Page 18 of Brutal Monster (Zhukov Bratva #2)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
INEZ
T he ocean view blurs through my tears as the wine turns bitter on my tongue. Blood never washes clean, no matter how many waves crash against Tulum's pristine shore.
I don't hear him approach. Vanya moves like that—silent, lethal, a predator who chooses when to be seen. But I feel him, the air shifting around me, his presence a gravitational pull I've stopped fighting.
“Nine people died today." My voice cracks. I don't turn to look at him. "That’s nine people's families who will come looking for vengeance."
The balcony railing digs into my palms as I grip it tighter. I’m not new to killing, but I’ve never been responsible for so many deaths in a single day. Below us, tourists laugh, oblivious to the monsters who walk among them. To what I've become.
"They would have killed you first." Vanya's voice is low, the Russian accent thickening his words. Not a question. A statement of fact.
I take another sip, letting the alcohol burn. "Does that make it right?"
He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he steps closer, his shoulder nearly touching mine. His heat radiates through the thin silk of my dress. I've killed men for standing this close without permission.
"Right has nothing to do with our world, Inez."
"That's what scares me." The confession slips out before I can stop it. "How easy it was. How I didn't hesitate."
A tear slides down my cheek. I brush it away angrily, hating this weakness, this crack in my armor that only seems to appear when he's near.
Vanya's hand covers mine on the railing. His fingers are warm, calloused from years of violence that should repel me, but instead feel like a mirror to my own soul.
"You think I don't understand?" His thumb traces circles on my skin. "The first time I ordered a death, I vomited for hours after. By the fifth, I slept through the night. By the tenth..." He trails off.
"You became what they needed you to be." I finish for him, finally turning to meet his steel-gray eyes.
"What I needed to be to survive." He corrects me gently. "As you have done."
The breeze lifts a strand of hair across my face. Vanya reaches up, tucks it behind my ear with unexpected tenderness. His fingers linger at my jaw, tracing the small scar there—my own reminder of survival.
"My father would be proud," I whisper, the words like ash in my mouth.
"And what about you, Inez Bravo?" His eyes hold mine, searching. "Are you proud of what you've built? What you've protected?"
I consider lying, but what's the point? He sees through my masks as easily as I see through his.
"I'm still standing." I straighten my spine, feeling steel replace the doubt. "My people are safe. My empire is almost secure."
His lips curve slightly. Not quite a smile, but something close. "Then tonight, we drink to that. Tomorrow..."
"Tomorrow we prepare for what comes next." The familiar calculation returns to my blood, clearing my head. I raise my glass. "To necessary evils."
Vanya takes the glass from my hand, his fingers brushing mine deliberately. He drinks from the same spot my lips touched, his eyes never leaving mine.
"To survivors," he counters, and hands the glass back.
When I take it, he doesn't let go immediately. For a moment, we're connected by nothing more than crystal and wine and the understanding that passes between predators who recognize their own kind.
The tears have dried on my cheeks. The ocean still roars below. But something has shifted, solidified between us—an alliance forged in blood and survival that feels increasingly like something I can't afford.
Or something I can't live without.
Vanya steps away, returning a moment later with a bottle. Not wine, but vodka—Russian, expensive. The kind meant for savoring, not drowning sorrows.
"Perhaps we need something stronger," he says, producing two crystal tumblers from somewhere inside his suit jacket. The man is always prepared, always three steps ahead. It's infuriating. It's comforting.
I watch as he pours two fingers in each glass, his movements precise. When he hands me one, our fingers brush again, this time lingering. The electricity between us hasn't dimmed since the first day we locked eyes.
"To the future," he says, raising his glass.
I tilt my head, studying him. "That's uncharacteristically optimistic coming from you."
A rare smile touches his lips, transforming his face from dangerous to devastating. "I have reasons to be optimistic lately."
The vodka burns clean going down, nothing like the wine's bitterness. It tastes like snow and fire and something essentially Vanya.
"Our wedding," he continues, voice dropping lower, "will unite more than just us, Inez."
My breath catches. We've discussed the marriage—a strategic alliance on paper, something far more complicated in reality—but hearing Vanya speak of it so directly makes it suddenly, terrifyingly real.
"In three days," I say, the words barely audible over the crash of waves below. "Three days and I become Inez Bravo Zhukov." Testing the name on my tongue feels strange, foreign.
"Does it frighten you?" He watches me with those penetrating eyes that miss nothing.
"The marriage? Or being tied to you?" I counter, deflecting.
He refills our glasses without answering, then sets the bottle on the small table beside us. When he turns back, he's closer than before, close enough that I can smell his cologne mingled with the scent that's uniquely his.
"Both," he finally says.
I look out at the ocean, gathering my thoughts. "I'm not afraid of the commitment. I'm afraid of—" I stop, unsure how to articulate the fear that's been growing since I agreed to this union.
"Of losing yourself," he finishes for me. "Of becoming an extension of me rather than a power in your own right."
The accuracy of his assessment startles me. I meet his gaze, finding unexpected understanding there.
"That will never happen," he says firmly. "I don’t want a docile bride, Inez. I will never allow you to be overshadowed—not by me, not by anyone."
The conviction in his voice settles something restless inside me. I take another sip of vodka, letting it warm me from within.
"I have something to show you," Vanya says, pulling his phone from his pocket. His fingers move across the screen before he hands it to me. "After the ceremony."
I look down at images of a stunning villa, with all its clean lines and open spaces, surrounded by turquoise water that is so clear it seems unreal.
"Cayo Espanto," he explains. "Private island off Belize. The villa has its own dock and helicopter pad. Complete security system I've personally upgraded."
My throat tightens unexpectedly. "It's beautiful."
"It's ours. For a week. Or longer, if you wish." His hand finds the small of my back, warm through the silk. "Private enough to breathe. Close enough to return within hours if necessary."
I look up at him, searching his face. "You've thought of everything."
"I’m trying to be a good husband." There's no arrogance in his tone, just a simple fact.
I swipe through more photos, each more breathtaking than the last. A honeymoon. Something so normal, so human, amid the chaos and blood of our lives.
"My father—" I start, thinking of his deteriorating condition.
"Will have the best care. We can return immediately if needed." Vanya's hand moves in small circles on my back, grounding me. "But you need this, Inez. We both do."
The consideration behind the gesture overwhelms me. Not just the luxury—Vanya has always moved through a world of wealth—but the thoughtfulness. Understanding exactly what I need: an escape that doesn't feel like I'm abandoning my responsibilities.
I set down the phone and, turn fully toward him. "Thank you."
His eyes darken as I step closer, eliminating the space between us. When I reach up to touch his face, tracing the scar along his jaw, his breath catches audibly.
"For what?" His voice is rough.
"For seeing me." I rise on my toes, bringing my lips to his. "All of me."
The kiss starts gently but quickly ignites into something hungry and desperate.
Vanya's hands span my waist, lifting me effortlessly onto the balcony railing.
I should feel fear, suspended above a thirty-foot drop to the rocks below, but all I feel is the solid strength of him between my thighs, anchoring me.
I taste vodka on his tongue, feel the controlled power in his body as he holds me safely at the edge of danger. It's a perfect metaphor for what we are together—lethal, passionate, walking the knife's edge between destruction and salvation.
When we break apart, both breathing hard, the stars have emerged above the darkening ocean. Behind us, the suite waits, the massive bed still rumpled from this morning's lovemaking.
"I have calls to make," I whisper against his mouth, even as my body protests the very idea of leaving his arms.
"They can wait." His teeth graze my lower lip, sending electricity down my spine. "Tonight is ours."
For once, I don't argue. Tonight, I'll take what's offered—this moment of peace before the storm that's surely coming. Tomorrow will bring blood and business and the weight of empires on our shoulders.
But tonight, I'll be just a woman in the arms of her dangerous fiancé, watching the stars reflect on Tulum's endless sea.