The lingering scent of smoke still clung to Olesia’s dress, a phantom echo of the night before. Kazimir had remained asleep in her lap until the first gray light of dawn bled through the armored windows. When he finally stirred, his eyes were clear, cold, and utterly devoid of the vulnerability he’d shown. He simply rose, a silent, imposing figure, and left the suite without a word, leaving Olesia with the memory of his murmured words about her family's files.
Hours later, a crisp rap on the suite door announced Dmitri. He stood framed in the archway, his tailored suit a sharp contrast to the casual elegance of the room. “Kazimir expects you in the antechamber in precisely thirty minutes. The ‘Black Orchid Gala’ starts at nine. Your presence is mandatory.” His gaze swept over her, a flicker of something unreadable in his pale eyes. “And try not to look like you’ve been dragged through a dumpster. Appearances matter, even to you.”
Olesia merely offered a saccharine smile. “Just trying to keep expectations low, Dmitri. You know, to surprise you later.”
He offered no response, turning on his heel. “Dress is on the bed.”
The gown lay sprawled across the duvet, a liquid spill of midnight blue silk. It was a treacherous garment, all elegant plunge in the front and a back that seemed to vanish entirely, held together by a single, impossibly long line of silver teeth. Olesia picked it up, feeling the heavy drape of the fabric. Her lazy spirit groaned. This was not the kind of dress one could put on without assistance.
Twenty minutes later, still struggling, she found herself in the antechamber, the silk clinging to her front, the teeth of the seam cold and parted against her bare spine. Kazimir stood by a tall, vaulted window, his back to her, silhouetted against the Voskgrad skyline. He wore a tuxedo, its dark lines severe against his broad shoulders. He turned at her entry, his eyes, like chipped obsidian, sweeping over her.
“Having trouble, Varga?” His voice was low, edged with an impatient formality that grated against the memory of his head in her lap.
Olesia sighed, dropping her hands. “It’s a two-person job. Unless you have prehensile hair, I’m afraid I’m stuck.”
He walked towards her, each step deliberate. The air in the room seemed to thicken, charged with a strange tension. He stopped inches behind her, his presence a wall of heat. Olesia felt the subtle shift in the air, the faint scent of cedarwood and something else, something sharper, like metal and ozone. The scrutiny stayed fixed against her shoulder blades. She could feel the subtle tremor in the air as he lifted his hand. Cold digits brushed her skin, tracing her spine as he caught the metal runner. The silk tightened, molding to her form, a second skin.
He stopped inhaling, a sudden intake of air cutting the room's quiet. His touch paused, his digits pressing just above her left shoulder blade. Olesia tensed. He had found it: the faded, jagged scar, a relic from a childhood accident she rarely thought about. It was a crude, brutal mark, out of place on such an elegant expanse of skin. A low, guttural sound rumbled in his chest, a sound of raw, unvarnished possessiveness. It wasn’t anger, not exactly. It was something far more primitive, something that tightened the air around them until it felt suffocating. The metal closure climbed with a soft rasp, reaching the nape of her neck. He didn’t step back immediately. His gaze remained fixed on the scar, the intensity of it burning into her. He leaned in, his voice a low rumble against her ear, prickling the hairs on her neck. “Don’t forget who you belong to tonight, Varga. Every pair of eyes will be on us. Act accordingly.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Ozerov,” she replied, her voice steadier than she felt. The words were a lie. She was already dreaming of a way to disappear.
***
The Grand Rotunda of the Valerium Exchange shimmered under a thousand crystal lights. Voskgrad’s elite, a glittering constellation of power brokers, syndicate heads, and political architects, moved through the opulent space like sharks in a gilded aquarium. Olesia, a glass of something dangerously potent clutched in her hand, plastered a bored smile on her face, leaning subtly against Kazimir’s arm. Her gaze drifted over the room, taking in the discreet security personnel, the hushed conversations, the avarice in every perfectly polished glance.
Then she saw him. Viktor Sokolov, a man whose reputation preceded him like a foul stench. He was broad, with a smile that never quite reached his cold, reptilian eyes, and a suit that seemed too tight for his bulk. He steered a beautiful, vacuous woman through the crowd, his gaze, however, fixed on Kazimir. He approached, his smile widening into a predatory leer.
“Kazimir, my dear friend. You’ve brought a new ornament, I see.” The man's eyes raked over Olesia, lingering for a fraction too long. “A Varga, isn’t it? The little sister of *that* boy. So quick to replace your late lamented… wife.” The last word was a poison dart, and Olesia felt Kazimir’s arm tense under her palm. “Still playing house, I see. Though this time, perhaps, without the inconvenient fire?”
Kazimir’s voice chilled. “Viktor. Such an unexpected pleasure. I trust your recent… acquisitions… are proving satisfactory?” The words served as a barbed reminder of the broker's vulnerable holdings.
The syndicate man merely chuckled, his eyes fixed on Olesia. “Oh, they’re perfectly fine. Though I do hear whispers of certain genetic… rarities… making their way through the city’s back alleys. One must be so careful, mustn’t one? Such fragile things, these little secrets.” His gaze flickered to Olesia’s stomach, a pointed reference to Yurek’s unique affliction.
Before Olesia could retort, a sudden, blinding flash erupted from a nearby service entrance, followed by a whoosh of air. A crimson plume of flame shot upwards, licking at the ornate ceiling. The crowd gasped, a ripple of fear spreading through the room. Olesia felt Kazimir’s arm go rigid. His breathing grew shallow, ragged. His eyes, usually so sharp, glazed over, fixed on the climbing fire. He was frozen, a statue of terror, utterly lost in a private, fiery hell.
This was her chance. Her brother’s life. Her freedom. The lazy façade shattered. Olesia scanned the room, her gaze pinpointing the towering pyramid of champagne glasses near the main entrance. It was a precarious, glittering monument, filled to the brim with expensive bubbly.
“Kazimir!” She gripped his arm, shaking him hard, but he was unresponsive, his gaze distant, haunted. The fire spread, consuming a velvet curtain, the smoke beginning to thick. Panic was starting to set in among the guests. She had to act. Now.
With a surge of strength she didn’t know she possessed, Olesia shoved Kazimir aside, her arm arcing out. She slammed her palm against the base of the champagne tower. Glass shattered, a waterfall of golden liquid erupting outwards. The cascade of champagne arced through the air, dousing the encroaching flames with a violent hiss. Smoke billowed, but the fire, contained for now, began to recede.
Paparazzi, ever present, swarmed the scene, their cameras flashing like a thousand tiny lightning strikes. They were closing in on Kazimir, still rigid, still vulnerable. They would capture his weakness, his terror, and rip his carefully constructed image to shreds. This was a death sentence for a man like him. And if he fell, she and Yurek would fall further.
No. Not like this. Not here. Not now.
Olesia spun, grabbing Kazimir by the lapels of his tuxedo. Her mouth crushed against his, desperate, bruising. His lips were cold for a moment, then, with a terrifying hunger, he kissed her back. His arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against him, his mouth devouring hers. The paparazzi flashes exploded around them, capturing the raw, desperate intimacy, a fervent display for the cameras. She felt his body tremble, not from fear now, but from something else, something primal and consuming.
He pulled back, his breath ragged, his eyes dark, burning. His lips were swollen, bruised. “You just broke rule number four. You’re mine now.”