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Revna

The acceptance letter burns in my pocket like a live coal.

University of Florida Law School—the golden ticket I've worked my ass off for, the escape route I've planned since I was fifteen and learned my future had already been sold.

"You're fidgeting," Dalla observes from her bed, not looking up from her anatomy textbook.

My twin sister’s pursuing pre-med at UNF while I finish my political science degree at Jacksonville University. Different schools, same city—close enough to protect each other, far enough to be our own people.

"The Irish are in town," I say, pulling out my phone to show her Ingrid's text. "Some were spotted at the clubhouse an hour ago."

Dalla's highlighter freezes mid-stroke. "Doran?"

"Don't know. Maybe." I try to sound casual, like my heart isn't racing. Like I haven't been waiting five years for this shoe to drop. "Could be here for something else."

"Right." She abandons her studying, crossing to my bed. "Because the Irish just randomly visit. No agenda. No collecting on old promises."

We're twenty now, almost twenty-one.

Legal adults.

Old enough that Daddy can't hide behind "they're still children" anymore.

"UF Law starts in August," I remind us both. "Three years in Gainesville. They can't exactly drag me to the altar if I'm in the middle of?—"

My phone rings.

It’s Dad.

"Hey," I answer, already knowing this won't be good.

"Rev." His voice carries that weight it always had since I was a child, the one that means I need to listen to what he’s saying, without arguing. "Need you home Monday. Family meeting."

"I have classes?—"

"Monday, Revna. Both you and your sister."

The line goes dead.

My father's never been one for long conversations, especially ones where he might have to explain himself.

Dalla raises her brows at me. "Well?"

"Monday. Family meeting." I toss my phone onto the bed. "Which means?—"

"Which means they're finally collecting their end of the deal." She sinks onto my bed, face pale. "Fuck."

"We don't know that for sure."

"Don't we?" She laughs, but it's bitter. "Five years, Rev. They gave us five years of pretending this wasn't hanging over our heads."

I want to argue, but she's right.

Ever since that horrible Christmas when Mom found out, we've been living on borrowed time.

Going to college, making friends, dating—all of it feeling temporary.

Like playing house when you know someone's coming to tear it down.

"You know what?" Dalla stands abruptly. "Fuck this. If we have to face this shit Monday, we're going out tonight."

"Dal—"

"No, I'm serious. When's the last time we actually went out? Had fun? Acted like normal college kids?"

She's already in my closet, rifling through clothes. "If one of us is about to be sold off to the Bratva, we're at least going to have one last hurrah."

Maybe it's the stress, maybe it's the acceptance letter still burning in my pocket, or maybe it's just that she's right—we deserve one night of normal. "Fine. But somewhere close. And not too late."

"Yes!" She pulls out a black dress I forgot I owned. "Wear this. You look like a badass in it."

Two hours later, we're at Pulse, a trendy club near the universities.

The bass thrums through my body as we navigate the crowded dance floor, and for a moment—just a moment—I let myself forget about Monday.

Dalla's in full party mode, dragging me onto the dance floor, buying us drinks we probably shouldn't have on empty stomachs.

But it feels good to move, to lose myself in the music, the bodies pressing against us, and the simplicity of being a young woman.

"See?" Dalla shouts over the music. "This is exactly what we needed!"

A guy approaches—tall, clean-cut, probably a business major from his cologne and carefully styled hair.

He offers to buy me a drink, and I let him.

Why not? In three days, I might be someone's reluctant fiancée.

Tonight, I'm just Revna.

We're talking at the bar, his hand resting on my lower back as he leans in to hear me better, when Dalla goes rigid beside me.

"Rev," she says, voice strange. "You won’t freaking believe this. Don't look now, but?—"

I look anyway.

And my blood turns to ice.

The VIP section has a perfect view of the entire club, and he's been watching.

I don't know for how long, but Doran Volkolv sits there like a king surveying his kingdom, dressed down in dark jeans and a black button-down that probably costs more than my rent.

He's not alone—two men flank him, the kind of men who scream danger without even trying.

When our eyes meet, he raises his glass in a mock salute.

"How long has he been there?" I ask, throat dry.

"I don't know. Fuck, Rev, what do we do?"

The business major is still talking, oblivious to my tension.

His hand slides lower on my back, and I'm about to step away when he suddenly freezes.

"I—I'm sorry," he stammers, backing away so fast he nearly trips. "I didn't know you were—I have to go."

He's gone before I can ask what the hell just happened.

But I don't need to look to know.

One of Doran's men is walking back to the VIP section, and the message has been received loud and clear: hands off.

"That motherfucker," I breathe.

"Rev, let's just go?—"

"No." Fury burns through the fear.

Five years of looking over my shoulder, of wondering when they'd come collecting, and he's here playing games? "I'm done running from this bastard."

I march toward the VIP section, ignoring Dalla's attempts to stop me.

The security guard takes one look at me and steps aside—of course Doran arranged that too.

"Enjoying your evening?" Doran asks as I approach. His voice is deeper than I remember, carrying a hint of accent—a mixture of Russian and Irish.

I can't tell which he favors more.

"Was until I realized I had a stalker."

"Stalking implies unwanted attention." He gestures to the empty seat beside him. "You're my fiancée. I'm simply keeping an eye on my investment."

Me.

So, he wants me—not Dalla.

"I'm not your anything."

"Monday says otherwise."

He dismisses his men with a look, and suddenly we're alone in this bubble of expensive leather and danger.

Up close, I can see how the years have changed him—harder jawline, broader shoulders, new scars on his knuckles that show he’s just like my father.

The only difference is his fancy suit.

"Champagne?" He lifts a bottle that costs more than I make in a month. "The good stuff. Not whatever crap they were serving you down there."

"I'm fine."

"Sit, Revna." It's not a request. "We have things to discuss."

I remain standing. "You knew about Monday's meeting."

"I know everything about you." He pours himself another drink, movements lazy and controlled. "Your class schedule— Political Theory on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Your favorite study spot—third floor of the library, northwest corner. Your coffee order—oat milk latte with an extra shot."

My skin crawls. "How long have you been watching me?"

"Who says I ever stopped?" He stands, and I'm reminded that he's taller than I remember, forcing me to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "Five years, little wolf. Five years of watching you pretend this day wouldn't come."

"I wasn't pretending. I was living my life."

"Were you?" He steps closer, and I refuse to back down even though every instinct screams danger. "How many men have asked you out in those five years? How many suddenly lost interest? How many transfers, job changes, mysterious departures?"

The truth hits me like a slap across the face. "You didn't?—"

"I protected what's mine." His hand comes up, fingers ghosting along my jaw without quite touching. "Even if you weren't ready to admit it yet."

Dalla bursts into the VIP section like an avenging angel. "We're leaving."

She grabs my arm, and Doran's entire demeanor shifts.

The lazy predator vanishes, replaced by something colder. "Careful with her." His voice drops to something lethal.

"She's my sister."

"And she's my future wife." He doesn't raise his voice, doesn't need to. "I protect what's mine."

The temperature in the room plummets.

Dalla's grip loosens, and I step between them before this escalates. "If you think I'm going to just roll over?—"

"I think you're going to negotiate." He pulls out his phone, turning it to show me the screen. "Just like the lawyer you want to be."

My blood freezes.

Photos fill the screen—our apartment building, our parents at the clubhouse.

All recent.

All taken by someone who knew exactly where to watch.

"The resurgence of the Culebra cartel has been busy," he says casually. "They've been watching for weeks. How many guards do you think you have? How many does your sister have?"

"This is blackmail."

"This is your reality." He pockets his phone. "Monday, we make it official. Tonight? Enjoy your freedom."

He steps into my space, and I smell his cologne—something expensive and dark that makes my stomach flip traitorously. "But Revna? The next man who puts his hands on you won't walk away with just a warning."

"You don't own me yet."

" Yet ." His smile is sharp as a blade. "Key word."

He tucks something into my jacket pocket—a business card, heavy stock with just a number. "In case you want to discuss terms before Monday. I'm staying at the Ritz. Penthouse."

Then he's gone, leaving Dalla and me standing in an empty VIP section that still smells like danger and expensive cologne.

Dalla demands an answer once we're outside. "What the fuck was that?"

"That was Doran coming to collect on the arrangement Dad made." I pull out the card, staring at the embossed numbers. "He let us see him tonight. He wanted us to know."

"Know what?"

"That running was never really an option."

Dalla sighs. "Yeah, and for us to know he’s chosen you."

Neither of us say a word after that.

We make it back to my apartment, both of us too shaken to do anything but crash.

Dalla goes to her room and we triple-check every lock, close every blind.

The paranoia is justified when my phone buzzes at 2:47 AM.

Unknown Number: