Page 2 of Darkest Craving

VICTORIA

One month ago

I t had been a month since I saw the wolf, and I hadn’t told anybody about him.

Sasha didn’t come back. He was too busy playing local royalty, organizing the Alemont City Horse Trials like he did every damn year.

If I’d cared about competing, I would’ve been out there too—measuring the terrain with the others, schmoozing with the judges, pretending to give a shit.

But riding had never been about medals or applause.

It was escape. Control. It was indulgence, as my mother liked to spit with a glass of Chardonnay in hand— an expensive little distraction . And apparently, I wasn’t allowed distractions.

I wanted to go to riding school in Europe after graduation.

A dream I dared to whisper once that ended with my father laughing in my face.

I wasn’t even at the college I chose. He decided for me.

Enrolled me, paid the fees, and expected me to thrive.

All I had to do was show up and smile pretty.

And yet, the idea of finishing his degree made my stomach churn.

Why force me through it, when he’d already anointed my sister?

Anya was the chosen one, the golden child.

The future CEO of Romanov Enterprises. I was just a loose end, and a reputation risk.

Apparently, my dream of becoming a riding instructor was childish.

Embarrassing. “Not something you bring up around business partners.” Because God forbid Nikolai Romanov’s daughter got her hands dirty teaching kids how to saddle a horse.

No, he’d rather choke me with expectations and call it legacy.

Still, I was going to do it as soon as I graduated, regardless of what he thought. Only a few months kept me away from that dream. And then… then I would be free. Free of family obligations, free of the scrutiny of other wealthy families in Alemont City. Free of the expectations people had of me.

I walked with that thought, my soul lighting up a little brighter. My winter boots scrunched through the thin layer of snow covering the stone that led up to our main entrance. I hadn’t even realized I made it so close to the house. My mind had been entirely elsewhere these past few weeks.

I’d been thinking about the wolf… a lot.

His condescending tone angered me, even through my memories.

I’d come up with much better comebacks when replaying our conversation.

And I itched to throw them in his face and see him crumble under the weight of my words.

Because it hadn’t been a fair fight. He took me by surprise when he showed up, then had the nerve to insult me by saying I was somehow bound to the approval of men to do what I pleased—a far-fetched assumption.

That was one reason he was on my mind.

The other reason was… well, much more complicated.

I didn’t want to admit it then, but looking back at the situation, I could see it now.

His darkness drew me to him. It made me curious.

For reasons I couldn’t explain, I wanted to know who he was behind those mocking remarks and alluring gestures.

And I wanted to live with that mystery for a while. It was thrilling.

Which is why I decided I would not entertain that thought any longer.

The goons Father assigned to drive me home finally scattered as I entered the house.

My backpack hung heavy on my shoulder, loaded with history books I was supposed to study for tomorrow’s exam, but I wasn’t going to.

I’d already read everything Sasha brought me about The Medici Family Feuds weeks ago.

Devoured it, even. He did that a lot—taught me about history, and politics, and games that kept the mind sharp, despite never being compensated for the extra time he dedicated to me.

Taking the corner into the dining room, I saw my mother sitting with one leg crossed over the other at the long table, puffing out smoke from a cigarette.

Her fingers trembled around it, bringing it back to her mouth, which only told me this wasn’t her first. Or her second.

The muted fire ate more and more of the paper holding the nicotine together, her drag long and deep.

When she exhaled, it took her a moment to see me through the thick cloud of smoke curling along her face.

“Is it two already?” she asked, her voice laced with exhaustion.

I narrowed my eyes, dropping my backpack on an empty chair. “What’s going on?”

“Where’s your sister?”

“I don’t know. On her way back, I think. Mom… what’s wrong?”

She tapped the cigarette against the ashtray. “For God’s sake, Victoria, stop asking so many questions. Lunch is on the stove.” She jerked her head toward it, her platinum-blond hair—my hair, and my sister’s hair—slipping from behind her ear. “Go get yourself some.”

Hesitantly, I rounded the table and grabbed a bowl, then lifted the lid of a steaming pot. The beef stroganoff smelled delicious as I served myself a portion—not my mother’s cooking.

We’d had a chef ever since my father’s business began making heaps of money. And I was convinced Mom had been happier that day than the day she gave birth to me. It made sense, I guessed, since she had been forced to marry a man she never loved, then have kids with him on top of that.

Still, with Anya, it was different. Mother liked to spoil her, to praise every little thing she did. She called her beautiful when she combed her hair when we were kids. Tucked her in longer than she ever tucked me in.

It took most of my childhood to accept it. That the little love she had left to give was all for my sister. It’s the reason I became so attached to Sasha, who felt more like a parent to me than my real ones ever did.

I ate my lunch in silence while Mom looked through me, lost in whatever troubled her mind on this Monday afternoon. Minutes later, Anya finally showed up.

“Jesus!” Anya scrunched her nose, waving her manicured hand in the air. “Open a window or something! I can’t breathe in here.”

Mother’s eyes snapped to her, throat bobbing when she got up to pour herself scotch from the decanter across the room. “Sit down, Anya. Victoria, you can go to your room.”

Anya threw me a questioning look, but I only shrugged in response.

“What is it this time?” my sister mused, plopping down on a chair next to me.

“Are my grades not to your liking again?” She turned to me mouthing, “Stay?” and I was glad she asked because I didn’t want to leave.

Whatever Mom had to say, it seemed serious enough that she’d fully given in to her vices today.

So I’d stay, then, if only just for damage control.

Mom turned around with her drink, rolling her eyes at seeing the decision etched on my face. “Fine. You were going to find out anyway.” Then she just sat there with her head bowed toward her lap, delaying the inevitable.

A swirl of nervousness sprung in my gut, and it seemed my sister felt it too because she found my hand under the table and squeezed. An odd and rare gesture, but of course, I squeezed back.

“I guess you’re old enough to hear the truth about your father’s work.”

“Yeah, we know ,” Anya drawled. “He’s working for the Bratva. Do you really think we haven’t noticed the kinds of men walking in and out of our home like they own the place?”

She was right. Besides, it was hard not to overhear the conversations our parents had in this house. I watched our mother like a hawk, curious to see what she’d say to that. But she merely offered a clipped nod. “Good.”

Good? There was nothing good about this. Nothing at all.

“It’s easier to explain, then. Because yes, the way your father and I have cared for this family—” I didn’t miss the way she’d phrased it—like she wanted to make sure we knew she was involved as well— “has been through the help of the Pakhan . The hotel suite is his gift to us, and the way we launder his money. And in return, we get to live the life we have now.” Her brows rose with the last words.

She puffed out more smoke. “But now, your father… he… made a mistake.”

My pulse quickened, and I squeezed my sister’s hand harder.

I knew exactly what “a mistake” meant in this world. I’d seen enough movies, heard enough stories—gruesome ones—about the way the Bratva disposed of traitors. Anya and I shared a look, and it told me she’d heard the same.

“Why?” I asked. “We already had everything. Has he not made enough money? Why risk everything? For what?”

Mom snorted as she picked up a new cigarette from the pack. “You ask this as if you don’t know him. Greed took your father’s soul long ago, Victoria. It is what it is.”

“So… what does this mean for us?” Anya shook her head. “Do we leave the country? We’ve built a life here, Mom. We have friends . We can’t just—”

“We’re not going anywhere,” she deadpanned, looking down at the ashtray on the table.

“I know it will be hard to hear, but you’ve had lots of privileges up to this day.

Both of you. Now is one of those times when you have to settle the balance.

” Her gaze rose, pinning Anya down. “So we’ve arranged for you to marry into the Pakhan ’s family to make this all go away. ”

The room fell silent.

Anya and I had never been very close. I wanted to, and often tried, but she preferred hanging out with her friends, leaving me to my own devices more times than I could count. But even so, she was my sister. And my parents were about to throw her to the wolves.

“What about her future? Mom… What the hell are you talking about?” I asked.

A pained scoff filled the dirty air. “You think I want this? I’m powerless in this, just like you. I don’t have a choice. I’ll have to give away my daughter!” She sniffed, quickly regaining control over her emotions. I’d never seen her cry.

Anya shook with anger. How could our mother do this when she’d been subjected to the same treatment from her parents?

I realized it was mostly Father’s doing, not her own, but still.

She could’ve tried to do something about it—anything.

Instead, she accepted it, gave up before even putting up a fight.

“No,” Anya said plainly. “No. I won’t do it.”

Mom’s jaw clenched. “It’s already settled.”

Anya shook her head, her hand retracting from mine in one swift motion as she got up.

“You can’t make me. I will run away. I would rather die than marry some sleazy fossil past his expiration date. And why the fuck does it have to be me?!”

Her question slapped me across my face harder than she could’ve done it with her palm.

Sure, we had never been close, but this… this was a betrayal, because we were family, and I had never wished ill on her, ever, no matter how jealous I was of her being our parents’ favorite. I should’ve hated her for saying that, and yet… maybe it was better that she did.

Maybe if my parents married me off instead of her, they would finally see me as well.

Mom’s eyes shifted between the two of us. If she understood what had happened, how it made me feel, she said nothing about it.

“He wants to marry our heir,” she explained, puffing out more smoke.

Simple as that. No room for debate.

“Fuck this.” Anya stormed out, refusing to hear anything more.

Fuck this, indeed. If I was being honest, even through the haze of my pain, I couldn’t blame her for reacting this way. Hell, maybe I would’ve done the same thing. Neither of us was ready to be a bride, much less to a cruel man who had the power to ruin us.

Mom and I remained at the table in silence as I tried to make sense of all of this.

And maybe it was the many books Sasha had given me over the years—mentioning politics, and hidden intentions, and power plays—that made me consider everything was, somehow, connected.

My encounter with the stranger, the gifted stallion, now this…

Without second thoughts, I lifted my eyes from the table and pinned her with my gaze.

“Mom?” I asked. “Whose horse is in our stables right now?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line before she gulped the entirety of her scotch.

“It’s Wolfgang Rykov’s—the Pakhan’s eldest son.”

The way she said that name struck me as odd, because the word wasn’t English.

And it wasn’t Russian either. She’d said Volf-gung —clipped, foreign, the "W" softened into a "V," the last syllable hitting the back of her throat like a swallowed word. I wondered why that was because if he really was the Pakhan’s son… his name made no sense at all.

“It was an early wedding gift,” she continued, then took one final drag of her cigarette. “And a symbol. Obviously.”

“A symbol…? A symbol for what?”

I held my breath as I waited for the answer, knowing deep in my bones it wouldn’t be good. When she exhaled again, she stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray.

“Death, Victoria. A symbol for death.”

My fingers twitched in my lap, anxiety flowing freely through me as if a dam had broken. And as my mother kept on talking, every word she voiced felt like a stab.

“We either do this—let him take what he wants—or he’ll kill us. It’s either one of us… or all of us.”