Page 163 of Violent Possession

I extend my hand across the table.

Slowly, he extends his gloved hand and places it on mine. The grip is firm, cold.

The pact is sealed.

CHAPTER 10

LONG LIVE THE KING

GRIFFIN

Burning muscles, throbbing bones, stinging cuts. The fresh scent of newly laundered Egyptian cotton, the expensive perfume of someone who doesn’t sleep on ordinary sheets, and a silence, heavy and dense, suspended between two moments in time, awaiting the morning’s verdict.

When I finally manage to open my eyes, they burn with the gray light leaking through the cracks of the automatic blinds. Slowly, the memories of last night begin to reverse into the present.

There’s the bar, Vania’s furious face, the blood running hot from my eyebrow, Alexei’s dry voice, and then darkness. I remember his firm hands, holding me. The sting of the antiseptic, the needle stitching my skin, his calm murmur as he worked. And, most of all, his silhouette sitting in the armchair, in the dark, watching over me, because I had asked him to stay.

He must have left at some point after that, because I woke up alone with a note on the nightstand:Be back soon.Along with the note, pills and an untouched glass of water. The oldest lie in the world, but coming from him, it felt different.

Now, the sun is already up. I get up slowly, pulling on the first black t-shirt I find. It smells of imported cologne, and I feel ridiculous. Still, I wear it. I change the bandage on the cut on my forehead, take the painkillers.

I walk to the living room and every step makes the wound in my ribs protest.

Alexei is standing in the center of the office, with his back to me, staring intently at the screens. He’s wearing an impeccable suit, his hair slicked back, with the rigid posture. Even without seeing my reflection on the screens, he knows I’ve arrived.

“Painkillers in the third kitchen cabinet,” he says, without turning.

“Already took them,” I reply, leaning my shoulder against the doorframe.

He drags a news feed to the center of the panel. The headlines spin in Russian, English, Mandarin. I don’t follow the content, only recognize a few company names, a reference to an accident at the port, another to the closure of a factory in Finland. Alexei is always watching for patterns.

“What’s the plan?” I ask.

He turns, slowly. His gaze sweeps over me, analyzing the damage, cataloging the flaws. Behind the coldness, a trace of genuine concern.

“The plan,” he says, “is that you will stay here. You will eat, you will rest, and you will recover. You have a fight in the circuit soon, and I didn’t invest in you to see you lose because of my cousin’s stupidity.” He says this without anger, as if injuries, humiliation, and confinement were natural parts of an athlete’s preparation cycle.

Protective, even. And that poisons me.

“No,” I say. “I’m not going to lie here like a broken display case while you solve everything yourself. I brought you Seraphim. I gave you the advantage. I’m part of this.”

“Youwerepart of it,” he corrects. Now his voice is cold, cutting. “You fulfilled your function. Now your function is to recover. I willnotrisk my most valuable asset for a whim of yours.”

Asset. That fucking word again. After everything—the fight, the blood, the silent confession in my plea to be useful—am I still just an item on his spreadsheet? I let out a laugh.

“How many ‘assets’ have been in your bed before me? And how many of them did you throw away when they stopped generating profit?”

He takes a deep breath, once, twice, and only then looks at me again—that cutting blue is now opaque, tired, with fissures of humanity where before there was only calculation.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says, cracked by something that sounds a lot like disappointment. Not with me—with himself, maybe, or with the fact that he couldn’t maintain his professional distance for even thirty seconds.

“No?” I provoke, pressing further, because I don’t know how to back down when I see blood. “Your ‘asset’ survived an ambush by your cousin and gave you the perfect weapon for this ridiculous war. An ‘asset’ stays on a fucking shelf, collecting dust and waiting for the next order. I’m the player who’s winning the game for you, Alexei.”

He doesn’t react. Not that I can see. So controlled it’s violent.

Alexei turns, slowly, and faces the risk of admitting defeat head-on. He’s not the type to bleed on the floor. He breaks his fall with elegance. A tired, crooked half-smile touches his lips, the idea of losing control more comical than tragic.

“You are my most unpredictable and dangerous weapon. And that isexactlywhy you’re not going anywhere.”