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She whistles. “Oooh. Possessive. You sure you’re Bratva and not some overgrown dragon hoarding shiny things?”

I smirk. “You think you’re shiny.”

“Oh, honey,” she says. My heart turns over in my chest. “I’mradiant.”

“Put them on, little witch.” I narrow my eyes at her.

With a shrug, she slides my boxers on, then holds out the waistband to show me a full foot of material between her waist and the boxers.

I grunt. “Fine. You win. Take them off.”

“I could just pretend I’m asleep or something if you wanna see them alone.”

Good idea unless she decides she’s going to run again.

“Yeah. They’re not staying long.”

“You sure about that?”

“Fucking yes. Go. Lie down. I’ll be back.” I hold her gaze. “Donotcome out of here.”

Shit. I don’t trust that glint in her eyes. What do you do with a girl who loves to be punished?

I throw on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, my stomach growling.

“Note to self—Matvei getshangry.”

I ignore her, grumbling as I open the door and shut it behind me.

From the top of the stairs, I can see my dad already helping himself to my liquor cabinet and my mom rifling through the snack drawer.

Make yourself at fucking home.

“There you are,” my mother sings in that high-pitched voice that grates on my nerves.

She’s wearing one of her signature sweaters, hanging off one shoulder, skinny leggings painted onto her legs, and a gold belt cinching her waist. She’s standing in three-inch platform heels, her blonde hair pinned at the top of her head. But even bottled blonde and trendy clothes don’t hide the bags under her eyes. The sag of her skin. The way her lips pinch down in a perpetual scowl.

The son she loved most of all, the one she coddled and spoiled to his own demise, was taken from her, and she’ll never forgive any of us for it.

“It’s about time. We’ve been calling and texting, and you haven’t responded at all.”

I walk down the stairs, shaking my head. “I’ve been busy.” I eye the top of the stairs as if the little ghost followed me, but the bedroom door’s still shut tight. For now. I don’t trust her.

I get to the landing and go to get myself a drink.

My father raises an eyebrow. “Rodion said something about that. Did your busyness involve a certain traitor?”

“Hey. The name’s Anissa.”

Jesus. She didn’t wait long. I give her a heated glare, but she only smiles at me with a shit-eating grin and a finger waggle.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” my mother mutters. “You couldn’t get her in decent clothes? Ugh.”

Anissa stiffens.

My father stares at her. Unblinking. Cold.

“Name’s Anissa, and yours is—?” She looks expectantly at my mother. “You must be his grandmother, right?” She blinks so innocently, she almost looks sincere. I stifle a groan, and my father coughs into his drink.