Page 2

Chapter 2

The Morning After Destruction

Galina

D awn bleeds through the curtains like a wound, casting accusatory fingers of light across an unfamiliar ceiling. My head pounds with the dull rhythm of regret, each throb a reminder of vodka-soaked decisions and sins written on skin. The sheets twisted around my body smell of him—expensive cologne layered over something darker, more primal.

Vasiliy’s presence fills the room like gathering thunder, a storm waiting to break. His measured breathing behind me suggests sleep, but I know better—a man like him never truly rests. These borrowed moments let me catalog my failures in the growing light.

Last night comes back in violent flashes: the bathroom’s fluorescent confessional, the desperate stumble to his room, amber liquid burning paths to absolution. My body bears the evidence of his possession—fingerprints blooming purple on my hips, teeth marks at my throat. Each ache is a testament to how completely I shattered beneath his hands, and I hate how my flesh still hums with want, even now.

I turn with careful precision, a prey animal studying its predator. Prison has carved away his civilized veneer, leaving something leaner, deadlier in its place. His blond hair falls across the pillow like tarnished gold, features cut from marble even in sleep. Those steel-gray eyes that stripped me bare are hidden now, but their ghost haunts me still.

The Vasiliy of legend—the golden son of Russia’s Federal Security Service, the FSB, successor to the infamous KGB—would never have allowed such vulnerability. But this man wears his scars like medals of honor, each one a chapter written in violence. The tattoos mapping his skin tell stories in a language of pain and survival. I recognize enough prison symbolism to know these marks weren’t chosen for aesthetics—they’re a history of blood and iron, etched deep where even Siberia’s winter couldn’t reach.

A year in Russia’s frozen hell has transformed him into something that makes my pulse quicken with equal parts fear and fascination. The sophisticated agent I grew up hearing whispered warnings about has been stripped to bone and sinew, a monster playing at civilization in his designer suits. I should be terrified of the beast wearing such elegant camouflage. Instead, I’m drawn to the raw truth of him—the savage barely contained beneath his polished surface.

He shifts, and terror claws up my throat. I need to disappear before those gray eyes open, before I’m forced to face our collision in the unforgiving daylight. My clothes mark a path of surrender from door to bed—each discarded piece a marker of how eagerly I fell. The memory of his hands, rough with need and vengeance, makes my skin flush traitor-hot despite my desperate grasp at dignity.

Every movement as I ease from the sheets sends fresh pain spiraling through my core. The ache between my thighs speaks of conquest, of possession—but worse is the knowledge that I matched his savagery with my own hunger, tooth for tooth, mark for mark. What kind of monster does that make me?

His breathing shifts, and I still like prey. One glance from those winter-gray eyes, and I might forget why this was damnation dressed as salvation. I might forget how deeply I despise him for the ways he’s fractured my family, for the power he wields over me.

Escape is survival.

The dress slides over bruised skin like a bandage over wounds that run soul-deep. My ruined underwear goes into my purse—a trophy of mutual destruction.

I give myself one final glance—one last indulgence—as I burn him into memory. The warrior forged in prison steel, sculpted by violence and silence, lies dangerously still. Even in sleep, Vasiliy radiates the kind of menace that doesn’t rest. He’s carved from survival and brutality, and I was stupid enough to bare my throat to the wolf.

Regret curdles in my gut like poison. I should’ve walked away. Should’ve remembered that his family didn’t just ruin mine—they annihilated it. The Volkovs didn’t break us by accident. They gutted us with precision. And still, I crawled back to the man who wears their sins like a crown.

Weak. That’s what my father always called me. And maybe he was right. Because last night, I didn’t just let Vasiliy touch me—I let him unmake me. I let him burn his claim into my skin, reshape me in the heat of his fury. I didn’t fight the monster.

I welcomed him.

Bastard.

A hollow ache blooms behind my ribs—something old, familiar, and almost too painful to name. I crush it under the weight of habit, suffocating emotion with practiced indifference. Last night wasn’t redemption. It was a purge. A violent, desperate exorcism. Letting the anger bleed out so I can put the mask back on and face the world.

I call it survival.

Freedom waits just beyond this door. One step, and I’m gone.

If only it were that easy.

The sound of my phone vibrating is thunderous in dawn’s fragile silence. Heart pounding against my ribs, I flee. Only when the elevator’s steel doors seal me away do I remember how to breathe. The number glowing on my screen bears a New York City area code—a ghost reaching across oceans.

“Hello?” English falls from my lips like a shield.

“Galina Olenko?” A woman’s voice mimics my chosen tongue.

“Yes. Who is this?”

“Mila Agapova. Doctor Orlov informed me of your release from his institution and your approval to return to New York, conditional on continued treatment.”

My pulse drums war rhythms, but I keep my voice smooth. “And you’re calling because...?”

“I’m a psychologist. Doctor Orlov requested I oversee your treatment. He believes you’re ready for standard therapy. Together, we’ll work on your reintegration into normal life.”

Normal. The word tastes like ashes on my tongue. Normal died screaming with my siblings, buried beneath the weight of inherited, generational madness. My future is a carefully constructed cage of therapy sessions and manufactured meaning, walking the razor’s edge between sanity and the darkness that whispers in my blood. The same shadow that sang my siblings to their graves, the curse that transforms Olenko greatness into magnificent ruin.

“I hate to be so direct, but I’m afraid you don’t really have a choice, Miss Olenko,” Mila says after a long silence. Her tone is gentler than her words would suggest. Maybe too gentle.

“Please call me Galina,” I reply. “Also, thanks for the call. I’ll be sure to get in touch as soon as I arrive in New York. My flight’s in a few hours.”

“Excellent,” the therapist praises. “I look forward to working with you. I can see Doctor Orlov was right. You’re in a perfect place to heal.”

Hardly.

I grit my teeth, hating the fact the walls will close in around me again. The only reason I’ve survived this long is because I’m trying to escape the expectations that follow each bad decision and fuckup. At the end of the day, none of this matters. It shouldn’t matter. Even if I wanted—finally, truly wanted—to be healthy, none of that would change the truth: the Olenko curse is real, and I’m the only one left standing.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I reply, putting a smile on my lips just for fun. “See you soon.”

Her tentative agreement is all I need. Hanging up, I put the phone away and lean back against the wall. This is bullshit. Utter, complete, stupid bullshit.

Fuck. Me.

Fuck the therapies. Fuck the treatment. Fuck it all.

“Miss?”

I blink. It takes me a moment to notice the elevator’s stopped. Another woman—young and athletic, with a haircut worthy of a Bond Girl—is waiting patiently for me to move.

“Sorry.” I take a few steps out of the small space.

The minute the doors close, I turn left to go to my room. I don’t have many belongings, but what I do have, I don’t want to leave behind. As I’m fiddling with the card key at my door, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

Heart thundering, I flip around.

There’s no one there.

It takes me a moment to get a grip. Vasiliy was asleep when I left his room. He drank a lot more than I did. It’ll take him a while longer to wake up.

My room feels oddly suffocating after a long night spent in his bed. Exhaustion burns behind my eyes, and my thoughts drift back to him. Why the hell did I let him make a mockery of my desires? Now that my mind isn’t half-muddled by alcohol, the damage is staggering.

Will he tell anyone? It’d be disastrous and humiliating if word got out that I let him fuck me.

People will ask questions. And I hate questions.

Never, ever has a one-night stand clouded my mind like this. But damn Vasiliy Volkov for getting under my skin, messing with my mind, and putting me in an impossible position. As his enemy, no less.

Muttering a string of curses under my breath, I dash into the bathroom and start stripping off my dress. I might as well try to enjoy the last few hours of anonymity. Anonymity from the whispers that follow the Olenko name through every society gathering, from looks ranging from pity to hatred from those who remember what our family once was and what we did. Before we became known as the dynasty that destroyed itself.

Wincing, I get the damn dress over my head. It drops to the ground, exposing my naked form in front of the big mirrors lining the vanity. Tiny bruises litter my body, scattered constellations created in the heat of last night.

This won’t do.

I can’t leave a trail of evidence.

Once is a coincidence, but not the second or third time...and definitely not if all these love bites are visible for public consumption. Besides, the lingering presence of his touch still makes my entire body sensitive, sending jolts of awareness along every inch of my skin.

Grabbing the shower gel, I squeeze a large amount into my hand and lather it against my skin. I can scrub him off me, sure, but what about the marks he left? On my body, my soul? That’s not something I can physically wash off. No matter how hard I rub, no matter how deeply the pungent lemon scent I’ve come to dislike chokes my senses, a tiny voice reminds me he’s been there. He’s possessed me to the deepest levels of depravity, and I let him.

Son of a bitch.

Once I’m done drying off, I put on a pair of jeans and a simple blue top, along with minimal makeup. The last thing I take is the black beret on the desk. When I find a matching pair of ankle boots, I’m ready to leave. I give the hotel room one last look. I’ll be even more excited to never see it again.

I’m finally going home. Back to my family, back to my life.

“New York, I hope you didn’t miss me too much,” I mutter under my breath, hoping the humor can drown the dread pooling in the pit of my stomach.

When I step out onto the street, the morning air helps clear my head a bit. The familiar weight of family karma settles back onto my shoulders, the desire to recover our legacy much heavier than even the regret of my last night’s unfortunate escapade into Vasiliy’s arms. Taking the subway is beyond awful, especially today, so I take a taxi to the airport, leaving Vasiliy behind without looking back once.

Or if I do, I don’t admit it to myself. Just like I don’t admit how many times I’ve caught myself searching crowds for my cousin’s face or reaching for my phone to call my brothers. Some ghosts never leave us, whether they’re family or lovers we shouldn’t have taken.