Page 60 of Twisted Pact

“Security will be here in minutes,” Boris whispers to Mila. “If you want to avoid being questioned by police about what happened, we need to leave now.”

She looks around the room at her classmates and professors, who are staring at her with shock and fear. Her academic reputation is already destroyed; staying now will only make it worse.

“Fine,” she seethes through gritted teeth before glaring at me to add, “But I’m sitting in front with Boris. Donottalk to me.”

We make it to the parking garage, and Mila sits rigidly in the passenger seat while I’m relegated to the back. Only when we’re away from witnesses do I pull out my phone and start doing damage control.

“Legal cleanup, university incident,” I tell our contact. “Administrative silence, security footage scrubbed, and student devices confiscated if necessary.”

I hang up and dial another number. “Medical situation at the university. One injured student needs private transport to our facility. No police reports or media attention.”

The third call goes to our campus contact, who helped me set this whole thing up. “The dean needs to understand that discretion regarding today’s incident would be greatly appreciated. A generous donation to the engineering program should help clarify his priorities.”

Nikolay will talk, but his word against our resources won’t matter if I throw enough cash around.

Boris turns to check on Mila. “Any injuries? Did anyone grab you during the chaos?” She shakes her head but won’t look anywhere but the road.

By the time we reach the estate, I’ve dismantled any official record of what happened today. But looking at Mila’s reflection in the window—broken, humiliated, trapped—I realize that some damage can’t be erased with money and influence.

17

Mila

I can’t stop replaying the sound of Nikolay’s bones breaking.

The drive back to the estate passes in suffocating silence. Alexei is beside me in the SUV, covered in blood that’s already drying on his knuckles. Boris drives without speaking. Denis and Anton follow in the second vehicle behind us.

I should be horrified. Disgusted. Terrified of the man who just beat my ex-boyfriend unconscious in front of my entire graduate program.

Instead, I’m soaking wet.

Shame crawls up my spine. What kind of person gets turned on watching someone commit violence? What’s wrong with me that seeing Alexei lose control like that made heat gather between my legs and my nipples harden?

I steal a glance at him. He stares out the window, jaw locked tight. The look of a man replaying every second of a mistake.

Blood spatters his white shirt. His knuckles are split and swollen. He looks dangerous. Feral. Like the predator he’s always been underneath the expensive suits and French poetry.

I’ve never wanted him more.

The image of him crossing that conference room keeps flashing through my mind. The way he moved so fast and determined. How his hand wrapped around Nikolay’s wrist and twisted. The sound of bones snapping. Nikolay’s scream.

My thighs clench together involuntarily.

“Mila—” Alexei starts.

“Don’t.”

“We need to talk about what happened.”

“I said don’t.”

He falls silent. Good. If he tries to explain or justify or apologize right now, I might lose whatever fragile control I’m clinging to, climb into his lap in the back of this SUV with Boris driving, and do something we’ll both regret.

Or maybe we wouldn’t regret it.

That thought scares me more than anything else.

I press my forehead against the cool window and try to think about anything except the way Alexei’s muscles flexed when he hit Nikolay. The way blood sprayed across the floor. How his eyes looked black with rage.