Page 65

ERIK

The dining room feels smaller than usual, with all four of us crammed around the mahogany table. Dmitri picks at his food, still pale from blood loss, while Alexi recounts some story about a tech startup he's been tracking. Nikolai cuts his steak with surgical precision.

Normal. Everything's supposed to be normal now.

Except my chest feels like someone's driving screws into my ribs, and I can't taste the expensive wine Nikolai opened.

Sofia appears in the doorway, phone in hand. Her face carries that particular expression she gets when she's about to deliver news that'll fuck up someone's evening.

“Erik.” She hesitates, eyes flicking to Nikolai. “There's something you need to know.”

My fork is still halfway to my mouth. “What?”

“Igor Lebedev just announced his daughter's engagement.” The words hit like bullets. “To Anton Petrov. The wedding is planned for next month.”

The fork clatters against my plate.

“Erik—” Nikolai's voice cuts through the roaring in my ears.

“No.” I push back from the table so hard that my chair topples. “No, that's not happening.”

Dmitri's already moving, blocking my path to the door despite his injury. “Think about this.”

“I am thinking.” My hands shake with the need to hit something, break something. “I'm thinking about how she looked when she left. I'm thinking about her locked in some room, being told she has no choice.”

“She's not our concern anymore.” Nikolai's tone is carefully neutral, but I catch the warning underneath.

“Like hell she isn't.” I try to push past Dmitri, but Alexi flanks me from the other side. “I'm getting her out of there.”

“Erik, stop.” Alexi grabs my arm. “You can't just?—”

“Watch me.” I wrench free, but they close ranks again. “She doesn't want this. You think she wants to marry that piece of shit, Petrov?”

“What she wants doesn't change what is.” Nikolai stands slowly. “Igor made his choice. She's his daughter.”

The rational part of my brain knows he's right. Knows charging into Lebedev territory is suicide. Knows Katarina isn't mine to save.

But the rest of me—the part that remembers her laugh, the way she felt in my arms, how she looked at me like I was something more than a killer—that part doesn't give a fuck about logic.

“She's not some stranger. She's?—”

“She's what?” Nikolai's eyes narrow. “What is she to you, exactly?”

Heat explodes through my chest. “Mind your own fucking business.”

“Erik—”

“No.” I spin to face him fully, years of buried resentment bubbling up. “You want to talk about what someone is to me? What was Sofia to you when you were stalking her for weeks, watching her every move like some obsessed freak?”

Sofia's face flushes red, but I'm too far gone to care.

“That's different—” Nikolai starts.

“Different how? Because you decided it was?” I laugh, but there's no humor in it. “At least I'm not pretending I'm not fucked up about this.”

Dmitri steps forward. “You need to calm down?—”

“And you.” I wheel on him. “You're really going to lecture me? Your obsession with Tash is what caused this whole mess. She got kidnapped because you couldn't keep it in your pants, and now she won't even look at you.”