Not only do I want to keep her, but I also have this urge to pursue her.
I don’t even know what the fuck that means.
Courting women doesn’t happen in our world. Most of our marriages are arranged for an alliance or some strategic shit, and the union has to be approved by the Pakhan himself.
The real question is, why do I want to pursue Sasha when I already have her?
Due to the fact that she’s not yours and might leave.
That fucked-up demon in my head is right.
Yes, Sasha hugged me to sleep, her lips parted in a small smile, and her arms and legs enveloped me as if she was scared to let me go, but she’s also not one hundred percent here.
She has roots in some other place, and unless I completely weed those out, she’ll never be mine.
I release her hair and peel her arm and leg from around me. Sasha nuzzles her face in my chest, refusing to let me go even in her sleep, but I gently push her until she’s lying on the pillow.
Fucking her was the most logical—or illogical—solution to my dick’s unresolved issues, but it’s not the best one.
Especially after the one-on-one talks I’ve had with the Pakhan. He knows of the problems we’re encountering with Juan’s shipment and the attack that happened, probably due to intel from Vladimir. Since I’m no closer to resolving it or bringing the perpetrator’s head to Juan as a form of peace offering, the Pakhan is taking matters into his own hands and will talk to Juan leader-to-leader.
I don’t like that idea. In fact, I dislike it enough that I considered getting Adrian involved in this issue, but I soon voted against it. Not only would I be giving him incentive against me, but I might lose the one thing that’s keeping me strong on my way to the throne.
And I will get there one day.
Once Sergei is out, I’ll be the next Pakhan. No doubt about it. I just need to think of a way to do it without sacrificing Sasha’s identity, considering that Rai knows about it now.
I wash up in the bathroom. Once I’m done, my immediate course of action is decided. I text Viktor with instructions about what to do while I go to the Bratva’s meeting.
After I get his confirmation, I step into the closet and put on a suit. I’m in the middle of doing my cuffs when a soft moan reaches my ear.
I head to the bed and stop at the sight before me. A deep frown creases Sasha’s face, and sweat beads on her upper lip and forehead. Her delicate features are caught in a symphony of pain as she thrashes. Her legs kick away the blanket, and her nails scratch the sheets. The shirt she threw on after the shower we had—my shirt—crumples and rides up her thighs.
She whispers intelligible words in Russian, so I silently inch closer. I’m not the sentimental type, but seeing Sasha in pain is no different than being shot. I’ve been there, and it hurts like a motherfucker.
Once I’m near, I opt not to wake her up.
Considering how closed off she is about her life, this may well be the only way to find out more. So I crouch beside her head and listen carefully.
“Mama…please…Papa…no…it’s not…Mishka…I don’t…can’t…Babushka, please…no…no…I don’t want to die…no…Mama! Anton…Anton…I…miss…you…please come back…”
Without my realizing it, my hand has already balled into a fist, and I have to release it before I do something I’ll regret.
Who the fuck is Anton, and why does she miss him?
She has parents and a grandmother, and a Mishka, who I assume is her brother, considering she gave him the endearment of a little bear.
And this fucking Anton.
Was he the one who was beside her that day on the cliff? The lover because of whom she shot the phone so I wouldn’t be able to find him?
All evidence points in that direction.
I still don’t have a last name, but a first name is enough to start. If I have to search the planet for everyone named Anton, then so fucking be it.
Her words turn intelligible—not even words anymore, but more like cries of pain and distress.
I grab her by the throat and squeeze, but not hard enough to cut off her air supply. Sasha’s body jerks, and she opens her eyes.
In the beginning, they’re more brown than green, unfocused, and without a spark. But the turbulent energy soon transforms into panic as she lunges into a sitting position. I loosen my hand enough to allow her, but I don’t release her.
“What…what’s going on? Are we under attack…？”
“We’re not. Breathe.” I squeeze a bit further, and only then does she relax.
So I let my hand drop from her neck because I was just contemplating stroking her cheek like some doting asshole that I absolutely am not.
“You had a nightmare,” I announce the obvious. “What was it about?”
She sinks her teeth into her swollen bottom lip, and my eyes follow the motion, imagining my own teeth there, like I devoured her last night—or, more accurately, early this morning.
Sasha slowly releases it and clears her throat. “I don’t remember. Just something random, I guess.”
Liar.
Something random doesn’t include her family or this certain Anton.
But if I push her about it, she’ll only get defensive. It’s better that she thinks I didn’t hear anything just now.
“Did I…say something?” She gauges my eyes, hers careful, fearful, and on guard.
There’ll be a day when she’ll lay out everything about her life to me. I’ll make sure of it.
“No, but you were thrashing.”
“I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t wake you up.”
“You didn’t.” I wasn’t sleeping in the first place.
I stand, ready to get on with my day. Sasha, however, gets on her knees and grabs me by the arm. “Please tell me you slept.”
When I don’t reply, she swallows. “Not even a little?”
“Sleep is overrated.”
“That’s not true. This situation is getting serious and will have a huge impact on your health if you keep going at this pace, Kirill. I can help if you let me.”
“You need to call me something else when it’s the two of us.”
She pauses, her expression frozen for a second too long. I love how she looks when caught off guard, but what I love more is the slight narrowing of her eyes when she realizes I’m diverting the conversation in a direction she doesn’t approve of.
Sasha is a smart cookie and the only one who can keep up with my fast-paced mind.
“You’re not changing the subject, Kirill.”
“As I was saying, you need to call me something else.”
“What’s wrong with Kirill?”
“Too impersonal.”
“It’s your name.”
“Still impersonal. You’re supposed to be born and bred in Russia, so you, of all people, should know the importance of a familiar name.”
Her lips part. “I…can’t call you by the diminutive form. You’re older than me by a whole eight years.”
“I don’t want that either. A diminutive form is weird all over. What I want, however, is a pet name, like the one I gave you.”
“But why…？”