6 | ART OF SURVIVAL
1336 Words
POV BRIELLE
The morning air in the Volkov estate didn't taste like freedom; it tasted like expensive laundry detergent and the cold, metallic scent of winter. I woke up at dawn, my eyes dry and burning, but I didn't let a single tear fall. Grief was a luxury I had buried in the backyard of that Chicago gala. My father was a traitor, a ghost, and now, he was a corpse. The man I had spent twenty-two years trying to please had traded me for a plane ticket to a life he never intended to share with me.
I didn't stay in bed. I didn't hide under the silk sheets. Instead, I stood in front of that floor-to-ceiling mirror and looked at the stranger staring back. The bruise on my lip was turning a deep, poetic purple. I leaned in, touching the swelling with a steady finger.
"You are not an asset," I whispered to the glass. "You are the storm."
I chose my armor carefully. A cream-colored cashmere dress that clung to my skin like a second layer of protection, high enough at the neck to hide the marks Roman’s intensity had left on my soul, and low enough at the hem to remind anyone watching that I was still a woman, not a child. I brushed my hair until it shone like crow’s wings and applied a coat of red lipstick that looked exactly like a warning sign.
I didn't wait for the maid. I didn't wait for the two-tap knock on the door. I walked out of my room, my heels clicking against the grey stone floors with a rhythm that sounded like a countdown.
I found Roman in the dining hall. The room was vast, dominated by a table of dark mahogany that could seat thirty people, yet he sat at the head of it, looking profoundly alone despite the three guards standing like statues against the far wall. He was reading a physical newspaper, a black coffee steaming at his elbow. He looked impeccably composed, as if he hadn't spent the night dismantling my world and murdering my last blood relative.
I pulled out the chair at the opposite end of the long table. The screech of the wood against the stone was intentional.
Roman didn't look up from his paper. "You're early, Brielle. And you're dressed. I expected you to be in mourning."
"Mourning is for people who lost something they valued," I said, my voice as cold as the frost on the windows. "I lost a weight that was dragging me down. I should be thanking you for the lightened load."
Roman finally lowered the paper. His eyes were bloodshot, just a hint of the exhaustion he usually hid so well. He looked at me—really looked at me—scanning the red of my lips and the defiance in my posture. A slow, dangerous smile crept onto his face. It wasn't the smile of a lover; it was the smile of a man who had finally found an opponent worthy of his time.
"Is that right?" he mused, leaning back. "Most women would be screaming for my head. Or begging for mercy. You come down here looking like you're ready to sign a treaty."
"I'm not here to sign anything, Roman. I'm here to eat. Being an 'asset' is hungry work."
I gestured to the guard nearest the kitchen. "I'll have eggs, poached. Avocado. And a glass of the most expensive orange juice in this house. Please."
The guard hesitated, his eyes flicking to Roman for permission. I didn't look at Roman. I kept my eyes on the guard, my expression bored and expectant.
"Do what she says," Roman commanded, his voice dropping an octave. "From now on, whatever she asks for in this house, she gets. Within reason."
"And what is 'reason' in this house, Roman?" I asked, picking up a silver butter knife and examining my reflection in the polished metal. "Does it include a key to the front door? Or perhaps a phone that isn't bugged by your pet Russians?"
Roman stood up. He didn't walk toward me; he glided. He moved with a grace that was entirely too feline for a man of his size. He stopped when he reached my chair, leaning down until his face was level with mine. The scent of him—cedarwood and something sharp, like ozone before a lightning strike—swirled around me.
"Reason," he whispered, "is whatever keeps you alive and under my protection. The world outside those gates thinks you’re dead, Brielle. Or worse, they think you’re the one who gave me the coordinates to Cabo. If you walk out that door, you won't last ten minutes before one of your father's 'friends' puts a bullet between those pretty eyes."
I didn't pull away. I leaned in, until our noses were almost touching. I could see the tiny flecks of gold in his irises. "Then it’s lucky for me that I have the biggest monster in Chicago keeping me in his closet, isn't it?"
Roman’s hand came up, his fingers ghosting over the curve of my jaw. He didn't grab me. He didn't force me. He just traced the line of my skin with a feather-light touch that made my skin crawl and tingle all at once. It was a test. He was waiting for me to flinch.
I didn't. I stared back, my gaze steady, my breath even.
"You're playing a dangerous game, little bird," he murmured. "Don't mistake my patience for weakness. I could still break you."
"You could try," I whispered. "But you’ve already taken everything I had to lose. What’s left to break? The bones? They’ll heal. The heart? That’s already gone."
His thumb brushed over my lower lip, right where the bruise was. The pain was sharp, but the heat of his touch was sharper. For a second, the air in the room seemed to vanish. The guards, the breakfast, the dead father—it all faded into the background. There was only the pressure of his thumb and the predatory intent in his eyes.
He wanted to kiss me. I could see the muscle in his jaw jump. He wanted to claim the space between us and prove that I was still his prisoner.
But I wasn't going to give him that victory. Not today.
I reached up, my hand hovering near his wrist, but I didn't touch him. I simply tilted my head. "Your coffee is getting cold, Roman. And I believe you have a city to terrorize."
The tension snapped like a dry twig. Roman pulled his hand back, his expression smoothing out into that impenetrable mask of ice. He straightened up, adjusting his cuffs with a meticulousness that felt like a reboot of his system.
"The Commission is meeting at noon," he said, his voice back to its professional, gallows-humor tone. "They want a full report on the Cabo operation. And they want to know why the Moretti girl is still breathing."
I picked up my coffee cup, my hand perfectly steady. "And what are you going to tell them?"
Roman walked toward the door, stopping only to grab his charcoal coat from the back of his chair. He looked back at me, his eyes hooded.
"I'm going to tell them that you’re not just breathing," he said. "I'm going to tell them that you’re the new face of the Moretti accounts. That you’ve agreed to help me recover every cent your father laundered."
I narrowed my eyes. "I never agreed to that."
"You did the moment you sat at my table and ordered poached eggs," Roman replied.
He stepped out of the room, but his voice drifted back, carrying a weight that felt like a new set of chains—only these ones were made of gold.
"Oh, and Brielle? Don't wear the cream dress for the meeting. Wear the black one. I want them to see the widow before they meet the shark."
- Writer
