Captive Of The Cold King

"You're still doing it wrong." Isabella's jaw tightened. Three AM, and Viktor was still watching her practice the same goddamn smile for the ten thousandth time. "My angle's perfect." She turned back to the mirror, holding an apologetic, and charming expression, with just enough vulnerability to make a man want to be her hero. "See? Corner of the mouth lifts first, then…" "Your eyes." Viktor moved closer, his scarred reflection appearing behind hers in the glass. "They're calculating. Adrian Volkov will see that in half a second." She dropped the smile and started again. This time, she thought about warmth and sunlight. Things that made normal girls happy, whatever those things were. Her lips curved, softer now, and she tilted her head just slightly, the research said he found that appealing, found it unraveling. "Better." Viktor's hand landed on her shoulder. "But you need to believe it. The smile, the laugh, the accidental touch…it all has to feel real to you first." Isabella studied her reflection. The dress they'd chosen for Monaco hung on the closet door, midnight blue, elegant, expensive but not flashy. She'd practiced walking in the heels until her feet bled. Memorized his favorite wines, his mother's maiden name, the exact rhythm of his accent when he switched from Russian to English. She knew Adrian Volkov better than she knew herself. "Tell me about the m******e again," she said quietly. Viktor's expression shifted. She watched it happen in the mirror, the way his mouth pressed together, the old grief settling into the lines of his face. "You don't need…" "I need to remember why." She turned to face him. "I need to feel it." He was silent for a moment, then: "You were seven years old. The summit was supposed to bring peace." His voice went flat, reciting facts that had been carved into both of them. "The Volkovs came armed. They killed eighteen people that night…Moretti soldiers, wives, and children. Including the real Isabella Moretti." The real Isabella Moretti. That phrase always landed strangely. Like it proved something about her, about the girl she was pretending to be. Except she'd been pretending for so long that sometimes she forgot there had been a before. "Don Salvatore found you three days later," Viktor continued. "In the rubble. You didn't speak for weeks. Couldn't tell us your real name or where you'd come from. The trauma…" He shook his head. "So he gave you Isabella's name. Her identity. Her future." "And now I give the Volkovs justice." The words tasted right. They always tasted right. So why did her chest feel empty? Viktor moved to the small table and poured two fingers of vodka. "Adrian Volkov is not like other men. He has survived six assassination attempts. His intelligence network spans three continents. He'll be looking for threats." "I know." "You have to be perfect." "I am perfect." She wasn't boasting, it was simply true. Eighteen years of training had ensured it. "Languages, weapons, poison identification, psychology…I can read him better than he reads himself." "Then show me again." She turned back to the mirror. This time, she didn't think about the smile at all. She thought about Adrian Volkov walking into that Monaco gala, dark suit and darker reputation, and she thought about how it would feel to watch him fall. Not for her, she wasn't that naive. Men like Adrian didn't fall for women; they fell for reflections of themselves. So she became his reflection. Intelligent but not threatening, Confident but willing to be charmed. The kind of woman who could hold his interest because she didn't need him, but who might want him anyway. The smile that emerged was different. More dangerous. It reached her eyes because she let it reach her eyes, the way you'd let poison seep into wine. "Perfect," Viktor breathed. Isabella held the expression for another beat, then let it drop. Her face in the mirror went neutral, not cold, just empty. The blankness she wore when no one was watching, when she didn't have to be anything for anyone. Viktor checked his watch. "Two more weeks. Then you bump into him at the west bar, ten-fifteen PM. He'll be alone…we've confirmed his security detail rotates at ten." "And if he's not alone?" "Then you wait. You find another opening." Viktor's hand found her shoulder again and squeezed gently. "You've been ready for this your entire life, Isa." The nickname made something twist in her chest. She wasn't sure if it was affection or something else, some feeling she couldn't name because she'd never been taught words for it. "I know what I'm doing," she said. "I know you do." His voice went softer, almost protective. "You're going to make them pay for what they took from us. From you." She nodded. The words were supposed to feel like armor, like purpose. Instead, they felt like lines from a script she'd memorized so thoroughly that she'd forgotten they came from someone else's mouth first. Viktor moved toward the door, then paused. "Get some sleep. We run the Monaco approach again at eight." "Viktor…" She stopped. She didn't know what question she wanted to ask. He waited. "The girl." The words came out quieter than she'd intended. "The real Isabella. What was she like?" Something flickered across his face. Surprise, maybe, or discomfort. "Why are you asking?" "I'm wearing her name. Her life. I just…" Isabella pressed her palms against the table, steadying herself. "I should know what I'm avenging." Viktor studied her for a long moment. Then, carefully: "She was brave, stubborn. She had her father's eyes." He paused. "You would have liked her." The words settled into the space between them, heavy and strange. You would have liked her. Past tense. Speculative. As if Isabella the weapon and Isabella the dead girl could have somehow occupied the same space, been friends, shared secrets. As if she wasn't wearing a dead girl's skin. Viktor moved to the door, his hand on the knob. He looked back, something almost like pride warming his scarred features. "Two more weeks, Isabella." He kissed her forehead, the gesture so familiar it barely registered anymore, except it did register, somewhere deep in the part of her that remembered being small and afraid and held. His lips brushed her skin, gentle and terrible. "Then you end the Volkov bloodline." The door clicked shut. Isabella stood alone in the safehouse, the Moscow night pressing against the windows like a held breath. She turned back to the mirror. The girl looking back at her had perfect posture, perfect hair, the kind of face that could launch missions and shatter empires. She had been trained to seduce, to kill, to disappear. She had been made for one purpose, sharpened like a blade for one single cut. Isabella smiled at her reflection, the right smile, the one that would destroy Adrian Volkov. And for just a second, just a heartbeat, she didn't recognize the girl staring back.