My chest tightens immediately. I’m bracing for dismissal, for the moment where he decides I’m more trouble than I’m worth. Instead, Viktor studies me for a beat. He nods once, like he already knew.

  “You’ll be guarded non-stop.” His hand settles at my waist, grounding me. “But you’ll also need to learn how to fight.”

  My breath stutters before I can stop it. Viktor steps in close and pulls me flush against him, my back pressing into the cold edge of the table. Colder steel is just inches from my hip. His body cages me in, solid and unyielding. I am surrounded by things that can kill me, and yet my body is humming, leaning into the danger.

  “Come here, krasavchik.”

  The command leaves no room to hesitate. He nudges my chin up with two fingers and reaches for a blade. “Take the training blade.” He places it in my hand. It’s heavier than I expect. The handle is smooth, balanced in a way that makes my wrist adjust instinctively.

  “That’s a kindjal.” He shifts behind me, guiding my grip with his own. “Practice version. Dull steel.” His thumb brushes my knuckles as he balances my hold. The pressure is unyielding. “Once you’re ready,” he murmurs close to my ear. “You’ll use a double-edged one.”

  The implication lands low and warm. You’re not going anywhere. His hand lingers a second longer than necessary. My pulse is loud in my ears. I look at the knife in my palm while its weight is making my wrist dip.

  “Don’t fight the weight.” Viktor’s voice comes from just behind my shoulder. He nudges my wrist until the blade steadies. “Let it settle. Then compensate.”

  His hands close over mine, adjusting my grip by a fraction. It's a tiny movement, but it changes everything. “The kindjal isn’t thrown like a kitchen knife.” He shifts my wrist, firm but controlled. “You don’t flick it. You guide it. The wrist stays firm.”

  He lifts my elbow, pressing my shoulder back with a slow push. “Straight line. No curve.” His mouth is close enough now that I feel his breath brush my cheek. “If your wrist bends, the blade turns. You miss. Or you wound.”

  My breath catches.

  “And when you wound,” he continues evenly. “You don’t get to choose what happens next.” His fingers tighten briefly around mine. “Wounded men panic. They scream. They bleed longer. Someone else finishes it. Or they live just long enough to remember who hesitated. Like this; hold the grip near the end.” His thumb presses against my knuckles. “Feel where the balance point is.”

  I shift my fingers. The blade tips forward, then settles into a place that feels inevitable. “There.” He stills my hand. “You feel that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That is where you throw from.” Viktor’s hands settle around my wrist and forearm. “The blade should roll out of your hand. Not jump. Not fly sideways. Roll.” He guides my arm into position. My pulse jumps under his fingers, loud enough that I’m sure he feels it. “Breathe,” he murmurs.

  I drag air into my lungs. It comes shallow anyway. “Focus on the line between you and the target.” He angles me toward a cracked section of wall marked with faint scratches. “Picture the blade moving through that line. Not at the wall, but through it.”

  My elbow dips without me noticing. “Up.” His grip firms, correcting me immediately. “Always keep the point aimed where you want to strike. Intention first. Force second.”

  I lift my arm again. My shoulder is tightening. “Good.” He moves my hand through the motion. It is a single, clean path from shoulder to release. “That’s the throw.” His voice stays calm. “No force you don’t need. Control is what decides the outcome.”

  He draws my arm back to my shoulder and then lets go. The space he leaves behind feels louder than the contact did. “Try it.”

  My palm is damp. The weight pulls at my wrist, but I hold the line the way he showed me. I exhale and let the blade roll out of my hand. It hits the wall with a hollow thud and drops to the floor. Viktor steps past me and picks it up, turning it once in his hand. “That was straight. Your follow-through was short. Strength will come. Precision already has.”

  He places it back in my palm. “Again.”

  I try again. The blade turns this time and hits the wood sideways. His hand closes over mine before I can pull back. “Don't rush. Your body still thinks everything is an attack. It wants to react fast. Make it slow. Make it yours.”

  He guides my fingers back to the balance point. His thumb is sliding across the back of my hand. “You control the blade. Not the fear.”

  “One more.”

  I breathe in. Then I throw. The kindjal hits close to the mark. For a second I wait for his reaction like it’s the only thing holding me up. Viktor’s mouth softens. “Good.”

  He retrieves the blade. When he returns, he places it back into my hand. My grip is steadier this time. My breath isn't. “You’ll learn. You just need repetition and control.”

  The word control lands heavy between us. His attention settles on me in a way that strips the room of everything else. The knives, the wall, even the breath in my chest disappear. It feels like pressure on my sternum even though he hasn't touched me. “Not just control of the blade,” he adds quietly.

  My stomach pulls tight.

  “Control of yourself. Control of what you give me.”

  My fingers tighten around the hilt. He steps closer. His hand slides over mine and lowers the blade until the point faces the floor. “You think this lesson is about throwing.”

  “You said it was.”

  He shakes his head once. “No. This is about learning to listen.” His thumb moves along my knuckles. “And to obey when you’re told to.”

  Heat crawls up my neck. He takes the kindjal from my hand and sets it aside on the table. He tips my chin higher. “Look at me.”

  I do.

  “You’re tense. Your pulse is too fast. That means you’re thinking instead of listening.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “I know.” He reaches for my jaw and holds it. His other hand finds my shoulder, applying a slow pressure downward. “Go down on your knees for me.”

  My breath stutters. Still, I drop to my knees because the stone feels more solid than the freedom he’s offering. Viktor isn't just teaching me the path of a blade, he is carving a path through my own fear until there’s nothing left but the demand in his voice and the heat of his palm against my jaw.

  “You see, this is also control. This is what I crave.”

  My throat tightens. “You learn the blade by giving it a clear path. You learn me the same way.” His thumb brushes my lower lip. “No fear. No blade. No rush. Just you listening.”

  I nod. It feels automatic. Needed. “Good,” he murmurs. “That’s the control I want.” He slides his hand into my hair. “Take my cock out.”

  My hand shakes when I reach for his belt. My thoughts are a whirlwind. I thought he was going to throw me out. I thought. The metallic click of his belt and the sound of his fly opening brings me back to the present. Viktor watches my face while he undoes the last of the buttons, looking like he wants to see whether I’ll stay or break.

  Then the flushed tip of his cock brushes my mouth. The salt and heat of his precum coats my lips. He chuckles, tapping the head of his dick against my bottom lip. “Open.”

  My jaw slackens as he guides himself inside. I moan at the sensation of him filling my mouth. “That’s it, krasavchik. You’re so good to me.” His hand tightens around the back of my neck, keeping me in place. I hum around him, trying to keep up with the pace he’s setting.

  Viktor leans back against the table and widens his stance. One elbow rests on the wood behind him, between the knives, and he uses the other to hold me there. It’s cruel, but I feel safe. Sitting on my knees between his legs, with those green eyes fixed on me, makes me feel seen. Like I finally have a purpose that isn't just surviving.

  I lick around his tip, take in the precum, and fondle his balls. My body hums with need, unfocused but sharp. His cock in my mouth. His hand at my throat. The certainty of being held exactly where he wants me. Every sound he makes narrows my world until there’s nothing outside this room except his hands, his voice, and what he tells me to do.

  I work his shaft, sliding up and down. Saliva gathers and spills at the corners of my mouth. Viktor pulls back with a quiet tssk. “Making a mess, krasavchik. A gorgeous mess.”

  Maybe that’s what I am right now. I don’t try to name it. I only know this feels sharper than fear. Clearer. Like being placed instead of drifting. “Take your dick out, Jonah.”

  I fumble with the strings of my pants, my hand digging in eagerly. “Pleasure yourself.”

  My eyes flutter shut when I grab my weeping cock. A muffled moan slips out as I search for a rhythm. “Keep your mouth on me. Make me come.”

  Viktor sighs. His cock pulses. I take him deeper, hollowing my cheeks and using the roof of my mouth to maintain a steady, dragging pressure. Every time he shifts, I tighten my throat around him, letting out a low hum that vibrates against his skin. His fingers slide back to my throat and squeeze. My knees press harder into the floor. The table edge digs into my shoulder.

  I can’t breathe.

  The panic flares, a sharp echo of the shower, of the cold water and the terror of drowning under his hand. But this time, the fear doesn’t stay cold. It settles into a familiar heat, flooding through me, urgent and consuming. My body doesn’t fight him anymore. It waits for the pressure. It craves the way he decides when I get to taste the air again. He is a predator, and I am finally accepting that I want to be caught.

  He controls my air. He controls my balance and my pace. Still, my free hand keeps stroking.

  “I’m close,” Viktor mutters.

  I focus on the swell of him, drawing the tip into the back of my throat until my eyes sting. I don't pull back. I lean into the restriction, my tongue curling around his length to catch every bit of friction.

  “Blyad’, malysh. That’s it. Fuck.”

  Viktor squeezes tight. He releases the pressure just as my mouth fills. I take every drop he gives me, swallowing him down like a secret. Only when he hauls me to my feet do I finally cough, dragging in the air. My knees threaten to give. Viktor doesn't let me fall. His hand clamps on my jaw, guiding my face up.

  “Breathe through it.”

  The room tilts. The knives blur on the table behind him. His grip is the only fixed point in the world. He taps my cheek once, a focused movement. “Look at me.”

  I do. His eyes lock on mine. “Good. You did good, Jonah.”

  His hand slides to the back of my neck, anchoring me. He takes a cloth and wipes my mouth. “We’ll keep practicing with the blades. This is my world, Jonah. And these are my conditions.”

  My chest tightens. It isn’t fear anymore. It’s a grounding weight. The rules don’t feel like a threat. They feel like structure. Like something solid is finally settling into place.

  “I’ve laid it all out for you, krasavchik.”

  I nod before I can think about it.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FOUR

  JONAH

  Thinking about the knives has become a habit I can't break. I keep thinking about the way Viktor’s hand felt on my wrist, guiding the blade until it felt like a part of me. About the way his hand steadied my wrist until the blade stopped trembling.

  He told me I could go back to the hospital. My stomach loosens at the thought of leaving, then tightens again, hard enough that I have to swallow. I want to ask him if this is a goodbye, but the fear of the answer keeps me silent. I don't know if I'm being set free or if I'm being discarded. The uncertainty is a dull blade at my throat.

  The house has been busy the last few days. The office is always full of men and the smell of coffee, but the mornings are still ours. Bringing his breakfast in at eight, I watch the war stop for a few minutes.

  These mornings have become a routine I didn’t know I needed. Usually, we eat in the office with Nikolai’s keyboard clicking in the background, but on Saturdays, the house is quieter. There are fewer men in the halls. The place feels less like a war zone and more like a home.

  Walking into the dining nook today, I set the tray down. Before I can even step away, Viktor reaches out and pulls me onto his lap. Nikolai is still there, sitting at the far end of the table and staring at his phone like his life depends on it. He’s trying to pretend he doesn’t see Viktor feeding me a piece of toast, or the way Viktor’s thumb is currently hooked into the waistband of my pants.

  I shouldn't like it. I should feel small and embarrassed to be handled like this in front of Viktor’s right hand and best friend, but having his full attention feels like a drug. It steadies my hands. It makes the trailer park and my old life feel like they happened to someone else. Like I’m finally taking up space because he decided I should.

  “We’re going out,” Viktor declares.

  Swallowing the bite of toast he just gave me, I look at him. “Where to?”

  He grins. “Look at you. Practically jumping through the roof. We have some deliveries to make. Then we go shopping.”

  Shopping. I never go shopping. For a beat, I think of the job I’ve likely lost and the income buried with it, but Viktor doesn't seem to care. “Come on then, krasavchik. Get dressed.”

  Taking a quick shower, I put on the clothes he laid out for me. Viktor loves sweatpants on me, probably because they’re so easy to remove. My ears flush at the thought. My body is already warm, anticipating the way he’ll eventually pull them down.

  When I walk back into the kitchen, three guards are standing by the island with coffee in hand, chatting in Russian. They stop the moment they see me. I feel very small, knowing they all know who I am and what I am to Viktor. The thought burns under my skin.

  “Are… are these people all joining?” My hands are fidgeting. I can’t stop them. “I mean. I can stay here, I don’t have to...if it’s too many. If you don’t want to⁠—”

  Damn it. I’m rambling.

  “Of course they are.” Lev’s voice breaks the tension like a snap. He grins, handing me a coffee to go. “But they won’t be in the same car. Except for Artyom. He’s Viktor’s driver.”

  A short man in a black suit lifts a hand in greeting, giving me a crooked smile. I turn just in time to catch Viktor watching me. His eyes track me slowly.

  “Ready, krasavchik?”

  “Da,” I mutter.

  The entire kitchen breaks out laughing. Why the fuck did I say that? Viktor’s smile widens. Something flashes in his eyes as he crosses the room and hooks an arm around my waist, pulling me close. Breathing in his cologne and the cold tang of his holster, I don’t have the courage to pull back.

  “We’ll work on your Russian too.”

  It feels weird to be back in town. It has only been a few weeks, but it’s like I never really left. Or maybe I was never here the way I am now. Everything about the place feels different when you arrive in a Maserati, kept close by a man like Viktor. If he could have leashed me, he would have. I think I would've let him. My chest tightens at the thought. It isn't fear exactly. It is something closer to relief than fear ever was.

  By the time we stop in front of a music store, we’ve already visited a dozen shops. Viktor bought me sweatpants; expensive, stylish ones I’d never be able to afford. Along with suits, shoes, and a winter coat with real fur. I don’t ask how much any of it costs. The price doesn't matter when you're using someone else's blood money.

  “What is this place?” I ask. It's a stupid question. It's pretty damn obvious.

  “In front of a music store,” he deadpans.

  The door swings open and an old man with a large mustache smiles at us. “Viktor Morozov. Privet. It is an honor that the family cleared my schedule today. I haven’t seen you since you were a boy. Come in. And your friend too.”

  “Thank you, Anatoly.”

  The way Viktor says it makes it clear this isn’t just a shop. It’s territory.

  Inside, the place is like heaven. Instruments are everywhere. Cellos, violins, drums. Behind the glass panels are trumpets and flutes. Anatoly rushes around with trays of coffee. “I understand you want to buy a piano?”

  “Da.” Viktor looks toward the back where the piano rooms sit. “My boy wants one for the winter room.”

  Anatoly’s eyes widen. His gaze darts between Viktor and me. “Of course. Shall I guide you? Or would you prefer to look alone?”

  Viktor lifts his chin a fraction. “We’ll choose.”

  Anatoly tugs at his mustache and clears his throat. “I will leave you to it. If you need any advice, I’ll be in the shop.” With a quick bow, he leaves the room and closes the door behind us.

  Viktor turns to me. “Look around, Jonah. Tell me which one is yours.”

  My fingers curl into the hem of my shirt. “I can’t accept this, Viktor. These pianos are not for people like me.”

  He rolls his shoulder once, unconcerned. “We’ll get you piano classes too.”

  I shake my head. “I can’t take that from you.”

  Viktor crosses to the sideboard, pours himself vodka from a crystal decanter, and lifts the glass like the decision is already made. “But I can give it, krasavchik.” He tips his chin toward the room. “Go on. Feel which one speaks to you. If you want, I can call the old man back in.”

  The space opens in front of me. Rows of polished instruments under soft lights—black and dark mahogany and warm brown—their lids propped like open wings. Some are slim and upright, others wide and grand, their keys pale as bone. The air smells faintly of wood polish and old music. I take a slow step forward, my hand hovering, afraid to touch and needing to all at once.

  I sit at the first piano. Just to try, I tell myself. I’m only doing this because Viktor insists. But the moment my finger hits the keys, I feel that same love I always feel for the instrument. The notes press behind my ribs. Something old stirs. Something I thought I’d buried.

  “Hm. Not convinced.” Viktor’s voice comes from just behind me. His chest brushes my back, his breath moving through my hair. “You?”