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Scarlett

That night in bed, the room is quiet, the golden light of the bedside lamp casting soft shadows on the walls. Viktor lies beside me, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. My eyes drift to the intricate tattoos that weave across his skin—dark, bold lines that form a story I don’t understand but desperately want to.

I trace a finger just above his chest, stopping short of touching the skull on a rose that seems to bloom and wither simultaneously.

“Viktor,” I whisper, my voice hesitant but curious.

He turns his head slightly, icy-blue eyes meeting mine. “Yes?”

“Your tattoos,” I say, gesturing to the ink that stretches across his chest and arms. “They’re ... striking. They feel like they have a story. What do they mean?”

Viktor shifts, propping himself up on an elbow. He doesn’t answer immediately; instead, he watches me as if deciding how much of his soul to bare.

“They’re not just ink,” he says, his voice low and reflective. “They’re a shield. A testament. They cover scars—bullet wounds, stab marks, burns. Every tattoo masks something I don’t want the world to see.”

My heart tightens. “So, each one represents something you’ve survived?”

He nods, his expression shadowed. “Take this one,” he says, gesturing to the glock inked onto his forearm. The barrel is aimed downward, a hand gripping the trigger. “It’s for the first time I took a life. I was seventeen and protecting my father. It’s a reminder of what I became that day.”

“And this?” I ask, pointing to the knife inked down his back, the blade jagged and cruel.

He exhales sharply. “That’s for the betrayal I’ve faced. The knife is for the wounds you don’t see—betrayals that cut deeper than any blade.”

I press my lips together, absorbing the gravity of his words.

He lies back down, staring at the ceiling. “But the story begins here,” he says, gesturing to a faded scar beneath the rose-skull tattoo on his chest. “On my eighteenth birthday.”

I shift closer, hanging onto his every word.

“It was supposed to be a celebration - my induction into the Bratva. My mother insisted on riding with me to the venue. She wanted to have those last few moments alone with her son before the world claimed me. But ...”

He pauses, his jaw tightening.

“We were ambushed. Gunfire erupted, the car windows shattered, and my mother ... she shielded me. Her body took the bullets meant for me.” His voice wavers, but he pushes on. “By the time it was over, she was gone, and I was barely alive.”

My hand flies to my mouth, tears stinging my eyes as I imagine the horror.

“They thought they’d killed me,” Viktor continues, his voice quieter now. “My father made sure of that. He staged my death, burying an empty casket beside my mother’s grave. The world mourned Igor Makarov’s son while I disappeared.”

“What did you do?” I ask, my voice trembling.

“I died and became a ghost,”

Viktor’s gaze hardens, his voice becoming quieter. “My father buried two caskets that week—one with my mother’s body, the other empty, marked with my name. To the world, Igor Makarov’s son was dead.”

I sit in stunned silence, the weight of his story pressing down on me.

“Why?” I manage to ask.

“To protect me. My survival was a secret only a handful knew. My father sent me to New York under the cover of night. I underwent surgeries, recovered, and became a ghost. A ghost who would one day return to reclaim his throne.”

I can barely breathe as he speaks, each word a revelation. I see him in a new light—this man who carries the weight of survival, loss, and duty.

“My father came to New York some months ago,” Viktor continues. “He told me it was time to take my place. But on his way back to Russia, he was murdered. Whoever killed him didn’t know I was still alive.”

My hand moves instinctively to my stomach, my fingers curling protectively over the small swell. This is the world my children will inherit—a world of blood and betrayal.

“What will happen to them?” I ask softly, my voice trembling.

Viktor’s gaze shifts to me, his expression softening. “They’ll be protected,” he says firmly. “I’ll make sure of it.”

I hesitate, my doubts bubbling to the surface. “I’m not like you, Viktor. I don’t know how to fit into this world. I’m not strong enough.”

“You’re stronger than you think,” he replies, pulling me closer. “You’ve fought for your mother. You’re fighting for our children. That’s all the strength you need.”

His lips brush my forehead, his warmth chasing away the chill of my fears. “You’ll make a perfect Bratva queen, Scarlett,” he murmurs. “Not because of where you come from, but because of who you are.”

His words settle in my heart, softening the sharp edges of my doubt. For the first time, I begin to see myself through his eyes—not as a girl lost in an unfamiliar world, but as someone capable of standing beside him.

We lie together in silence, his heartbeat steady beneath my cheek. The storm of uncertainty inside me begins to calm, replaced by a sense of belonging I didn’t know I needed.

As the night deepens, my eyelids grow heavy. Viktor’s presence is a balm, his strength a shield against the unknown.

I drift into sleep, lulled by the steady rhythm of his breathing. As my world fades to black, I know I’m not alone in this fight.

Viktor watches me drift off to sleep, his expression tender yet resolute. He brushes a stray strand of hair from my face, a silent vow forming in his mind.

In the quiet of the night, Viktor’s determination hardens. Whatever challenges lie ahead, he will face them head-on, for me and our children.