Page 65 of Beautiful Ruin

I turn, already stepping forward back into the kitchen before she can argue with me further. Dmitri’s eyes stay fixed on me as I approach. He makes another frantic noise through the gag. I lower my gun slightly, and move toward the chair to ungag him. It isn’t until my hand is lifting in the air that I feel it.

The unmistakable pressure of a gun pressing against the side of my head.

I go perfectly still as instinct clicks into place. Every part of me locks as the world narrows instantly to the small sliver of darkness hiding just behind the shape of the fridge. An arm protrudes out of it, tall enough that the barrel sits level with my head without strain.

Behind me, Sofia has gone silent.

A voice speaks quietly beside me. It’s calm, almost conversational. “Easy now. Drop the weapon and kick it away.”

I don’t hesitate.

My gun hits the floor with a dull clatter before I nudge it across the tile with my boot. Slowly, I raise both hands in the air on either side of my head.

The man holding the gun chuckles.

“I have to say.” The voice is amused, its light tone a complete contradiction against the intensity of the situation. “The rumors about your being an obedient lapdog are incredibly accurate. Tell me, are you like this with all Pakhans or normally just yours?”

My blood turns cold. Not because of the insult, it's because of the voice’s cadence. Its lazy cruelty, the theatrical edge hiding dark calculation beneath easy charm. The voice of a man who enjoys watching others realize they are trapped inside a snare of his design with no way out.

I turn my head just enough to see the man standing to the right of me. The sight of him sends a tight spike of confusion through my body.

Aleksandr Volkov.

Volkov stands close enough that the barrel remains pressed near my temple, but not so close that I could disarm him without risking Sofia catching a bullet during the movement. He wears a dark coat, rain speckled across the shoulders. The collar is open like he wandered in from a late dinner that turned steamy rather than positioning himself at the helm of a trap. A faint smile rests on his mouth, too careless to be harmless.

“Were you sent here by your Pakhan?” he asks.

I shake my head silently.

My mind works to understand what we’re just stumbled into.

What in the hell is he, of all people, doing here? Aleksandr Volkov does not cohabit backwater apartments in forgotten parts of Moscow without reason. Volkov is too calculated to befriend a disgraced former relative of Ivan’s just for the fun of it. If he is here, then there is something going on behind the scenes neither I, nor Ivan, have been aware of.

My fingers twitch as I fight the urge to flex them.

I want to turn and grab Sofia and push her farther back down the hallway toward the door before Volkov can think to use her against me. Or Ivan. Every instinct in me is screaming to move her, shield her, remove her from the sightline of that amused, wolfish gaze. She is too exposed where she stands behind me, close enough to become collateral damage if Volkov decided to let his trigger finger pull back.

His eyes search my face with lazy interest, as if this is a card game and he has just realized my hand is more entertaining than expected. There is always something insulting about his ease. He wears danger like an expensive coat, thrown over one shoulder with deliberate carelessness. Men mistake that for arrogance and forget that a man like Volkov is usually far more dangerous than his decorative charm portrays him to be.

The real wolf is always sitting just underneath that façade, patient enough to enjoy the build up before finally striking.

Finally, the barrel dips away from my temple.

My arms drop slowly back down to my sides, though not at all relaxed. I know better than to let my guard down around a member of the Iron Pact.

Especially this one.

I finally speak. “You’re a long way from your own territory.”

“And you are a long way from Ivan’s leash.” His eyes flick over to Sofia with open amusement. “Though apparently, not far enough.”

“What the hell is going on?” she croaks.

He sweeps an arm across the kitchen. The gesture is theatrical and almost elegant. “Curious situation, isn’t it? Malyshko requested that I keep an eye on your Pakhan for a while. Just to make sure he hasn’t been up to anything… shall we say, nefarious.”

I feel tension coil through me.

I had expected some level of suspicion after the argument Ivan had with the other Pact members during their last meeting, but not this level of scrutiny. Ivan’s proposal had been too bold for them to handle, that much had been obvious. But I didn’t think it would look too ambitious for Malyshko to assign another Pact member to actively monitor Ivan’s movements.