Kairus' POV :
The night is quiet—too quiet.
The kind of quiet that settles into your bones and reminds you you're still alive, even when you wish you weren't.
A glass of scotch glints in the dim light, the amber swirl the only warmth in this icebox of a room. I swirl it once. Then again. Watching it like it might give me answers I've spent years pretending not to want.
She's gone. Back to her room. Back to her silence. Back to the world where she still thinks she has a choice.
I take a sip.
Burns like hell.
But not as much as the way she looked at me earlier. Like she saw something in me. Something broken. Something... bleeding.
I chuckle under my breath. Fucking ridiculous.
She doesn't know anything. Not really. And I plan to keep it that way.
The door creaks open behind me. I don't turn. Only one person enters my room without knocking.
"You're late," I mutter.
Dr. Vasin sighs from the doorway. "You're drinking again. That's not helping."
"Neither is dying."
He walks over, calm and measured as always, and takes the armchair across from me. His coat's slightly wet from the rain outside, drops clinging to his cuffs like tiny ghosts.
"I need to check your vitals."
"Not tonight."
"Kairus."
"Vasin."
We stare at each other for a beat too long before he relents with a sigh and leans back.
"She affects it, doesn't she?" he asks, voice low. "Your vision."
I drain half my glass before answering.
"Yes."
It comes out quieter than I mean for it to. Like some part of me doesn't want to admit it. Not even here. Not even to the only person who knows.
"Your test results came in."
I don't respond. I walk over to the window, letting the glass chill my knuckles as I press it lightly. The night outside is quiet. Or pretending to be.
"You saw her again today?" he asks, voice lower this time.
I clench my jaw. "Yes."
"And the color?"
Red.
Like fire. Like the blood on her knuckles.
"The first time I saw her," I say slowly, voice rough, "she was in the underground boxing ring. I wasn't supposed to be there. Mikhail took me there for the fight. She walked into that cage like she owned the damn place… and her fists did too. Blood all over her jaw… her knuckles. "
My grip tightens on the glass.
"I saw red that night."
Gavrik's gaze sharpens. "How often does it happen now?"
I remain silent.
"It's progressing," he says carefully. "You need her, Kairus."
Need.
The word grates.
"Don't confuse necessity with… dependency," I snap, more to myself than him.
He closes the file and places it gently on the table. "You know what this means. You can't afford to lose her now. Not if you want this… condition to stay manageable."
"I married her," I say coolly. "That should be enough to keep her close."
He raises a brow. "And what about keeping her willing?"
"She signed a contract."
"Contracts don't protect against resentment."
"Neither do emotions," I shoot back.
He sighs but says nothing more. Just nods and lets himself out.
Once the door clicks shut, I take another sip, this time draining the glass.
Need her? No.
She's a pawn. A means to an end. I'm not attracted to her. I'm not obsessed. Her mouth, her defiance, her heat—none of it matters.
I set the glass down with more force than necessary, the crystal bottom ringing against the table.
I don't want her.
I don't want her.
I want to own her.
That's different.
Isn't it?
Sleep doesn't come easy.
Not with her scent still lingering in the air. Not with the ghost of her breath brushing against my skin.
I shift beneath the sheets, eyes glued to the ceiling, fists clenched at my sides. The room is silent—too silent. But inside my head? It's chaos.
I press the heels of my palms into my eyes, trying to banish the memory of how close we stood. How her chest rose with every furious breath. How her scent—like honey and blood—twisted around me until I couldn't think straight.
And her breath…
Fuck. Her breath.
Soft, hot. Ghosting against my mouth when she shouted at me like I didn't scare her. Like I didn't own her.
That made it worse. The way she didn't submit.
The way she made me want her more for it.
I roll onto my side and exhale sharply, jaw tight.
She's just part of the plan. Nothing more. I married her to protect the empire. To settle a debt. To control what needed controlling. I tell myself that until the darkness folds around me.
Eventually, I sleep.
Morning comes with a headache and a pounding in my temples that doesn't go away, even after the strongest espresso Mikhail shoved into my hand.
The dining room is quiet—sunlight streaming in through tall windows, slicing across the long oak table. I sit at the head, half-eaten toast on the plate and a file opened in front of me. Numbers, supply routes, weapon shipments. Things I usually live for.
Today, none of it sticks.
I hear her before I see her.
Boots. Confident. Purposeful.
Then Raven appears in the doorway, her hair slightly messy, eyes unreadable, but dressed in black like she's ready to fight a war. She doesn't even look at me when she speaks.
"I'm going out."
I close the file slowly. "Where?"
She shrugs on a hoodie. "Underground. There's a match I've got lined up."
"No," I say calmly.
She stops mid-step. Turns. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me."
Her eyes flash. "You don't get to tell me what to do."
"I do," I say evenly. "You're mine now."
Her fists curl. "I'm not your goddamn possession."
I stand, not in anger—but control. My voice remains low.
"You don't need to fight anymore. Not for money. Not for debt. You're—"
"I'm not taking your money just cause I'm a married woman now, " she snaps, cutting me off. "I didn't marry you to be some arm candy, Kairus. I didn't trade one cage for another."
The heat in her voice doesn't surprise me. What surprises me is how much it cuts through the cold I've lived in for years.
I stare at her. Her jaw is tight, her eyes glassy, but she won't let them fall. That pride in her won't bend.
And god, that pride makes me want to ruin her.
"This has nothing to do with you being a woman," I say slowly, voice like steel. "I'm not stopping you because I think you're weak."
"Then why?" she demands.
"Because you're my wife now," I say, stepping closer. "You carry my name. You live under my roof. My enemies know that. If they can't get to me, they'll come for you."
She falters, just a breath. But recovers fast.
"I can handle myself."
"I know you can," I murmur. "I've seen you. Fists bleeding. Eyes feral. You're a fucking storm, Raven."
My hand lifts slightly, wanting to touch her, just to see if she'll flinch.
She doesn't.
"But storms burn themselves out when they're not careful. And right now, I can't afford to lose you. Not to them. Not to a mistake. You want to fight? Fight with me. Not alone."
Her chest rises and falls with uneven breaths.
There's silence between us. Crackling. Tense.
Just as I'm about to turn back to the file on the table, her voice slices through the silence.
"Then fight me."
I glance up. She's leaning against the doorway now, arms crossed, chin tilted up like a dare carved into her bones.
"If you win," she says, "I'll stay. No underground match. No arguments. I'll listen."
My brow arches. "And if you win?"
Her lips curve—sharp and wicked. "I go. No leash. No chain. No angry mafia husband throwing tantrums."
I stare at her.
The gall.
The goddamn audacity.
But fuck if it doesn't make me rock hard.
"You want me to fight you," I repeat, stepping closer.
She nods. "Unless you're scared of losing."
I laugh. A low, humorless sound that tastes like trouble. "I've seen you fight, Raven. You're fast. Brutal. Sloppy when you're mad."
She smirks. "Then it should be easy for you."
I walk until there's barely a breath between us. Her chin lifts, refusing to shrink away.
"You want to feel my hands on you that badly, babochka? " I murmur.
Her throat bobs. But her eyes don't waver. "You want to control me that badly, then earn it."
That does it.
"Ten minutes," I say, turning away. "Training hall."
She doesn't say anything, but I can hear her following. Can feel her stare burning into my back.
She doesn't know it yet—but I'm not going easy on her.
And gods help me…
…I hope she doesn't go easy on me either.