Page 16

Chapter 16

A Kingdom in Her Womb

Galina

T hree weeks of sleepless nights, high-stakes decisions, and an IV drip of green tea have led to this moment. Twenty-three dresses. One shot. Everything on the line.

The second Vasiliy handed me control, I bolted to the Fashion District like the devil was at my heels. My old sketchbooks—once shoved to the back of a drawer, filled with half-fantasies I’d drawn in secret—suddenly became blueprints for survival. I laid them out on dusty worktables in backroom studios where the air smelled like steam, ambition, and worn-down dreams. I bartered with patternmakers and seamstresses in a collision of Russian, English, and cold, hard cash. Volkov money talks. Fast.

Now the club doesn’t look like the Velvet Echo. It looks like a dream I almost forgot I had.

The chandeliers above cast soft golden light across polished floors, transforming the rehearsal space into something elegant and sophisticated. The models strut in heels so tall they defy physics. Every piece on the racks—lace, silk, rhinestones, and armor—is mine. Old designs, reworked with panic and purpose. Built to seduce and destroy in equal measure.

My hand brushes the hand-beaded detail of the final dress. A babushka in a shop off 37th Street made it—her fingers arthritic, her prayers whispered into every stitch. She sewed a single red thread into each seam for luck. I need more than luck, but I took it anyway.

“Again, from the beginning!” My voice slices across the room. “You’re not walking. You’re casting spells. Make them beg.”

The girls fall into formation, hips swinging, spines straight. They glide like they’ve been trained for war. All except Lera, who catches the heel of her shoe and nearly topples an entire rack of gowns.

“Easy,” I snap, lifting my tablet like a weapon. “The dresses are meant to destroy men, not themselves.”

Laughter echoes, sharp and nervous. Lera flushes. I don’t have time to coddle her. Every minute counts. Every step matters. Tomorrow night, this club becomes a runway. And that runway becomes a stage. If we stumble, we lose everything.

Oksana starts her pass down the runway again, her expression pure, cold menace. But the air shifts before she hits the halfway mark. A ripple I feel before I see.

And then?—

Boom .

The double doors slam open with enough force to make chandeliers tremble. Five men flood in like smoke and violence.

The room freezes.

My pulse spikes. My spine goes rigid. But my voice stays calm.

Because that’s how you survive men likethem.

One man steps forward first. Broad shoulders. Scarred face. Eyes like a hungry jackal who already knows where the blood is. Matvei. My uncle’s right hand now—elevated, armed, and fucking smiling.

“There you are, koroleva ,” he says, the nickname sliding from his tongue like oil. “Your uncle sends his regards.”

Queen. That’s what he used to call me. What theyallused to call me. Before the empire fell.

My fingers hover over my stomach. Protective. Instinctual. But my mouth moves before fear can root me in place.

“This is a private rehearsal,” I say. “The club’s closed.”

Matvei’s laugh slithers through the air, cold and slick. “We’re not here for bottle service, sweetheart. Vladimir wants to discuss... family matters .”

The way he says it— family matters —like it’s a private joke between monsters, makes my blood chill.

Behind me, the models scatter, stilettos skittering across the floor like startled birds. But I don’t move. I can’t. If I give them fear, they’ll take more. I lock my knees, lift my chin.

Five men. Armed. Watching me like prey.

I know how this works. Let them make the first move. Let them think they have control.

Then take it back.

My nails dig into my palms as I force my voice calm. “If Vladimir wants to talk, he can book a meeting like everyone else.” I start edging toward the stage, where I know the panic buttons are hidden. “Through the proper channels.”

But Matvei doesn’t want negotiations. His smile splits wider, meaner. “Enough games.” He steps forward, hand slipping beneath his coat. “You’re coming with us.”

My heel brushes the edge of the stage.

Not enough time.

He lunges. I pivot. But his hand snaps out like a whip, grabbing the lapel of my jacket and yanking hard. I stumble forward, and that’s when the room explodes.

Vasiliy’s security hits the side doors like a battering ram, guns drawn, barking commands. I dive behind a table, the world splintering into chaos. Screams. Gunshots. Shattered glass. I hit the ground hard, shielding my stomach as bullets chew through velvet and wood.

“ You! ” Vasiliy’s voice cuts through the madness like thunder, laced with fury and fire.

I press myself flat against the floor. Through the smoke and scream of bullets, I hear it—the low snarl of recognition, of ancient hate rekindled.

“Surprise,” Matvei taunts, laughing through the gunfire.

“You’re in my house,” Vasiliy growls. “You forget what happens to men who break my rules?”

Matvei’s answer is pure venom. “I’m not just here for you. I’m taking everything. Starting with her.”

Then I hear the words that make my soul freeze: “Vladimir wants the little queen back.”

My stomach turns to lead. My hand clutches instinctively at the curve of my abdomen.

Vasiliy’s voice drops to ice. “You’re not in a position to demand anything.”

“Oh, but I am,” Matvei sneers.

A gunshot cracks the air.

The chandelier explodes, raining crystal like a thousand falling stars. Smoke and chaos swallow the room whole. I can’t think—can barely breathe—as bullets rip the space apart.

A round punches through the table inches from my face. I curl tighter, shielding the only thing that matters now. Protect the baby. Protect the baby. Nothing else matters. Not the gowns. Not the club. Just the heartbeat I haven’t even heard yet.

Then—hands.

Rough. Unforgiving.

Matvei yanks me upright, cold steel pressing to my temple. “Back off!” he snarls. “Or I’ll paint this place with her brain.”

Everything narrows—his grip, the cold muzzle, the air I can’t seem to inhale. My hands cradle my belly, trembling.

And then I see him.

Vasiliy steps through the smoke like judgment incarnate. Blood stains his suit. A knife gleams in one hand. His eyes—those cold, unrelenting eyes—find me, then Matvei.

Then the gun at my head.

“Are you pregnant?” Matvei hisses, rancid breath against my neck. “Of course you are. You always were a stupid little bitch.”

Vasiliy stops. Just for a second. I see it— shock . The kind he’s trained his whole life to suppress. But there it is. Cracking through the surface.

Matvei sees it too.

His smile is feral now, pressed against my neck like a curse. “It’s yours,” he sneers. “You put your devil’s seed in her. A Volkov heir.”

Vasiliy doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink.

But I see it. A flicker of something behind his eyes—shock, fury, the briefest flash of vulnerability. Then it’s gone, buried beneath layers of steel.

When he speaks, his voice is soft. Lethal. “Let her go.”

Matvei’s grip tightens. “You’re not in a position to negotiate.”

Wrong thing to say.

Because the next second, Vasiliy moves.

Not fast.

Not loud.

But with a terrifying precision that makes the air crackle.

“I don’t give warnings twice,” he says, stepping closer, each word laced with death. “You touch her again, and I’ll peel your skin off one inch at a time, starting with your trigger finger.”

Matvei’s gun wavers. Just slightly.

Around us, Vasiliy’s men form a wall. Trained. Ready. The kind of men who don’t need orders to open fire.

Matvei sees it, too. He’s good, but he’s not stupid. He calculates the odds, feels the shift. Feels the noose tighten.

He leans in one last time, his voice a whisper of rot. “This isn’t over.”

“Correct,” Vasiliy replies, gaze burning through him. “Next time, you don’t walk out.”

Matvei curses under his breath and releases me.

The moment he steps back, Vasiliy is there, catching me before I fall. His hands are iron bands around my waist, but his eyes never leave Matvei.

“Go,” he commands, low and final.

Matvei spits on the floor. A slow, deliberate insult. Then, with a jerk of his head, he signals his men and disappears through the same doors he came in, his presence still poisoning the air.

The silence left behind is deafening.

I don’t move. Can’t move.

I just hold on to Vasiliy, trembling from the inside out, my hand still curled protectively over the life growing inside me.

He pulls me tighter. Not gently.

But in that moment, it’s the safest I’ve ever felt.