hammers in my chest as the man's taunts dig deeper and deeper. Koshmarin's upper lip curls into an ugly sneer. When he looks over his shoulder at me, radiating venom and violence, I'm sure that he's all of two seconds from telling the entire room about our little altercation outside the gym.

And that would be very, very bad for me.

Koshmarin misses his chance, however.

Without warning, Aronov's rage turns into something more.

In a startling, switch-like transformation, Aronov's posture abruptly relaxes, and his furious glare morphs into what I can only call a serene smile. Only this particular smile promises pain.

A lot of fucking pain.

Aronov signals Dmitri with nothing more than a quick snap of his fingers.

The other man obeys immediately, and in a lightning-fast move, he launches forward and belts Koshmarin so hard the blond's head snaps backward. I can hear his teeth clack, even from here. He stumbles sideways, knocking over the chair, and his knees thump against the floor.

Aronov nods at his guard again.

Before Koshmarin can climb off his knees, Dmitri punches him with a vicious right hook that sends blood spraying in a wide, wet fan. It's a brutal, punishing blow – more than I'd have ever anticipated coming from Aronov's leaner, more cerebral guard – but when the light reflects off the aged brass looping his knuckles, I know why.

I also realize that this was planned, and everything – the intimidation tactics, the questions, the fury – leading up to it was little more than theater.

For Koshmarin, Aronov, or me, I don't know.

But Aronov's words from this morning – I should have made that bastard fall at your feet and beg for your forgiveness – ring in my ears.

Thick, shiny droplets of crimson dot the fine, outrageously expensive wood of Aronov's desk. It doesn't even faze him. As Dmitri hits the other man over and over and over, delivering the blows with meticulous placement and calculation, Aronov just eases down to his chair. Leaning back, he elegantly hooks a leg over the opposite knee, and like the cold-blooded killer he is, he smiles over steepled fingers.

I wonder if he's going to have Koshmarin literally beaten to death right here and now.

Playing my part, I spy a gaping wound above Koshmarin's left eye and suck in a wheezy breath. Hugging my chest, I edge close enough to Markovsky that I brush against the charcoal wool of his suit jacket. "Sasha?"

"It is deserved," he murmurs, answering the question he knew was coming, only he's utterly emotionless as he delivers the cutting sentence. "I told you already, I would not have been so patient with that one. I would have buried him by now."

Squeezing my eyes shut, I hug my arms tighter, flinching in time to the sickening thwack of flesh being pummeled. "Why doesn't he fight back or try to get away?"

I feel Markovsky's eyes on me, piercing in their intensity. "Even if he could, it would be useless. Edward would shoot him dead the moment he lifted a single hand. This way… this way, there is still some chance Misha will spare him yet. If he shows sufficient remorse, of course."

I have no clue what he calls sufficient remorse.

Maybe it's a gallon of blood or something equally macabre.

When I peek over, I catch Markovsky's nose wrinkling in apparent disgust. "Sometimes my brother-in-law can be, how to say it… soft."

Not kidding, I almost lose it at that.

Fortunately – or not – Markovsky takes my choked laugh as something a little closer to hysteria, and he studies me like he's waiting for me to lose my lunch.

"Is Misha going to kill him?" I ask, wincing when Dmitri grabs Koshmarin by the hair. He lifts him to his knees only to deliver a precision strike deep into his abdomen.

A low, keening moan rumbles Koshmarin's chest. He sways, just on the verge of blacking out, before doubling over and collapsing to his hands and knees. Another groan of misery spills out, turning into a wet, gurgling cough that sends blood pouring down his chin, where it drips and then pools on the floor beneath him.

Markovsky tilts his head, examining the beaten, bloodied man on the floor with clinical detachment. "Perhaps."

Koshmarin falls to his elbows right as Dmitri kicks him in the ribcage. He kicks him again and again until the blond goes limp and tumbles to his side with a wordless plea.

Right on cue, Aronov tsks.

And just like that, as quickly as the assault began, it ceases.

With a curt, all-business nod to his boss, Dmitri straightens his tie and falls back in line with Feliks. It's like nothing at all had occurred. No anger, no remorse, no enjoyment, there's nothing in the man's face or stance to say that today was different from any other day.

Feliks, however… That one has a story to tell. As the massive guard gazes at Koshmarin writhing and groaning on the floor, something flits across his face. It's too fast for me to be certain – little more than a minor creasing of his forehead, a tiny twitch in his cheek – but if I had to guess, I'd say there are even more cracks in Aronov's organization than we realized.

Interesting.

Aronov shoves out of his chair. Hands in his pockets, he walks around his desk. Still wearing that same serene smile, he stares at the man on the ground. When Koshmarin moans something unintelligible, Aronov toes his shoulder to roll him over.

Jesus Christ, he is in rough shape.

Then again, a set of brass knuckles will do that, especially when worn by someone who knows how to use them.

Which Dmitri does.

That Hollywood face is now a mass of blood, sweat, mucus, and bruising. His right cheekbone and jaw are shattered, he's missing teeth, and the long, deep gash above his eye will need a metric fuckton of stitching. By the way he gingerly hugs his knees, his abdomen and torso aren't faring any better, and judging from the placement and strength of Dmitri's blows, I have no doubt the man's suffering multiple internal breaks and bleeding.

If I were a kinder person, I'd feel sorry for him.

I am not that person.

Especially knowing the evil he's inflicted on others.

Chuckling, Aronov says something to the man on the ground. It's too quiet for me to make out, but Markovsky catches it, and whatever it is, just makes him exhale another tired sigh.

"Lyubimaya."

I pretend to startle. Slowly, I look away from Koshmarin to Aronov, only to find that softer, indulgent expression he reserves just for me staring back.

Like before, Aronov motions for me to join him, but it's a gentle gesture, almost as though he's soothing a frightened pet. "Idi ko mne… Come to me, my love."

This time, I obey him. Wide-eyed and forcing short, shallow sips of air, I cross the room, careful to skirt the mass of blood and misery on the floor.

Like always, the moment I'm in range, Aronov slides an arm around my waist, gripping me by the hip to pull me tight into his side. Still hot and sweat-damp from his earlier tirade, it feels like I've sidled up next to a furnace. Brushing the hair away from my face, he presses tender, lingering kisses to my forehead and temple before dragging his lips to my ear.

"Do you want to see him beg at your feet?" he whispers, soft as spun silk. "Would that please you?"

Not really, but I don't say that.

My teeth find my lower lip as I trail a lone finger down his forearm to his hand. He follows my direction at once, flipping his hand over, and I trace the pink splotchy bruise forming from the repeated smacks against wood. When I kiss the offending marks, Aronov's eyes close as he lets out a low hum of approval and what I can only name as relief.

A throat clears in the background.

"Aro, you need to see this," Masen says as he pushes off his wall. His long stride eats up the distance as he moves to join us. Ignoring Koshmarin's groans, he offers Aronov his phone. When Aronov glances down at the screen, our eyes meet for no more than a second, but that's all it takes to send a surge of warmth through my veins. "Your accountants found something."

Holy shit, they're fast.

"Already?" Without letting me go, Aronov taps the screen and skims the contents. "What do they say?"

Masen's gaze skips down to Koshmarin. "Why don't you ask Kaius about that?"

"What did you say?" Aronov asks, and the words boom and echo off the stone. Once more, the room electrifies, and his fingers spasm, clenching around my hip hard enough that I wince.

"Ask him why one of his offshore accounts recently doubled." As Masen looks up, that lazy, feline façade vanishes, and his irises burn with emerald fire. "And by recently, I mean last night."

Aronov's grip spasms again. This time, the tremors ripple through his whole body and send gooseflesh through mine. "Is that so?"

Masen shrugs. "They're still chasing it down and confirming, but…"

Aronov lets out a loud, furious growl. He releases me, only to reach down, grab Koshmarin by the throat, and slam his head against the stone.

"You fucking traitor! Ya prikonchu tebya!" he snarls, repeatedly slamming Koshmarin's head into the floor until his ice blue eyes roll back and he loses consciousness.

When the groans and cries finally cease, Aronov shifts his attention back to Masen. "You know where to take him. String him up and have the nurses repair him… just enough."

Masen nods, and without another word, he signals Dmitri and Feliks. The two guards haul Koshmarin's limp body up by the armpits and drag him out the door.

"Are you going to kill him?" I murmur, gently running my fingertips along the tops of Aronov's shoulders.

He's again a coil wound too tight, a volcano about to erupt, yet as he reaches up to clasp my hand, threading his longer fingers between mine, he keeps himself in check.

Aronov stares out the window into the darkening twilight sky, and his lips curl. "Eventually."

.

.

.

Notes:

Thank you for your patience while I was out on a (much needed) vacation. I hope you all have a wonderful week!

Regarding that last bit about Koshmarin's offshore accounts, that set-up was alluded to back toward the end of Chap 34.

Russian (transliterated):

Chto sluchilos': What happened / what's going on?

Ona khochet vyyti: She wants to leave

Chto… Zachem: What… Why?

Nam razresheno: Are we allowed / permitted?

O chom ty blya dumal: What the fuck were you thinking?

Ya khochu znat' zachem ty vstrechalsya s nim vchera... I ne vri mne: I want to know why you met with him yesterday… and don't lie to me

Otvechay: Answer!

Ya zhe uzhe skazal, nichego osobennogo. My prosto obsuzhdali sdelku: I already said it was nothing special. We were just negotiating a business deal

Nichego osobennogo… Ty provorachival svoi delishki za moyey spinoy, znaya chto ya ne odobryayu etogo: Nothing special… you went behind my back, knowing I disapproved

Ublyudok: Bastard, asshole, etc

Da: Yes

Nu, chto ty yemu obeshchal… I otkuda voobshche on znal imya moyey budushchey zheny: What did you promise him… And how did he even know the name of my future wife?

Ladno. Ya ne boyus' skazat' vslukh to, chto drugiye dumayut: Fine. I'm not afraid to say what the others are thinking

I chto zhe eto: And what is that?

Ty otvlekayesh'sya. Ty neostorozhen… I ty oderzhim etoy yobanoy shlyukhoy: You're distracted. You're being careless… And you're obsessed with that fucking whore

Ona igrayet s toboy… Ona prevrashchayet tebya v duraka: She plays with you… She makes a fool out of you

Lyubimaya… Idi ko mne: My love / beloved… Come to me

Ya prikonchu tebya: I will end you

Glossary:

Old Church Slavonic: this was the first Slavic literary language, dating back to the Byzantine missionaries, Saints Cyril and Methodius, who standardized a written language and used it to translate the Bible and other Ancient Greek texts. Some Eastern Orthodox and Eastern Catholic churches use a later variant of Church Slavonic as a liturgical language to this day.