Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Landon

Don’t get me wrong, I love surprises. I love the feeling of uncertainty, the thrill of deciding my next move. I love seeing the fear of the unknown on people’s faces because I know and believe with my whole black heart that I will turn it in my favor.

That doesn’t mean this particular surprise was welcome. It was one of the few that actually had me speechless since, I don’t know, my birth? Me, The Landon King, speechless. Shocking. Unheard of. Slightly disturbing.

I found out on a random Tuesday. It wasn't a dramatic day. No thunder, no sudden realization in the mirror. Just a sterile room that smelled like disinfectant and a nurse who couldn’t meet my eyes when she handed me the result.

Positive.

I didn’t react the way people expect you to react to news like that. I didn’t sit down. I didn’t cry. I didn’t even blink at first. I just stared at the paper, read the word again, and felt something click into place inside my chest—quiet, final and immovable.

Of course.

Of course it would be him.

Jeremy Volkov didn’t do small things. He didn’t leave fingerprints, no. He left fractures. Even one night with him was never going to disappear quietly, he made sure of it. That bastard.

I walked out of the clinic with my coat still open, the cold biting into my skin like punishment. My hands were steady. My face was calm. Anyone watching would’ve thought I was fine.

I was fine. Nothing else would be acceptable.

Inside, I was already calculating.

This was a new game, one that I wasn’t familiar with, but see, I am a good chess player. I know how to move, how to adapt, and win. Even if I wasn’t the one who laid the board.

I could do this alone.

I knew that immediately.

I was smart, a genius even. I had money. I had discipline. I had a reputation that made people step back instead of asking questions. I had survived worse than pregnancy. Worse than Jeremy. Worse than his obsession.

I always knew he was obsessed with me, or rather with the aim of destroying my perfectly tailored façade. He wasn’t trying to hide it at all. Showing up at the places I frequented, waiting in front of my studio late at night when he knew I was alone, trying to catch a glimpse of the real me. Trying to solve me, even if he hated the pull I had on him. I knew it, and I played accordingly.

Jeremy and I had always been a disaster waiting for witnesses. Enemies. Hating each other, despising the sound of each other’s breathing. We didn’t speak, we collided. Every room we shared turned sharp around the edges. Arguments that burned too hot, too fast. Too much eye contact. Too much tension that never had anywhere safe to go.

Until one night it did. One night where we stopped fighting long enough to ruin everything.

I was trying to tear his ridiculous control apart, as always. Testing boundaries, talking shit just to rile him up, and, I achieved my goal. Great. A hundred points for me. What I didn’t expect was to witness the real monster that was lying under his skin. To see how far his obsession would go. The possessiveness of his hands where they squeezed the air out of my lungs at my throat. The look of ownership, for lack of a better word, in his eyes.

What came after, well, let’s say it is the reason the test is positive.

So, yes, I could do this alone. But knowing I could didn’t mean I wouldn’t tell him. Not because I needed him. Because he deserved to know, no matter how much I hated him. See? I am nothing if not a good sport.

I tried to convince myself this was not me giving up control, it was a move. My first move. Maybe my only chance of getting rid of this ridiculously unnerving obsession he had for me.

I didn’t expect tenderness when I told him. That would be ridiculous. I didn’t expect warmth, that wasn’t his forte. I didn’t even expect understanding. But, shockingly, the cruelty of his words still landed exactly where they were meant to.

Fuck Landon, get it together.

He stared at me like I’d handed him a weapon.

“You’re pregnant?” he voice was flat and dangerous.

“Yes.”

There was a silence, then he laughed It was short, bitter, and very, very wrong.

“You think I want a kid with you?” he snapped. “With you? Who do you think you are to decide that for me?”

There it was.

I just waited. Not a single muscle on my face moved, my breath didn’t even shudder.

“I don’t want this.” he continued, pacing now, angry at himself more than me and taking it out where it hurt most. “I don’t want a baby. I don’t want this mess. I don’t want you tied to me for the rest of my life.”

Each sentence landed clean. They were almost surgical. I felt every word deeply, I just didn’t let it show.

I didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me out of control—which I wasn’t. I was always in control. I knew how he would react, what he would say. This whole performance was considered.

Still, I couldn’t stop myself from feeling sorry for the little devil inside me. What a shame to have two fucked-up messes for parents.

I tilted my head slightly, the way I always did when someone underestimated how much damage they were doing. “Then congratulations,” I said calmly. “You’re free.”

He stopped. Looked at me. He must have been waiting for a bigger reaction, my usual knife-sharp choice of words. Well, would you look at that—maybe I was maturing without realizing it.

“I’m not asking you for anything,” I continued, my voice was smooth, I sound almost bored. “Not your help. Not your money. Not your presence.”

A pause. I saw in his eyes the moment the obsession he tried so hard to control burned. The way I was dismissing him from my life drove him mad. Good. Let him be mad.

“I will keep it. And if you don’t want this child, you don’t get it. You don’t get to show up later with regret in your mouth and tears in your eyes.”

His jaw clenched.

“So do us both a favor,” I finished softly. “Fuck off. Don’t contact me. Don’t come crying. You’ll have no rights here.”

I turned before he could respond. I played my move so smoothly even I was impressed. My mask gained another layer.

I didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing my hands shake. That fucker was the last person I would ever show any weakness to.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t feel sadness or relief.

Jeremy probably thought he’d won that night. Probably felt angry. Probably told himself obsession was weakness—and that he’d finally cut it out of his system. Unfortunately, we both knew he was wrong. His obsession ran too deep to simply vanish. It would wait—I just didn’t know for what.

None of this was about love. It wasn’t about hate either. It was about ownership. And I had just taken something from a man who never forgave loss.

I went back to the mansion that I shared with my brother and cousins, walked into my room, locked the door for the first time in my life.

Checkmate, I thought. Not because I had won, but because the game had finally begun.

“Welcome to the board, little one,” I whispered. “Things are about to get complicated.”

Chapter Text

Landon

The mansion was quiet, which was not something I—or the others—were used to. Silence irritated me. I thrived on chaos, complications, and fear. Silence left too much room for thought, and thought had never been kind. But tonight, I ashamedly admitted, it was what I needed most.

I am a man of plans, of calculated moves and quiet games. I have my methods and scripts which people follow long before they realize they’re part of one. A puppet master, if I’m being honest. And now, for the first time, I had to plan for a game larger than anything I had ever dared to play before.

The sun was long set. The clock was ticking.

2:34 a.m.

Good. I wasn’t sleepy, not even close. And I had a lot to plan for.

I was going to do this alone, as I always did. I didn’t trust anyone enough to co-manage my madness. Maybe Brandon, maybe, but my other half was too soft at heart to do exactly as I told him. I wouldn’t drag him into my mess. He needed the stability, affection and so-called love he had recently found with none other than my worst enemy’s best friend, which made me nauseous for reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with the little devil inside me.

So, I decided not to tell anyone. Not yet. Secrets were safer when they were mine alone. Not because I was ashamed or, god forbid, scared. I was never those things. I simply didn’t owe my body, my future, or this child to an audience.

My room felt different now. It was almost smaller, quieter. Like it was holding its breath along with me. Even the walls felt unfamiliar, as if they were already adjusting to something new.

I picked up my laptop from the table I usually used for my drawings. Maybe I’d have to move it to make room for a bassinet. Too soon? Probably. Still, I intended to learn.

This was new territory for me, which made everything oddly exciting. There was so much to learn. No doubt I would excel at it, thank you very much, but having a little help from the internet wouldn’t hurt anyone.

I opened a new tab in the browser. Deciding what to type took me longer than I cared to admit.

What to expect when expecting?

How to learn about babies?

How not to mess up a child?

As if there were a manual for that.

I clenched my hands on the soft mattress, trying to suppress the irritation that was starting to crawl through my veins. Fuck you, Volkov. Look at the mess you caused.

Annoyed at the mere fact that the bastard existed somewhere out there, breathing, I finally typed:

first time male pregnancy

A ridiculous number of articles and webpages flooded the screen. Forums, medical journals, opinion pieces clearly written by people who had no idea what they were talking about. I clicked the first one that looked decent enough to start with. My eyes skimmed automatically. Symptoms. Hormones. Mood swings. I scoffed.

I was strong. I knew how to control my so-called emotions. I didn’t get angry or sad, and I certainly didn’t cry or shout. Mood swings and hormones were out of the question.

I could manage it.

I would manage it. I always did.

Still, it wasn’t exactly comforting to see how my own body could betray me just to grow a tiny bean.

I glanced down at my abdomen, still flat, still well-toned thanks to years of training and fights I had rewarded it with.

“Well,” I muttered, irritation softening despite myself, “apparently you’re already causing problems.” The thought should have annoyed me more than it did.

I shifted my attention back to the screen, taking notes on the things I deemed worthy of keeping. Somewhere between the fourth or fifth article, a bolded phrase caught my attention.

Possible Complications

I frowned.

“Complications,” I muttered. “Of course.”

I preferred to be safe rather than sorry, so I clicked. The screen loaded in exactly four seconds—though I wasn’t counting or anything. High-risk cases. Increased monitoring. Medical supervision. The need for support. Words like fragile, careful, precaution jumped off the screen like personal insults. I had never liked words that implied limits.

I scoffed, jaw tightening.

“Ridiculous,” I said to the empty room. “I don’t do fragile.” I turned my attention back to the little devil who had apparently become my companion in record time. “Neither will you,” I muttered. “I don’t raise weak things.”

Another line lower down mentioned stress levels, physical strain, emotional regulation. I shut the laptop with more force than necessary and tossed it aside. I started pacing the room, trying to regulate this new, irritating feeling I wasn’t familiar with.

Fear? No.

Annoyance? Maybe.

A mix of both?

I was a man who took what he wanted. I didn’t beg—the mere thought of it made my skin crawl. I didn’t pry. If I wanted something, I made it mine. Simple and efficient.

I had decided to keep the baby. So it would stay. It was mine. The idea that something out of my control could happen to this little devil made my blood boil.

“Unbelievable,” I snapped. “I’ve survived worse than this.”

I exhaled slowly—then stopped. My hand had drifted to my stomach without me noticing.

I froze.

I never froze.

I couldn’t remember the last time anything had made me do that.

For a moment, I just stood there, fingers resting lightly, like I was touching something that might disappear if I acknowledged it too loudly. I shook my head with a quiet huff.

“Don’t get any ideas,” I added. “I don’t do easy, and I definitely don’t do delicate.” A pause. “…But,” I sighed reluctantly, “we’ll figure it out.”

I always did. Somehow.

My hand stayed where it was. “Just don’t make me look incompetent,” I told the quiet space between us. “I have a reputation to maintain.”

The room remained silent. And for the first time that night, I didn’t hate it.

Morning came with the quiet slowly fading. Light slipped through the tall windows, forcing me to prepare for the day ahead. I hadn’t really slept. I’d drifted—dozed in fragments between articles, academic papers, and forums I pretended not to take seriously. Still, I was not above murder for anyone who dared judge me for this new, feral feeling that had deepened in my veins.

Dramatic much? Welcome to my world.

When my laptop battery died sometime around five in the morning, I took it as a sign.

I blinked at the ceiling. My body felt like it had aged ten years overnight, and my head throbbed as if someone had used it as a punching bag purely for entertainment. Normally, that someone would’ve been me—preferably taking it out on that fucker Volkov.

Fuck. No. Not going there. I simply refuse to let that bastard be one of my first thoughts in the morning.

I clenched my jaw, irritation already simmering beneath my skin. One deep breath. Then another. I forced myself upright, determined to get out of bed in one sharp, decisive move.

What followed was fast—and, much to my displeasure, deeply unwelcome.

Nausea.

“Well,” I muttered, swallowing hard, “bad idea.”

The world tilted, my stomach turning with it. “Huh, good morning to you too, little devil,” I muttered breathlessly. “I take it you slept well?”

Another rush of nausea forced me to cut the conversation short.

Not. Cool.

I got out of bed, my bare feet hitting the floor in mere seconds. Another deep breath, and I made it to the bathroom on instinct alone. Sensing that my stomach was deeply unhappy with the way I was trying to calm it, I knelt near the toilet, hands shaking as I gripped the edge of the cold marble.

“This,” I said between shallow breaths, “is not happening.”

My body, unfortunately, disagreed.

I threw up what little was left from yesterday morning’s meal. There wasn’t much, but the effort left me shaking anyway.

When it finally stopped, I stayed there for a moment—waiting for the world to settle back into place. My throat burned. My eyes watered from the strain. My lungs felt tight, like I’d forgotten how to use them properly. Regaining control over my own body took longer than I liked.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and leaned back against the cabinet. Sitting on the cold tile floor made me feel like I was already losing a fight I hadn’t even started yet. I never lose, so the feeling itself was almost as disgusting as this whole morning sickness thing.

I closed my eyes, and my hand drifted, uninvited, resting low against my abdomen for the second—third?—time in the last twenty-four hours.

“Fantastic,” I said hoarsely. “You’re going to be a dramatic show-off just like me, huh?”

I just sat there for a moment and closed my eyes, letting my fingers rest lightly against my abdomen. “Still,” I warned quietly, “don’t make this a habit. We are not bonding on the bathroom floor.”

Slowly, I pushed myself up, rinsed my mouth, and stared at my reflection in the mirror. I looked pale but irritated, still sharp. Still me.

“Get it together,” I said flatly. “I have work to do.”

And somehow—annoyingly—my body listened.

After a quick shower to feel at least somewhat like myself again, I chose darker clothes—looser than my usual preference—and ignored the irritation that flared at the compromise.

Temporary, I told myself.

This is not going to be a routine.

I took one last look at myself in the mirror. Handsome. Breathtaking. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that suggested there was a spawn of the devil that had chosen my body to grow inside.

I scoffed.

No. My body was mine and mine alone. Whatever was inside it was also mine. No one else’s. No bond. No connection—certainly not with him. Only. Mine.

I checked the time and cursed quietly. I was already running late, courtesy of the unnecessary scene the little devil had staged that morning. I grabbed my bag, planning to get something to eat on the way. Not that I could stomach anything right now—but maybe later. Hopefully.

I left my room and headed downstairs. Fortunately, the mansion was quiet. I didn’t feel like dealing with anyone yet. Normally, provoking Eli before breakfast counted as a good-luck charm, but I let the opportunity pass.

Temporary, I reminded myself.

Not a routine.

My mantras were already changing, and I didn’t like it.

Refusing to waste another second, I stepped outside, slid into my Aston Martin, and pulled onto the road. My driving playlist filled the car, and the familiar route to the university took me fifteen minutes—fifteen minutes of speed, control, and the comforting pretense that nothing had truly changed.

I parked in my usual spot without thinking, muscle memory doing the work for me. Same place. Same angle. Same routine. A small, silent fuck you to the gods. I shut the engine off and stayed there for a beat longer than necessary, fingers tight around the steering wheel—just long enough to remind myself that this, at least, was still under my control.

I straightened my shoulders to give the illusion of being put together, slipped on my sunglasses, and headed toward the café on the corner—the one I always went to, the one that knew my order without asking. It was a cute and small one. Too cute for my preference, but they make excellent coffee, and I’d become a regular over time.

I opened the door, and warm air spilled out, thick with the smell of freshly ground coffee. My stomach turned instantly. Strong. Immediate. Unforgiving.

I froze just inside the doorway, jaw tightening as the scent hit me full force. Coffee—my coffee—suddenly felt hostile. Too rich. Too bold. Like it was pressing in on me from all sides.

“Unbelievable,” I muttered under my breath. “I loved you.”

I swallowed hard, forcing my body to cooperate, but the nausea climbed anyway, curling low and insistent, as if the smell had offended it personally. I kept my hands where they belonged. At my sides. Visible and controlled.

This is not helpful, I thought flatly. How exactly do you expect me to function if you sabotage my mornings?

The nausea pulsed again, and I knew I had to take matters into my own hands. I straightened my shoulders, jaw set, expression perfectly neutral—as if there wasn’t an ongoing war inside me.

Behave, I thought, hoping there was already some kind of mystical bond that allowed the little devil to understand exactly what I meant. This is not the time. And definitely not the place.

The barista looked up when I stepped up to the counter, eyes widening, cheeks reddening on instinct. She was beautiful and clearly affected. I put on my mask and gave her the smile she was expecting.

Everything was under control.

“Black,” I said, head tilted just enough to sell it, my expression betraying nothing.

The smell lingered, so did the irritation.

The waiting felt endless. I even considered swallowing my pride and leaving without my coffee just to escape the smell, but betraying my routines felt worse. When the cup was finally handed to me, the warmth was unwelcome in my palm, and I turned for the door before my body could betray me any further.

Outside, I stopped near the trash bin. I lifted the cup automatically.

One sip. Just to prove a point.

The taste barely registered before my stomach turned violently.

“You’re kidding,” I muttered, lowering the cup again.

I stood there for half a second, jaw tight, then dropped the cup into the trash without another thought. If I hadn’t been in public, I swear I could’ve burned it just by glaring at it hard enough.

This was unacceptable. Irritation flared inside me as I took a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. The feeling of control slipping through my fingers over something as simple as a morning coffee made me furious.

“You’ll have to meet me in the middle here,” I muttered under my breath, lowering my voice so no one could hear me. “I need coffee to function, and you need me functional to grow. It’ll do us both good, honey.”

Fuck. Now I was negotiating with a cluster of cells—all for the sake of drinking coffee. Great.

I exhaled slowly, irritation still simmering under my skin, and adjusted my grip on my bag.

Enough. Standing around arguing with my own biology wasn’t going to get anything done. Sculpting would.

The familiar walk across campus helped—stone under my feet, noise dulling into background static. I kept my pace steady, posture straight, mind already shifting gears. Studio day. Clay. Structure. Something that listened when I applied pressure.

The moment I stepped inside, the familiar scent of damp earth and stone wrapped around me. It was comforting—and that comfort made everything easier. Better. I dropped my bag by the door and rolled my sleeves up without thinking. My hands were already itching for something solid. This—this was mine. No negotiations. No surprises. Just effort and result.

My talent was my armor, and I wrapped it around myself as if it could protect me from my own demons.

I pressed my palms into the clay, felt the resistance push back, and for the first time that morning, my breathing evened out.

See? I thought sharply. This is how things are supposed to work.

For hours, I worked without thinking, hands moving on instinct alone. I shaped what was on my mind. I controlled the clay the way I would control the problems—sharp and detailed. Just the way Landon King would choose.

When I finally leaned back to assess it, something felt… off. The form was tighter than usual. It was closed in as if the posture was guarded. Hold on. What?

I stared at it for a long moment. I didn’t remember choosing this form. Fuck. It felt as if my own hands had made a decision without me. The unfamiliarity made my blood run cold.

Temporary, I told myself again.

“I have a lot on my mind,” I muttered, taking a deep breath and forcing my shoulders to drop. “That’s just it.” Still, the clay didn’t argue.

Clay was easy to trust. It didn’t question intent or demand softness in return. It yielded when pressed, held its shape when guided correctly. No surprises. No resistance. I had always preferred things that listened when I decided to take control.

With the tip of my finger, I pushed the grotesque statue to the floor.

I didn’t allow myself to wonder why.

Chapter Text

Jeremy

One week.
That was how long I’d stayed away.

The Heathens mansion gym was empty, free of witnesses, noise, and the kind of unnecessary chatter I had no patience for. It was just me, bare walls, steel equipment, and the heavy bag hanging in silence beneath the steady hum of lights that never flickered.

The bag swung slightly as I struck it for what felt like the hundredth time, the leather groaned under the impact. I’d been here for hours. My knuckles were split, the skin raw and blooded, but I still couldn’t bring myself to stop. Each punch landed clean, hollowing my head out for a fraction of a second. I wasn’t here to lose myself. I was here to burn something off. I was here to forget.

It wasn’t working.

It never did these days.

One week since Landon had stood in front of me with that infuriating calm as he delivered the information like it was already old news. Like he’d processed it, categorized it, decided what it meant before I’d even been allowed to react.

One week since he’d looked me in the eye and told me I was free.

I hit harder.

The word still cut deep every time it surfaced. Free.
As if he’d granted me something. As if he had the authority to decide when I was done. Who did he think he was, believing he could be done with me? I would be the one to decide when this ended, not him. 

He made the assumption that he knew how I’d move. He hadn’t waited for my reaction, hadn’t even cared for it. He thought he could decide the terms and I’d simply accept them like his puppet.

One week since I last heard from him.

I’d expected fallout, his usual chaos. For him to stir some calculated inconvenience that would ripple through the Heathens, missed permits, blocked deals, pressure from places he had no business touching. That was his pattern. Landon never walked away without pulling something loose on his way out.

But there had been nothing. No calls, no interference, no problems materializing out of thin air with his signature stamped all over them. Just an irritating, intentional silence.

The quiet crawled under my skin. Still, whatever his silence meant, it didn’t change the fact that staying away was my decision.

I hadn’t gone to him. I hadn’t called or sent anyone. Every step of distance between us was intentional, and absence was a restraint I forced myself to maintain. A way to prove that I wasn’t something he could move around at will, wasn’t a piece he could reposition just because it suited him.

I needed space to think, and Landon King had a way of poisoning my thoughts with his presence alone. Just one taunting look from him, just his goddamn smirk, was enough to set fire to my veins. He’d always known that, and he’d always used it.

The bag swung back toward me. I caught it with my forearm and steadied it before it could hit the wall.

Control first. Always.

I didn’t want a child. That hadn’t changed. The idea still felt wrong after a week. It was messy, loud, and most importantly, permanent. A chain to Landon for life. A liability I hadn’t planned for, and sure as hell hadn’t agreed to.

And that was exactly why it felt intentional.

Landon didn’t do accidents, especially not one this big. Not when there was leverage to be gained.

He was a planner, a perfect strategist. A man who collected people and pretended it was coincidence when they landed where he needed them. I’d known it from the first time my attention locked onto him. Long before the word pregnant had entered the equation.

I knew nothing that came from Landon was innocent. If something existed between us now, it wasn’t a bond. It was a tool. And tools didn’t deserve mercy.

I didn’t owe anyone protection, especially not for something that hadn’t even learned to breathe yet.

The thought that he might use it, whatever it was, to manipulate me made my jaw tighten.

I could see how it would play out. If I wanted it, reached for it, or even acknowledged it, I’d be playing into something he’d already set in motion. Him adjusting the tone, anchoring the situation while I shifted around it until I was the one bending. That was the trap.

No.

I wouldn’t let him have that. I wouldn’t allow him to use my instincts against me. I refused to hand him leverage disguised as honesty since two variables against one had never been a fair equation.

And I never played games I was meant to lose.

I struck the bag again, harder this time.

I could already hear the version of the story he’d tell himself. He would think that I’d come back, that I’d fold into his games eventually. He probably thought that distance was temporary. But he always underestimated my restraint and this one week wasn’t avoidance. It was simple proof.

I wasn’t ruled by impulse. I could step away even when every instinct screamed otherwise. Whatever hold he thought he had on me, it wasn’t enough to make me move on command.

The bag jerked under my fists, absorbing each blow without complaint. I paused, breathing hard as sweat slicked down my spine. The room smelled like rubber and metal and effort. It was familiar. Nothing here demanded more than what I chose to give. It was predictable and honest.

Unlike people. Unlike him.

And yet my attention kept drifting, not willingly, but in small, irritating slips I refused to name. Not to the child, god forbid, but to the absence Landon left behind, the space where his voice should have been. The quiet itself was pressing just a little too close. That was new, and I didn’t like it.

The bag finally came to rest, swaying gently, waiting for the next hit.

I stared at it as my chest rose and fell, forcing my pulse back into line.

I wasn’t staying away because I was afraid of what I’d feel if I saw him again, no. I was staying away because I knew exactly what I’d feel, and I refused to let it rule me.

I learned since I was a child that want was a weakness and attachment was a liability. And Landon was both wrapped in a body I couldn’t afford to touch right now.

I wouldn’t deny that the child complicated things. But if anything, it also sharpened my resolve. I wouldn’t engage. I wouldn’t react. I wouldn’t let him believe this was something he could pull me back into just by waiting.

So I stayed away.

I trained harder in the meantime. I slept less, and unintentionally thought more.

One week of silence, discipline and proving to myself more than anyone that distance was something I chose.

I grabbed a towel, wiped my face, and tossed it aside. My hands trembled, not from fatigue, but from the effort of keeping everything contained.

Good.

Let him think I was gone. Let him believe distance meant defeat.

I pulled my gloves off and unwrapped my hands slowly, as I’ve done it countless times. I didn’t rush as I took my time.

This wasn’t over. I was just keeping it contained. And when I moved again, it wouldn’t be because I’d lost control. It would be because I decided the timing was right.

And today, the timing was finally perfect.

I let the thought settle and left the gym to move on with my plan.

I went straight to my bedroom, stripping off my clothes as I stepped into the attached bathroom and turned on the shower. The warm water helped. I stood there longer than necessary, focusing on the burn in my muscles and the ache in my shoulders. Eyes closed, head tilted forward, I gave myself five minutes to gather my thoughts.

I knew what to do. I’d done it a hundred times before.

I knew his route, his timetable, even his usual order from the café he went to every day. It was nothing new. Nothing I didn’t already know.

When I stepped out of the shower, I checked my reflection once. No hesitation. No cracks. Whatever I was about to do, I was doing it clear-headed.

I wrapped a towel around my waist and used another to dry my hair. I hadn’t had time for a cut, so it was longer than usual. The images of Landon gripping them as I was feasting from his marble neck from that night came to my mind. My hands trembled as my breath hitched. I made a mental note to book an appointment soon.

The sun was already dipping low when I glanced at the clock. 5 p.m.

Wednesday.

That gave me half an hour if I wanted to catch Landon leaving his studio.

I dressed quickly, choosing clothes without thinking. Dark and familiar. Easy to disappear in.

I wasn’t going to talk to him.

I wasn’t going to reach out.

I was just going to… study the battlefield.

One look. Just to confirm.

I told myself I was just gathering information. This was not involvement. I was not giving up on my control. I needed to know what to expect. This was me preparing for impact.

I left the mansion with quick, measured steps. My bike was exactly where I’d left it that morning. My hands were already itching by the time I reached it, anticipation tightening in my chest at the promise of familiar speed.

The bike responded like an extension of my body, every shift and lean sharpening my focus instead of scattering it. The ride was fast, and it helped. The city vanished beneath me, the engine’s roar cutting through the noise, the thrill grounding me the way it always did. 

Two blocks away, I slowed.

That was where the decision became real.

Just one look, I told myself. Nothing more.

I pulled over behind a tree. The bike idled beneath me, a low vibration through the frame, my hands loose on the handlebars. From here, I had a clear line of sight to the studio entrance, far enough to be invisible, close enough to notice things no one else would bother to register.

Landon stepped out right on time, never late. He was not rushed. His coat was already on, his posture precise, as if everyone else existed a step beneath him. He moved with the effortless confidence of someone who assumed the world would make room for him.

Good. I let my shoulders loosen a fraction. Routine mattered. Predictability meant nothing had shifted while I wasn’t looking.

Except—

He slowed near the steps.

Barely anything. A half-second that didn’t belong. His hand lifted, adjusted his brown hair once, sharp and irritated, then dropped again. He never did that. Landon didn’t fidget. He didn’t correct himself mid-motion. 

Strike one.

He checked his phone, frowned, then locked the screen without replying. Usually, he’d glance and move on. This time, his thumb hesitated, eyebrows frowned, as if weighing something he didn’t like. A meaningless reaction to anyone else.

Not to me.

Strike two.

His Aston Martin waited at the curb, parked exactly where it always was. He reached it with even steps, opened the door and got inside with a swift move, but then, he stopped.

He leaned forward and rested his forehead against the steering wheel. He closed his eyes as I noticed his shoulders tightening. He stayed there for three seconds. Maybe four.

That was it.

These little changes weren't dramatic or obvious, but they were just enough.

Landon King didn’t pause like that. And that was the last drop. My jaw was clenched so tightly I thought a vein in my forehead was going to throb.

His route was the same, his pace was almost the same. But the tension was obvious as it threaded through his movements. It was subtle and controlled, like something being held in place rather than ignored.

He wasn’t unsettled, no, he was managing himself. Adjusting.

People, especially Landon, didn’t change without reason. And they never changed alone.

If Landon was shifting, then something was pushing him and he definitely had a plan in his mind. I wasn’t naive enough to refuse to believe I wasn’t the target. 

When he finally straightened and started the engine, he pulled into traffic smoothly without looking back. I stayed where I was as anger was starting to swallow me whole, I watched as the city swallowed him one intersection at a time.

The first turn told me everything when he didn’t head toward the Elite mansion. Instead, he took the opposite direction. Not a detour or a shortcut that I know of. It was a precise decision.

The realization made something cold slide into place in my chest.

That wasn’t how this was supposed to go.

I’d stepped back. That had been my choice. Distance was my rule. My discipline. He wasn’t supposed to move forward while I stood still.

And yet, there he was. Changing. Rewriting small pieces of his life without consulting me, without waiting for me. Without my permission.

And if he was already adapting, moving forward without waiting for me, and already started changing after one week, what would happen after a month? Two months? After… nine months? 

If something inside him was already choosing sides, I had no intention of being the one left exposed.

The thought curdled into something colder as the decision followed immediately, sharp and emotionless. No. I couldn’t allow it. The reason for the shift had to go.

It had to be removed, erased, and end before it became permanent.

Then there would be no ace in his hand. No more thread tying us together, and more importantly, no slow erosion of control while I watched from the sidelines.

I hated how precise it felt. Fuck. I hated it more that it made sense.

My grip tightened on the handlebars as I watched the Aston Martin disappear, my engine still humming beneath me like it was urging me forward.

No. Not yet.

I stayed where I was for a few more seconds while I closed my eyes and took deep breaths to calm my nerves down. I got used to this routine after a few encounters with Landon. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t fucking work. It never did.

Whatever control I thought I had regained slipped straight through my fingers the moment I let myself watch him change. The irritation settled deeper, colder. My emotions boiling inside me like something dangerous kept under the lid. That was what made me move again. I knew any sentiment was a luxury that I didn’t survive by affording.

Cursing quietly, I pulled my phone from my pocket and sent a short message to my guard, Ilya, without explanation. It was just enough to set something in motion.

Only then did I turn the bike around.

This little evasion hadn’t been about seeing him, but It had made me see something far worse, that Landon King was already adapting without me, and that part of me was ruthless enough to consider erasing the reason before I lost the upper hand entirely.

The thought shouldn’t have existed, and the fact that it did told me everything.

Chapter Text

Landon

One week later.

I’ve always said I love hunting, but I never said I enjoyed being a target. Yet, here I am, playing a game where my own body is the battlefield and the spectator is a Volkov who thinks he’s invisible.

I wasn’t at the Elite’s mansion, no. A few days after I had the chance to make the acquaintance of the little devil inside me, it became clear that I couldn’t stomach the charade, family dinners, routine conversations, the collective agreement that nothing was shifting while everything already had. My body was rejecting my breakfast, lunch, and dinner, while my mind was rejecting the very idea of a normal Tuesday. So, the only logical move was to secure a place away from the city and the prying eyes of the King dynasty.

The house was a simple, modernist structure tucked away from the crowds. I’d rented it under a name so obscure even my father’s investigators would take weeks to flag it. It smelled of fresh paint, expensive cedar, and, most importantly, absolute privacy.

I needed a place where The Landon King didn’t have to be explained. A place where I could throw up my morning tea without Brandon looking at me like I was a puzzle he couldn’t solve, or Eli making a joke that I’d have to kill him for.

It was a convenient place, comfortable and useful at the same time. Still, it wasn’t enough to stop Jeremy Volkov from doing what he always did.

He found me. Of course he did.

I could feel the weight of his gaze before I even saw the glint of his bike hidden in the tree line. It was a phantom touch, a cold pressure against the back of my neck that told me the predator was back in his territory. For a week, he’d been circling the house like a restless storm, thinking he was the one in control of the distance between us.

He thought he was studying my routines, my isolation, my weakness. He didn't realize that I was letting him watch. Every move I made in this house, the way I leaned against the porch railing, the way I paced the living room late at night, was a performance directed solely at him.

I wanted him to see the silence I had chosen over him. I wanted him to choke on the mystery of why I was here, alone, in a house that didn't belong to the King name.

Keep watching, Volkov, I thought, staring out into the dark woods while I took a slow sip of tea I knew I wouldn't be able to keep down. I’ve always been your favorite addiction, haven’t I?

My phone buzzed from where I left it on the kitchen table. I didn’t need to look at the screen to know who it was. My other half had a sixth sense for when I was drifting too far into the dark.

Brandon: Where the hell are you, Lan? You missed the studio session. Glyn is asking questions.

I sighed, my fingers hovering over the cup.

Me: Found a new project. Don’t be a clingy twin, Bran. It’s unflattering.

Brandon: You’re lying. I can feel the static in your head from here. Come home.

I locked the phone. Home was a concept that felt increasingly heavy.

I moved toward the window, reaching for a glass of water, but then—the world tilted.

It wasn't a slow slide, it was a violent jerk. My vision blurred into a bundle of grey and white. A sharp, stinging cramp bloomed in my lower abdomen, making my breath hitch in a way that wasn't calculated at all.

Not now, I hissed internally, gripping the edge of the marble counter until my knuckles turned white.

My knees buckled slightly. I stayed there, head bowed, hair falling over my eyes, letting the vulnerability show for exactly five seconds. I knew he was watching. I knew his pulse was probably skyrocketing as he debated whether to break his distance rule.

I straightened up with a forced, agonizing slowness, taking a sip of water as if my heart wasn't trying to claw its way out of my ribs.

Check, I thought, staring into the dark woods where he hid. Your move, asshole.

The next morning came with the now familiar wave of sickness.

My stomach was no longer just protesting, it was staging a full-scale revolution. After a deeply unpleasant bout of vomiting, I ended up sitting on the cold bathroom floor for nearly twenty minutes, my back against the cabinet, breathing through it. As much as I hated to admit it, I supposed this qualified as a routine by now.

“I did what you wanted,” I muttered hoarsely, staring at the tiles. “Will you let me have my tea in peace at least, hm?”

The little devil, as usual, didn’t answer. And somehow, the one-sided conversations were starting to feel normal. I didn’t know why, but sharing things with it, complaints, negotiations, threats, was beginning to feel… oddly comforting.

I checked my watch and saw I had an hour before my doctor’s appointment. I needed to move if I didn’t want to be late. Ignoring the dull ache in my back from sitting on the floor, I pushed myself up and leaned over the sink, splashing cold water onto my face before brushing my teeth with quick, efficient motions.

I didn’t allow myself to acknowledge the fact that I was avoiding my own reflection.

Without lingering any longer, I stepped back into the bedroom and started getting dressed. I barely managed to drag myself to my car after ten minutes, my movements stiff and practiced, ensuring that if he was still out there in the shadows, all he saw was a King who was slightly bored with the early hour.

I was halfway to the clinic, the one I’d chosen specifically for its lack of affiliation with anyone I knew, when my car's Bluetooth system chimed. It wasn't a text this time. Brandon was tired of being ignored.

I debated letting it ring. But I knew my twin, if I didn't answer, he’d probably call my father or start a search party with Nikolai’s Bratva connections.

Well, also his connections, whatever.

I hit the button. "You’re calling quite early, Bran. Did your little lap dog finally run out of things to keep you occupied with?"

"Cut the crap, Lan," Brandon’s voice came through, sharp and filled with that twin-link intuition I usually found useful but currently found suffocating. "You weren't at the house this morning. Eli said you haven't been back in days. Where are you?"

"I told you. A project. I needed space. The mansion was getting crowded with the lingering scent of Nikolai's possessiveness every time you walked through the door."

"You love space, but you hate being alone. You’re a social predator, Landon. You don't just disappear without a motive." There was a pause, and I could hear him sigh. "Is it Jeremy? Did he do something?"

My grip on the steering wheel tightened. "Jeremy Volkov is an irritation I’ve handled. Don't worry your pretty little head about him. Focus on your Russian. I hear their terms of endearment are quite complex."

"Landon," Brandon’s tone shifted, becoming softer, more serious. The kind of tone he only used when he was genuinely worried. "I can feel it. Something is... heavy. You’re not just 'away.' You’re hiding. If you are in trouble—"

"I am the trouble, Brandon. Have you forgotten?" I snapped, then immediately regretted the sharp edge in my voice. I took a breath, smoothing my expression even though he couldn't see me. "I’m fine, Bran. Just... inspired. I’ll be back for the weekend. Give my love to the brute."

I disconnected the call before he could peel back another layer of my armor.

The silence that followed was deafening. My hand drifted to my stomach, fingers pressing lightly against the fabric of my coat as I continued driving.

"Your uncle is a nuisance," I muttered to the empty car. "Don't take after him."

The Clinic was a different kind of hell.

It was a sterile purgatory of beige walls and the humming of fluorescent lights that felt like they were drilling directly into my skull. I’d registered under the name Leo Kent, a small, private joke for an audience of one.

I sat in the waiting room, my coat unbuttoned, sunglasses on, posture as rigid as a marble statue. I watched a woman across from me leafing through a parenting magazine, her face glowing with a soft, nauseating sort of joy. I looked away. I didn’t belong in this temple of domestic expectations. I was Landon King, a man who sculpted monsters and played God with people’s lives.

And yet, when the nurse called my name, my heart stuttered in a way I couldn't explain.

The room was small. The doctor, a man who looked far too tired to care about the identity of the pale, sharp-eyed boy in his room, simply greeted me and gave a brief speech about how the process would proceed before asking a few basic questions. I didn’t know what to focus as I answered the questions mechanically. Once the formalities were out of the way, he guided me to the exam bed and applied the cold gel.

Then, it appeared on the screen.

A smudge. A grainy, black-and-white fracture in the darkness. It was a tiny, insignificant dot, yet the sight of it felt like a physical blow to my chest. I drew in a slow breath, forcing it steady before it could betray me.

This was the variable I couldn’t control. This was the proof of that night, the evidence of Jeremy’s obsession made manifest. I stared at the screen, and for a fleeting, terrifying second, the mask slipped.

"Everything looks healthy," the doctor said, printing out a small slip of paper.

I took it with fingers that came dangerously close to betraying me. I didn't look at it again and folded it neatly, as if it were just another receipt, and slid it into my inner pocket, right against my heart. I left the building with quick, measured steps. Once I was finally outside, the nausea made itself known again, sharper and more unforgiving this time, but I kept moving until I reached my car. I rested a hand against the door, drew in a slow breath, and waited for my body to fall back in line. I didn’t care if he or anyone else was watching. I straightened a second later and got in.

I didn't head back to the safe house immediately. Returning there would feel like a retreat, and I didn't do retreats. Instead, I drove to a small café three blocks away. I needed noise, the mindless, rhythmic hum of strangers’ conversations to drown out the sudden silence in my head.

I sat at a corner table, a double espresso steaming in front of me. I didn't drink it, the smell alone was enough to make my stomach burn, but it served as a prop. To anyone looking, I was just a student lost in thought, in reality, I was recalculating the board.

Every minute I spent there was a message to the shadow I knew was lurking somewhere outside. I checked my watch, adjusted my cuffs, and scrolled through my phone with a bored expression. I was reclaiming my time. I was proving that a smudge on a grainy piece of paper didn't have the power to alter the pace of Landon King’s day.

I stayed for exactly two hours. Long enough to finish a few chapters of a book I wasn't actually reading and long enough for the afternoon sun to lose its bite. By the time I stood up and tossed a few bills on the table, the adrenaline had smoothed out the edges of my nerves.

When I reached the safe house, the sun was dipping low, bleeding orange and purple across the horizon. I was exhausted, physically drained and mentally worn-out, but the moment I stepped through the front door, my fatigue vanished, replaced by a cold, sharp alertness.

The air in the hallway had shifted.

It wasn't just the silence; it was a weight, a change in pressure that made the hair on my arms stand up. And then, I smelled it.

Rain, cold leather, and the faint, metallic scent of a storm that had finally broken its banks.

Jeremy.

He wasn't outside in the trees anymore. The predator had decided he was tired of watching from the shadows and had stepped into the light.

I didn't reach for a weapon. I didn't call for help. I just closed the door behind me and leaned against it, clicking the lock into place with a slow, deliberate sound.

"Breaking and entering, Jeremy?" I said, my voice smooth, draped in that effortless boredom I used as armor. "And here I thought the Volkovs prided themselves on their discipline. This feels a bit… desperate, even for you."

I walked into the living room. He was standing near my drafting table, his back to me, staring at the unfinished clay form I’d abandoned yesterday morning. He looked massive in the small space, a dark, dangerous stain on my carefully curated sanctuary.

"You look like you've seen a ghost, Landon," he said, turning slowly.

His eyes were dark, burning with a mix of fury and something else, something that looked dangerously like possession. He didn't look at my face, his gaze dropped immediately to my stomach, then to the pocket where the ultrasound was hidden.

"I didn't come here to play games," he growled, stepping into my personal space until I could feel the heat radiating off him.

"Then it’s a good thing I brought a map," I said, reaching into my pocket and pulling out the grainy image. I held it between two fingers, waving it slightly like a white flag that was actually a declaration of war. "I went to see the little devil today. It says hello. Or maybe it’s just a middle finger directed at you. Hard to tell at this stage."

The silence that followed was thick. I took a step back, not out of fear, but to ensure there was a clear boundary between him and what was mine. I tucked the ultrasound back into my pocket, my hand lingering there for a second longer than necessary—a protective instinct I refused to name. Jeremy’s jaw clenched, his eyes locking onto my hand with a look of pure, unadulterated hatred, and something that looked a lot like fear.

"Erase it," he whispered, the words were quiet, vibrating with a lethal edge that sliced through the room.

I tilted my head, my smirk widening even as my heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," he stepped closer, his shadow swallowing me whole. "Get rid of it, Landon. I don't care what you have to do or who you have to call. Erase this mistake before it becomes a reality I have to deal with."

I felt the sting of his words, sharp and surgical, just as I had the first time. But this time, I had the evidence in my hand. I had the smudge that proved I wasn't alone in this fight anymore.

"Mistake?" I laughed, a short, humorless sound. "You spent a week in the woods like a feral dog just to come in here and tell me to hit 'undo'? That’s not how this works, Volkov. I don't take orders from ghosts."

My smirk vanished for a fraction of a second, replaced by something cold and hard. "I told you that you were free. I meant it. This isn't a tie, Jeremy. And it’s certainly not yours."

I stopped in front of him, my chin tilted up.

"This mistake is mine. It’s my choice, and my project. You don't get to erase it because you never had ownership of it to begin with. You are just a small contribution, and a temporary disturbance in the larger plan of my life."

I let my gaze drop to his clenched fists, then back to his dark, burning eyes.

"So, if you're here to play executioner, you can leave. But if you’re here because you realized that freedom is just another word for you not having access to me... then stay. Watch me do this without you. Watch me keep what you're too afraid to acknowledge."

Jeremy’s face went stone-cold. The air in the room felt like it was about to ignite.

"You think you can keep a Volkov away from his own blood?" he growled, stepping so close that I could feel the vibration of his voice in my own chest.

“Your blood?” I snapped, a sudden, searing rage boiling over. The mask didn't just crack, it shattered,  and I didn’t bother picking up the pieces. My eyes burned with a fire I didn't care to extinguish. 

Let him see. Let him bloody choke on it.

How. Fucking. Dare. He.

"I think," I growled, my breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches, "that you lost any right to claim that the second you told me to erase it, Jeremy. You don't get to call it blood when you've already treated it like a mistake to be scrubbed away."

I stepped back, my arm extending toward the door in a sharp, final gesture.

"Now, fuck off. Get out of my house, get out of my sight, and don’t you ever come near me or what’s mine again."

The silence that followed was lethal. Jeremy stared at me, his face a mask of cold fury, his hands clenched so tightly his knuckles looked like they were about to burst through the skin. For a moment, I thought he might actually reach for me, to silence me or to show me what he meant by “erasing”.

Good, I was fucking thrilled to see him in need and out of power like this.

Then, without a word, he turned.

He moved with a predatory stillness, walking out of the room and through the front door. The sound of it slamming shut echoed through the empty house like a gunshot. A second later, the roar of his bike tore through the quiet of the woods, fading into the distance until there was nothing left but the hum of the refrigerator and the pounding of my own heart.

The moment I was sure he was gone, my strength evaporated.

I sank onto the edge of the sofa, my knees finally giving out. My hands were shaking—a violent, rhythmic vibration I watched with a detached sort of clinical interest. I didn’t pull out the ultrasound. I didn't need to look at a smudge to know what was there. Instead, my hand drifted to my stomach, my fingers digging into the fabric of my shirt with a grip that was far from gentle. It wasn't an embrace, it was a claim.

"You’re staying right where you are,” I whispered into the suffocating silence, my voice hoarse but steady. "If he wants to erase you, he’ll have to go through me. And trust me, little devil, he’s not ready for that war."

I sat there in the dark for a long time, the King of a house made of secrets, waiting for the trembling to stop.

It didn't.

Chapter Text

Jeremy

Landon King was a goddamn illusionist.

Even if his world was burning to the ground, he was accustomed to standing in the middle of the ashes with that provocative smirk, acting as if he’d lit the match himself. He excelled at ignoring the heavy parts of life or turning the consequences of his own actions into someone else’s problem. That was exactly what he was doing now. I watched him through the café window for a heartbeat, my pulse slowing down to that heavy, rhythmic thrum I felt only when I was about to break something.

He was devastatingly handsome, a fact that made me question the logic of every effort I’d made to ensure that the thing he destroyed wouldn’t be me. He was tucked into the booth with his siblings, already seated on his throne as if he were the golden prince of a kingdom I had been exiled from, turning my absence into a routine.

And he was laughing.

It wasn’t one of those mocking, sarcastic laughs that usually drove me to the brink of insanity. On the contrary, it was a sound I had never heard before, one I was certain he kept hidden from me. It was too sincere, too human, a privilege reserved only for those close to him.

The moment Nikolai opened the door and drew their attention, Landon’s laughter died, and the temperature in the room dropped along with it.

His spine snapped straight, his marble-carved mask clicking into place so perfectly it made my teeth ache.

"Mind if we join the family reunion?" Killian asked, already sliding into the booth next to Glyndon. Nikolai sat by Brandon, leaving the only empty spot directly across from Landon. I took the seat, forcing him to acknowledge my presence, to breathe in the same air I was polluting with my scent.

But he didn't look at me.

He acknowledged Nikolai with a nod and gave Killian a bored glance. He watched the steam rising from his cup, he stared at a fucking spot on the wall behind my head. But he didn’t look at me. He was treating me like a ghost, a shadow he’d already stepped over.

The rage wasn't a flare, it was a slow, agonizing burn in my gut. I am the reason you’re hiding in a house that doesn’t belong to you, I thought, my eyes tracking the frantic jump of the pulse in his neck. I am the reason your body is failing you. Look. At. Me.

I didn't listen to the trivial shit Killian or Nikolai were saying. My entire universe had shrunk to the space between me and Landon. I was dissecting him. He looked pale—paler than usual. There was a faint shadow under his eyes that even his meticulously styled hair couldn't hide. Every few minutes, his hand would twitch toward the table, his fingers curling as if he were fighting a cramp.

The change was unacceptable. 

He had always been a remarkable statue, more fascinating than any piece of marble he’d ever carved. He moved through the world as the King he was, never slipping, never breaking character. But now, the cracks in his armor were becoming visible, and it made me burn with a cold, jagged fury.

It wasn't just that he was shattering, it was that I wasn't the one doing it. If he was to be broken, it should have been by my hands. If his perfect mask was to slip, it should have been because I forced it off him. He was allowing something else—a biological accident, a part of me—to rewrite his soul behind walls I hadn’t authorized. And I was being robbed of his destruction.

In that moment, I realized that simple ownership had never been enough, I needed authorship. I wanted to be the only reason he ever changed.

I leaned forward, my elbows on the table. I wanted to reach out, put my hand over his head, open up his skull, and see what was going on inside his mind. Or better yet, I wanted to slide my hand under that expensive wool sweater and press my palm against his stomach until he admitted that he was carrying a part of me.

He thought he was winning this silent war. He thought that by looking through me, he could exile me from his existence, even as he carried the physical evidence that I owned him. Still, I could see the way his body was betraying his pride. I could feel the connection I couldn’t sever tightening around his heart, anchoring him to me in a way no crown or name ever could.

Landon King wasn't just my enemy anymore. He was a vessel for my darkness, something I refused to let slip out of my reach and one I intended to keep, even if I had to take away what he was protecting. It didn’t matter how much he tried to pretend I was already dead to him. 

Let him treat me like a corpse. I’ve always been more comfortable in the graveyard anyway.

Suddenly, I realized I wasn't the only one watching.

I felt a sharp, analytical gaze cut through my side. I shifted my focus just enough to see Brandon. He wasn't looking at his food anymore. He was looking back and forth between me and Landon, his eyes narrowing with a dangerous, twin-bred intuition.

Brandon might be the better twin, but he was still a King. He knew Landon’s masks better than anyone, even better than me. And right now, he was clearly seeing the way Landon’s hand trembled under the table, or the way my eyes never left his twin’s face. The silence between Landon and me wasn't empty, it was screaming, and Brandon was finally starting to hear it.

He looked at me, his jaw tightening as if he were measuring the distance to my throat, then back at Landon, who was still staring stubbornly at his cup. The confusion in Brandon’s eyes was being replaced by a dark, protective suspicion.

Then, Killian laughed at something, leaning back as he remarked how Nikolai would probably be busy breeding the next generation of Sokolov monsters into the King bloodline in a few years.

Landon flinched. The word hit him like a physical blow, a visceral reminder of the biological invasion he was currently enduring. It was a tiny movement, a mere twitch of his jaw, but to me, it was a scream.

He finally looked at me, but only for a second, before turning his gaze toward Killian with a slow, bored blink.

"Careful, Killian," Landon said, his voice as smooth as silk and twice as lethal. "With a mind as primitive as yours, I’m surprised you even know how breeding works. But don’t worry, if Nikolai ever needs advice on how to handle a King, I’m sure he’ll ask someone who understands the difference between lineage and livestock."

Landon stood up abruptly, the legs of his chair scraping harshly against the floor. He didn't look at the rest of us as he smoothed out his sweater with a dismissive elegance.

"I’m leaving," he announced, his voice a brittle blade. "The air in here has become a bit too... pedestrian for my taste."

Brandon was up in a second, his protective instincts flaring as he followed him out without a word to the rest of us.

I stayed seated, watching them go through the glass. The game was no longer private. The twin bond was about to be tested, and I knew Landon was seconds away from shattering.

Landon

The air outside was a violent relief. The cold, damp wind of the parking lot slapped my face, but it wasn't enough to wash away the feeling of Jeremy’s gaze. It felt like he had branded my skin from across the table, his eyes tracing the very lines of the secret I was suffocating under.

"Landon! Wait!"

Brandon’s voice was a whip, cracking through the sound of the rain. I slowed my steps, only because I knew he wouldn’t let it go. When I reached the car, I took a deep breath and turned around with a practiced sigh, tilting my head just enough to look annoyed instead of cornered. “What now, Bran?”

"What the hell was that in there?" Brandon hissed. He was breathless, his protective instincts vibrating off him in waves. "The way he was looking at you…” His jaw clenched. “And the way you couldn’t even breathe."

“I was breathing just fine,” I said lightly.

“Don’t,” he snapped. “Don’t do that.”

The wind cut sharper. My stomach gave a treacherous roll, and for a second, I thought I’d lose the little I’d managed to eat, but I’ve grown better at ignoring it these past weeks. "What is it, Bran? Are you worried about your dear brother?"

"Cut the crap, Lan. Don’t lie to me. Not about this." He stepped closer, his voice dropping into that terrifyingly calm tone he only used when he was ready to kill for me. "I saw you flinch when Killian made that joke. You looked like you were going to vomit. And Jeremy—” His voice hardened around the name. “He didn’t look like an enemy, Landon. He looked like he owned the fucking air in your lungs.”

"He. Owns. Nothing," I snapped, feeling the rage flare up inside me like a sudden wildfire. The mask I had carefully held together in the café finally showed its first crack. My voice was jagged, broken by the static of my own fear.

"Then why are you hiding in God knows where?" Brandon demanded, his eyes searching mine, dissecting the truth I had buried. "Why do you look like you’re waiting for an execution?” His eyes darkened. “If he did something to you—if he forced you—"

"He didn't force me into anything." I lowered my voice to remain calm, as if nothing were wrong, using the last shred of control I had left. The honesty of it tasted like copper in my mouth.

The silence that followed was heavy, filled only by the rhythmic patter of the rain on the car. I let it sit there, ugly and unfinished, and watched Brandon’s mind do what it always did, fill in the blanks with worst-case scenarios. His hands curled into fists at his sides. His breathing went shallow. “That’s not what I asked,” he said quietly. “Did he hurt you?”

I could have corrected him right away, but I didn’t. Because part of me needed to see the full extent of his loyalty, the depth of that instinctive protectiveness. Because another part of me needed a second longer to steady myself before saying it out loud. The rain drummed against the asphalt, relentless.

“No,” I said finally.

Brandon searched my face again, confusion bleeding into something colder, more analytical. His gaze dropped, lingering at my midsection before snapping back up. His throat bobbed.

“Then why,” he asked slowly, “does it look like you are protecting something?” He closed his eyes tightly, taking a deep breath as he tried to stabilize himself. "Landon..." his voice was barely audible. "Tell me what’s going on. Please."

I let out a short, humorless laugh that sounded more like a sob. I was tired of the lies. I was tired of carrying the weight of two lives while pretending I was still made of nothing but porcelain and spite. It was finally time to let my brother in.

"I’m giving you a nephew, Bran," I said, my voice finally steadying into a cold, hard clarity. "And I’m giving Jeremy Volkov a war he can't win with his fists."

Brandon froze. It was as if the world had stopped spinning. His face went through a thousand emotions—shock, betrayal, agony—before settling into a blank, stunned mask.

"You're... you're pregnant. With his child." It wasn't a question.

"It’s not his," I corrected him, my eyes narrowing with a flash of the true Landon King. "It’s mine. Your nephew has no connection to him other than simple biology, and I won’t let that change."

Brandon swallowed hard. “You’re carrying a child,” he said, like the words were cutting his tongue. “And you didn’t tell anyone.”

“I told you just now,” I replied coolly, my mask sliding back into place with the sheer relief that finally, my other half knew.

He took a step toward me, his hands reaching out to grab my arms as if he wanted to hold me together. “Landon—”

I waved my right hand dismissively, stepping back. "Not now. Go back inside, Bran. I know this is a shock, but I have a lesson to teach the assholes who think I’m weak. Once you’ve cleared your head, I’ll allow you to ask whatever you want to know. I will even let you protect me. I am fine. We will talk. But not now.”

I got into the car, my hands shaking as I gripped the steering wheel. I didn't look back at him standing there in the rain, a solitary figure of shock. I had a safe house to get to. And more importantly, I had a plan to initiate. If Jeremy wanted to play the hunter, I was going to make sure he spent the night burning down his own forest.

The drive back was a blur of adrenaline and relief at the same time. When I reached the driveway, the rain had turned into a steady, rhythmic hum against the roof, reminding me of the chaos I was about to orchestrate. I didn't need rest. I didn't need comfort. I needed to remind the world that a King is most dangerous when he’s been backed into a corner.

The house was silent when I stepped inside, but my mind was a symphony of every possible way this night might end. I didn’t turn on the lights, the darkness felt more like an ally than a threat. The studio was bathed in the cold, clinical glow of three different monitors that acted as my only windows into the world I was about to dismantle. I preferred my surroundings exactly like this when I had a game to set.

My stomach gave a sharp, uncomfortable tug, and I instinctively lowered one hand to rest over the fabric of my sweater. I leaned back in my chair, a slow, genuine smirk spreading across my face as I watched the final progress bars crawl toward completion. For two weeks, while he thought he was suffocating me with his presence, I had been building his gallows. Every hour I spent pretending to be his prey was an hour spent ensuring his empire would bleed.

"Do you see this, little devil?" I whispered into the darkness, my voice smooth and devoid of the tremors I’d felt in the parking lot. "That waste of space thinks he’s the only one who can make decisions. He thinks he’s been haunting me. But we’re about to give him something much more interesting to look at than my windows."

I tapped a key, bringing up the Heathens' encrypted logistics map. It was a beautiful, interconnected web of arrogance.

"He called you a mistake," I murmured, my eyes reflecting the scrolling lines of code. "So, I think it’s only fair that we show him what a real mistake looks like. A multi-million dollar, federal-grade mistake."

I felt a strange sense of peace, the kind that only comes when you’ve successfully trapped your prey. I wasn't just tired anymore, I was electrified. I was The Landon King, and I was about to remind the Heathens that the peace they enjoyed was a gift I could revoke at any second.

"Watch closely," I said to the life growing inside me. "This is how you deal with monsters. You don't hide from them. You give them a bigger monster to fight."

With a sharp, decisive click of the mouse, I hit Enter.

"Goodnight, Volkov," I whispered to the empty room, my smirk widening as the servers began to scream.

Jeremy

The bell above the café door chimed as we stepped out into the biting night air. The rain had slowed to a miserable drizzle. Nikolai was already reaching for his keys, his mind clearly still stuck on whatever storm had just passed between Brandon and him after Landon left.

"We need to move," Nikolai said shortly, the only indication of his tension being the way his jaw remained locked.

He didn’t even have time to swing a leg over his bike before his phone vibrated. As he looked at the screen, his face went stone-cold. "What the fuck?"

When he turned his gaze toward me, I knew something was wrong even before he spoke. "Server breach. The docks."

"What?" Killian snapped, his focus shifting instantly.

Nikolai didn't offer a play-by-play. He just kept looking at me, his eyes dark with the weight of a multi-million dollar disaster. "The midnight shipment is compromised. Someone gave the Serpents our exact coordinates. It's a goddamn setup."

The air around us sharpened. Whoever had done this had just signed their own death warrant.

"Killian, get the tactical team on the secure line. Now," I barked, my voice cutting through the panic before it could even start. I didn't wait for a response, I was already in war mode. "Nikolai, I want a full encryption wipe on the primary server. If they're in the system, burn the bridge behind them. Don't let a single byte of our offshore data stay vulnerable."

They both moved instantly, falling into rank. In moments like these, I could see the benefits of being raised by Adrian Volkov. I was certain, to the core, that they would carry out my orders to the letter.

But then, my own phone buzzed in my inner jacket pocket.

I pulled it out, shielding the screen from Nikolai and Killian’s view. It was an encrypted message sent to my private burner. No text. No threats. Just a digital file that mirrored the destruction Nikolai was currently witnessing, signed with two simple, elegant letters that felt like a brand on my skin:

L.K.

A dark, jagged laugh tore from my throat, barely audible over the sound of Nikolai’s bike roaring to life. My heart hammered against my ribs, not with panic, but with a sick, twisted sense of pride.

Clever, beautiful devil.

He wasn’t hiding. He was giving me a punishment of his own because I’d dared to tell him to erase that mistake. In response to my single sentence, he started a war. He was furious, and now, he was reminding me who he was before everything went south. He had gone to all this trouble  just to reach out and wound me—and God, I loved knowing that even in his hate, I was still the only thing on his mind.

"Jeremy! Let’s go!" Killian shouted over the engine.

I tucked the phone away, the secret burning against my chest. I wasn't going to tell them. Not Nikolai, not Killian. Landon was mine. His rebellion, his brilliance, and the punishment he was about to earn—they all belonged to me. If he wanted to ignite a war just to distract me, he had succeeded. But he had also reminded me why I could never let him go.

He wanted to be a mastermind? By all means. I would let him play his part for one more night.

"I'm right behind you," I growled, kicking my bike into life.

They tore out of the lot, but I lingered for a split second, looking toward the road that led to the safe house.

Landon thought he was being brilliant. He thought that by setting my world on fire, he could force me to choose between my empire and him. He wanted to watch me scramble, to see me desperate and distracted while he sat safely in the shadows he’d built.

But he forgot one thing.

You think you’re so smart, Landon, I thought, the obsession tightening its grip until I could barely breathe. You want to play the architect of my ruin? Then I’ll let you watch the world burn. But once the smoke clears, you're the only thing I'm coming for.

I slammed the bike into gear and tore out of the lot, the scream of my tires echoing Landon’s silent declaration of war.

Chapter Text

Landon

The safe house was silent and uncharacteristically sunny after days of relentless rain. The sunbeams pierced through my studio, lending an atmosphere more peaceful and serene than ever as I practiced my art. Ironically, after weeks of internal turmoil and constant planning, the weather was finally in harmony with the euphoria I felt from lighting the first spark to ruin that bastard Volkov’s life two days ago, and the bliss that followed.

And I was truly, deeply happy.

My happiness had also been growing exponentially for two days. The silence that followed the events, rather than unsettling me while I waited for his inevitable destructive reaction, only added to my joy. Yes, I knew he would eventually confront me to demand an explanation with his usual blunt-force logic. But the fact that this confrontation had yet to come showed me just how much greater the destruction I had caused was than I had anticipated.

As the mocking smirk on my lips deepened, my clay-covered hand moved to my stomach, just as it always did whenever I wanted to speak with my partner in crime inside.

“Don’t get too used to this peace, little devil,” I murmured, my fingers tracing the skin beneath my shirt. "I know you're bored, but daddy's busy erasing a legacy. You’ll have plenty of chaos to play with soon enough."

My phone vibrated right then on the workbench where I’d left it. It had to be Brandon. For two days, he had been relentlessly calling, texting, and asking where I was. To be honest, as much as I appreciated his concern, the reason I kept him away was the thought that Jeremy might stage a raid at any moment, and I wanted to keep Bran out of this mess. As I accepted the fact that I couldn't dodge him any longer, I cleaned my hands with a damp towel, slower than usual, and picked up the phone to read his last message.

Brandon: Where are you, Lan? Send me the location. Now.

I sighed, leaning against the cold marble of my unfinished statue. Brandon was the only person in the world who could make me feel guilty for being brilliant. He was the better twin, the one with the conscience I had long ago traded for a sharper edge.

Me: Attached: Location.

Me: Bring tea. The good kind. And relax, no one is dying. Yet.

I turned back to the sculpture in front of me and continued working. Exactly twenty minutes later, I heard the sound of Brandon’s car outside and took a deep breath to prepare myself for the conversation we were inevitably going to have.

He entered the house with calm, calculated steps. I continued working as if nothing were happening, without pulling my attention away from the clay. I could feel his eyes on me. Searching. Judging. Surprisingly relieved.

"You're actually working." Brandon said, his voice a ragged whisper. I finally turned toward him. He looked like he hadn't slept since the moment I walked out of that café. His hair was a chaotic mess, and his normally pristine clothes looked like he’d just thrown on whatever he found before rushing out of the house.

"It’s the only thing in this world that makes sense right now, Bran." I said, my voice calm, clinical. I returned to the curve of the clay. "The tea?"

He walked over and set a thermos on the bench, but he didn't let go of the handle. "Everything is a mess out there. Nikolai is furious. Jeremy is... he’s a ghost, Landon. A dangerous one. The docks are a crime scene, and everyone is whispering about the glitch in the system that caused everything." He stopped for a second and closed his eyes as if he were trying to lessen the effect. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

I gave a humorless laugh. “What gave me away?”

Brandon opened his eyes again and fixed a sharp, angry gaze on me. “Stop messing around, Lan. I’m your twin, of course I figured out it was you.” His gaze softened, if only for a moment. “Besides, you’re the only person who would show this kind of foolish bravery.”

"I prefer the term intellectual superiority, but sure, let's go with your version if it helps you sleep at night." I rolled my eyes and returned to the clay. "You should be proud. Your brother managed to turn the Heathens' invincible leader into a frantic ghost in under forty-eight hours. It’s practically a miracle. Now, are you going to keep standing there like a herald of doom, or are we going to have that tea?"

Brandon groaned, the sound a mix of frustration and genuine fear. "You're carrying a child, Lan! Jeremy’s child!” He gripped me by the shoulders. “Do you have any idea what he’s going to do when he figures out it was you?”

I tilted my head. "He already knows."

“That doesn’t scare you?”

I considered the question honestly. “It excites me a little.”

“Landon—”

I cut him off, a dark, haywire spark in my eyes. "I wanted him to know. I wanted him to look at his crumbling empire and know that the man he dismissed as a mistake is the one who messed with his crown."

"He'll kill you!" Brandon snapped, his hands shaking my shoulders. "He’s a Volkov, Lan. They don't play by our rules."

"Then it’s a good thing I’m not playing by theirs either." I pulled myself away from his grip and pulled out the small, grainy ultrasound strip from the drawer. I didn't look at it with love, I looked at it with the pride of an architect who had just found the perfect foundation. "Meet your nephew, Bran. My little weapon. He’s already cost Jeremy five million dollars in a single night. Imagine what he’ll do when he can actually speak."

Brandon took the paper, his fingers trembling as he stared at the tiny blur. "You're... you're using him? Landon, this is a baby. Your baby."

"He's a King," I corrected, a sharp, dangerous smirk playing on my lips. "And I’m going to make sure he’s the only thing Jeremy Volkov ever fears."

Brandon’s breath hitched. He looked at me as if he were seeing a stranger. But then, that protective, twin-bred instinct won. He pulled me into a fierce, desperate hug.

"I don't care," Brandon whispered into my hair. "I don't care how dark this gets or what you’ve done. I’m your brother. From this second on, I’m your shadow. Whatever you need to do to stay safe, I’ll-” He stopped, exhaling sharply. “I’ll help you. I’ll lie for you. I’ll kill for you. You’re not doing this alone."

I leaned into him for a second, feeling the warmth. It was a weakness, but a useful one. Finally, I pulled back, busying myself with wiping the stone dust from my fingers just to avoid his intense gaze. “I didn’t ask for backup.”

Brandon snorted, a familiar sound that momentarily cut through the tension. “Too bad. You are getting it nevertheless.”

“You’re stubborn,” I muttered, focusing on a piece of clay under my fingernail.

“You know it’s genetic,” he countered easily.

I laughed despite myself, short and sharp, and immediately hated the way my chest tightened afterward. Emotion was inconvenient, a glitch in my otherwise perfect system. I preferred it at a distance. I smoothed my hair back with a shaky hand, leaving a faint streak of grey dust near my temple.

Brandon’s voice softened, losing its judgmental edge. “I’m not here to control you. I’m here to stand in front of whatever comes next.”

I swallowed hard, the sound loud in the quiet studio. I shifted my gaze to the window, watching the golden light fade. “Don’t turn this into a martyr speech,” I whispered. “It’s unattractive.”

He stepped closer anyway, invading my perimeter. I kept my spine rigid, a statue in my own right. “You don’t get to decide that.”

I sighed, defeated in a way I refused to name. I let my shoulders drop just a fraction of an inch. “You always ruin my brooding, Bran.”

“Well, someone has to.”

Brandon stared back at the tiny, grainy image again, his eyes filling with tears he didn't try to hide. "That’s… That’s real.”

“Unfortunately,” I said, my voice flickering with a brief, rare moment of honesty. “A very demanding roommate.”

His eyes flicked up to mine, shining with something dangerously close to awe, a look I didn't know how to process. “You’re carrying a whole person, Lan.”

“I noticed.” I crossed my arms over my chest, a defensive habit I couldn't seem to shake.

Brandon paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as he replayed my words. "You keep saying 'he'. Did the doctor... I mean, is it a boy?"

I stiffened for a fraction of a second, not realizing I’d let the pronoun slip so easily. I shrugged, trying to regain my clinical indifference. "It’s too early to know for sure. But I just... I have a feeling. A monster like Jeremy wouldn't settle for anything less than a son to carry on his chaos."

"Or maybe he's just a little Landon," Brandon murmured, a small, sad smile touching his lips. "God help us all if that's the case."

A sharp, unfamiliar warmth bloomed in my chest. I had claimed this child as mine with the fierce possessiveness of an architect holding a blueprint, but Brandon had just turned my "weapon" into a person. A reflection. A little Landon. The thought of something in this world being made of me, carrying my eyes or my defiance, was terrifying. I hated the vulnerability of it—but for a split second, I didn't just want to use him. I wanted to keep him.

I quickly shoved the feeling into the darkest corner of my mind. I couldn't afford a heart that beat for anything other than survival. Not yet.

He examined the ultrasound for a few more seconds. "It’s... It’s so small," he whispered.

"Two months," I said, my voice losing some of its edge. I took the strip back and tucked it back into the drawer with a hand that wasn't nearly as steady as I wanted it to be. “About the size of a bean with a heartbeat. And yet, it’s already the most powerful weapon I own."

“You’re…” He laughed softly, disbelieving. “You’re going to be an absolute menace as a parent.”

“I prefer ‘influential,’” I corrected, a faint, genuine smirk finally playing on my lips as I adjusted the sleeves of my sweater.

Brandon didn't argue. He didn't lecture me about the danger or the morality of my war. He just leaned in and pulled me into another hug. It was the kind of hug only a twin can give, a total enclosure, a reminder that we started in the same dark space and we would end there too.

"I'm with you," Brandon muttered into my hair. "I don't care what you do to him. I don't care if you burn the whole city to the ground. I’m staying. I’m the uncle, right? That means I get a say in the nursery colors."

I laughed with a genuine, soft sound that felt foreign in my chest. "Don't get ahead of yourself, Bran. We have a monster to deal with first."

"We will," he promised, pulling back and looking at the drawer one last time. "But promise me one thing. If it gets too much... if the mastermind gets tired... you tell me. You don't have to be a statue all the time, Landon. Especially not with me."

I looked at the clay figure on my desk, unfinished, raw, and fragile. "I know, Bran. But statues don't bleed. And right now, I need to be the one who doesn't bleed."

We spent the next hour in a rare, peaceful silence. Brandon helped me prep some more clay, his movements as fluid and artistic as my own. We talked about everything and nothing, about our family, about art, about the tiny life flickering on the paper.

But as the sun began to dip below the trees, my phone buzzed again. A private, encrypted message.

[Unknown]: The boathouse. 8:00 PM.

The air in the room suddenly felt freezing. Of course he chose the place where control had failed first. I looked at Brandon, who was busy smoothing a piece of clay, oblivious to the message.

"I have to go," I said, my voice turning back into a brittle blade.

"Now? It’s almost dark."

"An appointment I can't miss, Bran." I got up from the table with unhurried steps and straightened my hair. "Go home. I’ll call you in the morning."

"Landon—"

"Go, Brandon. I’m fine." I gave him one last, practiced smile—the kind that didn’t reach my eyes but was enough to satisfy his desperate need for me to be okay.

“At least tell me where you are going?” He got up from where he was seated. “I want to know where to look if I can’t hear anything from you.”

I let out an exasperated sigh. “Fine. But don't call me until I call you, okay?”

Brandon gave me a practiced nod. He put on his coat and walked toward the door but paused at the threshold, his hand lingering on the doorframe. He turned back, his expression unreadable for a moment before he settled on something uncharacteristically grim. "Don't let the clay get too cold, Lan," he said, his voice low and steady. "Once it hardens into a statue, it’s a lot easier to break. And I’d rather have a brother who bleeds than one who shatters."

I didn't answer. I couldn't.

I watched him leave, his car lights disappearing into the mist. I stood in the center of the studio, looking at my unfinished work. I picked up a small piece of clay and crushed it between my fingers, feeling it ooze between my knuckles.

"Time for the execution, little devil," I whispered to the empty room. "Let’s go see if Volkov still thinks he’s the one in charge."

The road to the boathouse was dark and silent. The trees gave the path an eerie atmosphere. I felt unnervingly calm, humming a song far too cheerful for what was about to follow. My mind was a clean, cold room where every variable was accounted for.

“Well,” I murmured, tilting my head slightly toward my abdomen, “looks like you’re being introduced to bad decisions earlier than planned.” My grip on the steering wheel tightened as I took a deep, mocking breath.

“But don’t get attached to the scenery,” I added dryly. “It’s the place where that asshole confused possession with consent and I confused restraint with curiosity. Very educational.”

I took another, softer breath. “You’re not impressed,” I muttered. “Good. I like that about you.” The corner of my mouth twitched despite myself. “Stick with me, little devil. I promise you’ll learn exactly how to dismantle men who think they own what they didn’t earn.”

I parked at the edge of the gravel path, the engine’s purr dying into a heavy, expectant silence. I didn't rush. I walked toward the boathouse, the scent of the sea, rotten wood and cold depths filling my lungs. This was the place. The scene of the crime. The altar where the mistake had been consecrated.

I pushed the heavy wooden door open. It groaned on its rusted hinges, a sound that felt like a warning I chose to ignore.

The interior hadn’t changed since the last time I’d been there. It was a tomb of shadows, lit only by the fireplace. And there, standing in the center of the rot, was the monster himself.

Jeremy.

The amber light was catching the sharp, brutal angles of his face. He looked like a predator that had finally cornered its prey, except he didn't realize the prey had a knife behind its back.

"You took your time," he finally said, his voice a low, dangerous vibration.

"I had more important things to do than rush to your side, Jeremy," I said, walking toward the center of the room. Inside, my mind was already playing out the next ten moves. I was going to mention the federal investigation I'd funneled toward his offshore accounts. I was going to watch the confidence drain from his face.

I sat in the velvet armchair, crossing my legs. "So. Did you like my little gift at the docks? I thought the glow of your burning empire really highlighted your bone structure."

Jeremy took a step toward me, his presence looming. "You think you’re so smart, don't you? You think burning my world makes us even?” He stopped just a few steps before me. “I know what you are thinking, Landon. I’ve known since the second the server went down."

"And yet, you did nothing," I mocked. "Because you're fascinated by me. Because you can't decide if you want to kill me or crawl back into my bed."

"Don't push me," he growled, his jaw tightening.

"You told me to erase the mistake, remember? Well, I decided to erase you instead. How does it feel, Jeremy? To be outplayed by the person you tried to discard?"

Jeremy was across the room before I could even blink. His hand shot out, his fingers locking around my throat, not to choke, but to dominate. He pinned me back against the armchair, the cushions pressing into my back. His grip was iron, his eyes burning into mine with a hatred so hot it was almost carnal.

"You think you're a god because you can hide behind a screen?" he hissed, his face inches from mine. The scent of wood and pure, unadulterated violence radiated off him. "You put my men in the hospital and my secrets in the hands of people who want me dead. You burned my life’s work, Landon, just because I didn’t agree to play your games."

"I burned them because you thought you could own me," I spat back, the aristocratic tilt of my chin refusing to yield even as his grip tightened. "I’m not your toy. I’m the architect of your ruin."

His eyes darkened, boiling with a rage that seemed ready to burn holes through my skull. The hand gripping my throat slammed my head back against the wooden frame of the chair. The impact knocked the air from my lungs, but I didn't flinch. I stared right into the heart of his rage. "I should break you," he hissed, his face a mask of primal fury. "I should snap you in half right here and see if your little clay-handling hands can put you back together."

"Do it," I provoked, a jagged, evil laugh tearing from my throat. I wanted him to lose it. I wanted to see the monster emerge completely. "Kill me. Erase the mistake. Prove to the world that Jeremy Volkov is nothing but a mindless beast who destroys the only legacy he’ll ever have. Finish what you started two months ago on this very floor."

Inside my head, the calculations of how far he’d go, how much force he’d use, ran cold and precise. Oh, how easy would it be to let him cross the line and then bury him with it. I wanted him furious. Unbalanced. Desperate.

“You don’t get to walk into my world and light fires,” he growled. “You think you’re untouchable, don’t you? The almighty King, never caught, never held accountable.”

“No,” I said, my voice coming out hoarse and broken. “I think you’re predictable.”

But then, the betrayal happened. The pain hit. Not from him, but from inside. A sudden, brutal pressure bloomed low in my abdomen, stealing the air from my lungs like a fist closing around my spine. My breath hitched, my vision tunneled.

No. Not now. Not in front of him.

It wasn't a dull ache or a warning; it was a physical explosion, a jagged, white-hot blade being twisted in the very core of my being. My body, usually a vessel I commanded with absolute precision, suddenly revolted. My hands, which had been resting defiantly against the armchair, flew to my abdomen, my fingers clawing at the fabric of my sweater as if I could physically hold the life inside me together.

I let out a soft, broken gasp—a sound so fragile it felt like a confession and a betrayal of every King ancestor I’d ever had.

Jeremy’s grip on my throat didn't loosen immediately. His fingers were still buried in my skin, his face still a mask of lethal intent. But as I doubled over, my forehead involuntarily hitting his shoulder, I saw the exact second the fire in his eyes died out, replaced by a terrifying, frozen void.

He didn't move. He didn't roar. He didn't even draw back.

He stayed there, his hand still hovering near my neck, his body locked in a position of attack while his mind clearly suffered a catastrophic system failure. He looked at me, not at the mastermind who had burned his docks, but at the pale, trembling thing collapsing in front of him.

"Landon?"

His voice was a flat, dead rasp. It wasn't the voice of a predator,  it was the sound of a man who had just seen a ghost. The silence in the boathouse became deafening, save for the ragged, hitched sounds of my own breath.

A cold sweat broke out across my forehead, and for the first time in my life, I felt a raw, unadulterated shock. My internal calculations were gone. The next ten moves were erased. There was only the pressure, the terrifying sense of loss, and the man in front of me who looked like he’d been turned to stone.

Jeremy’s hand dropped from my neck as if I had suddenly become radioactive. He took a staggering step back, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. He looked at my hands, still white-knuckled and pressed against my stomach, and then back at my face.

"Is this..." he started, his voice cracking before he regained that jagged, cold control. "Is this another one of your games? Stand up, Landon. Stop doing this."

I couldn’t answer. The air was trapped in my lungs, and every time I tried to draw a breath, the pain tightened its grip, reminding me that for all my brilliant plans, I was still just a vessel for a life I couldn't yet protect.

"I... said... stand..." Jeremy grabbed my arm to pull me up, but the moment his hand touched me, I let out a choked, desperate sound—another whimper I would have killed anyone else for hearing.

Jeremy froze. He looked at my face, the drained color, the genuine terror in my eyes that I would normally rather die than let him see, and for the first time, the Volkov monster vanished. He looked... lost.

"Wait," he stammered, his grip loosening until his hand was just hovering there, shaking. "Landon? Are you... is this real?"

"Fuck… off," I wheezed, the words forced through teeth clenched so tight they felt like they might shatter. I tried to find my sarcastic edge, to throw a barb at him for being so easily rattled, but the next wave of pain hit so hard I had to shut my eyes to keep the world from spinning out of existence.

Jeremy scrambled toward the side table, his boots heavy and clumsy on the floorboards. He grabbed a bottle of water, his hands shaking with a violence he couldn't direct at me anymore. He didn't offer it, he shoved it toward me, his face a grimace of pure, paralyzed horror.

"Drink," he commanded, though it sounded more like a plea. "Drink it. Now."

I didn't reach for the water. I had lowered my pride enough already. I forced myself to straighten up, bit by agonizing bit, until I was leaning against the back of the velvet chair. My vision was still fractured, white needles dancing at the edges of my sight, but I managed to tilt my chin up. Even now, with the world collapsing, I refused to let him see me break.

"I told you," I managed to choke out, my voice a brittle thread of its former self. "I don't... need... your help, asshole."

Jeremy stood there, the water bottle forgotten in his hand. He looked at me with a mix of fury and a desperation so raw it was almost carnal. He wasn't the monster who wanted to break me anymore, he was a man confronting his most deadly obsession, realizing he had almost crushed it with his own hands.

"Is the... Is it okay?" Jeremy whispered, the question barely audible over the sound of the sea water hitting the piles.

"He's a King," I spat, though it lacked its usual venom. I pushed myself up from the chair, my legs feeling like they were made of glass. I stumbled, my knees hitting the cold wood of the table, but I didn't stop. I headed for the door, my hand already digging into my pocket for my phone. "He doesn't... belong to you. He never will."

I shoved past him, my shoulder brushing his rigid frame. He didn't try to stop me. He didn't try to grab me. He just stood in the center of the shadows, a predator who had finally cornered his prey, only to realize that the prey was the only thing keeping him alive.

I made it to the door, the cold night air hitting me like a slap to the face. I didn't look back. I didn't want to see the ghost of Jeremy Volkov standing in the ruins of the boathouse.

I pulled out my phone, my fingers fumbling as I hit the only contact that mattered.

"Bran," I whispered as the call connected, my voice finally breaking. "Can you… come and get me? I don’t… I don’t feel well."

Rustling sounds came from the other end of the line, when Bran answered, his voice was thick with worry. “Lan, I’m coming. Don’t move, okay? I’m coming right now.”

I hung up and slumped against the outside of the door, the rain starting to soak through my coat. Inside, the monster was silent. Outside, the King was bleeding. But as I looked at the dark woods, I knew one thing for certain: the game wasn't over. It had just become lethal.

Chapter Text

Jeremy

The aftermath of the breach didn't smell like smoke or ash, but it felt just as suffocating. It smelled of ruin, expensive whiskey, and the cold, clinical scent of a digital execution.

In my study at the mansion, we were in the middle of a meeting that felt like it had been dragging on for two days. I stood by the window with a glass of vodka, pretending to listen as Killian went over the intelligence he’d gathered. But ever since I received that message, only one thing occupied my mind.

Landon.

His so-called courage and relentless nature had crossed a line even for him this time. Yes, we had played games before, launched attacks to make each other’s lives miserable, but this time he hadn't just targeted me or the Heathens, he had brought a destruction that reached as far as our families.

I wanted to hide him somewhere no one else could ever find him, I wanted to break him over and over again, only to be the one who put him back together.

“The projected losses are sitting at five million, and that’s a conservative estimate,” Killian’s voice was a low, grating rumble behind me. Pacing, he was brewing with a restless, predatory energy. “The federal investigators were tipped off at the exact moment our encryption dipped. It wasn't a coincidence, Jeremy. It was a synchronized strike.”

I didn't turn around. I couldn't afford for them to see the dark, jagged spark of fascination in my eyes.

“It wasn’t just a hack,” Vaughn added from the leather armchair, his laptop open on his knees. He sounded frustrated. It was a rare state to see him like this. “It was a ghost in the machine. Someone bypassed the Tier-1 firewalls like they were made of glass. They didn't steal data. They corrupted the shipping logs and flagged our offshore holding companies to the SEC. It’s surgical. It’s the kind of work that takes years of planning, yet it happened in minutes.”

Because he’s a genius, I thought, my grip tightening on the glass. And I am the only one he wanted to show it to.

Nikolai stopped pacing. “We’ve scanned the dark web. No one is taking credit. We interrogated the Serpents, worked them over until they were worse off than fucking dead, but even they don’t know how the data reached them. It’s a total blackout. Whoever did this is either the most humble operative on the planet or they’re playing a much longer game.”

Yes, and we are all just pieces in his fucking game. I took another sip of my drink. Finally pulling my gaze away from the window, I forced myself to focus on the conversation in the room. My eyes locked with Killian’s searching stare. Among us, he was the closest to understanding Landon’s psychology and subconscious. They both possessed psychopathic tendencies, and because of that, they recognized each other the way predators do. I knew from the way Killian studied me, like I was a puzzle he was trying to solve, that he realized I was hiding something. He wasn't an idiot. If I didn't stop him, he would eventually find the culprit. And at that point, nothing I said would be enough to hold back either him or Nikolai. I couldn't allow that.

“There will be no retaliatory search,” I said, my voice a flat, dangerous vibration that silenced the room.

Nikolai’s jaw tightened. “Jeremy, our systems were gutted. We look fucking weak, dude. If we don’t find the source and make an example of them—”

“I will handle it,” I cut him off, setting the glass down on the mahogany desk with a definitive thud. “The source has already been identified through my private channels. Any further investigation from the Heathens will be considered a breach of my direct orders. Am I clear?”

The room went cold. Nikolai and Vaughn exchanged a look of sheer disbelief. Killian’s brows furrowed even deeper, if that were possible. To them, I was letting an invisible enemy walk away after slapping our name. They didn't understand that I wasn't letting an enemy go, I was keeping a prize for myself.

Gareth gave a theatrical sigh. “Jer, because we trust you, we won’t ask why you aren't telling us who did this even though you know their identity. I just hope you aren't making an irreversible mistake.” He was the most rational one among us, the one who always kept his temper in check. He was the one who calmed Killian and offered Nikolai counsel when needed. With his words, the others accepted my decision. After a few final briefings, they left the room, leaving me in solitude.

When the door closed with a heavy thud, I finally released the breath I’d been holding and sank into my leather chair. I pulled my burner phone from my pocket and looked at the message that had been burned into my retinas for two days.

L.K. 

My clever devil.

This time, he hadn't set the mansion on fire as he’d done before, but the damage he dealt was much greater. He had set my digital world on fire, watching the heat from across the island, waiting to see if I would scream. He wanted me to see the red, the anger, the warning, the blood.

I took another sip of my drink. For two days, while my men scrambled to fix the glitch, I had been replaying the last two months in my head. I’d spent that time trying to convince myself that Landon King was just a distraction, a brilliant but ultimately disposable error in judgment.

I was wrong.

Landon wasn't a mistake. He was a challenge. And the fact that he was carrying a part of me, a heartbeat that he now used as a shield, changed everything.

He thought he was burning my world to push me away. He thought that by showing me how easily he could destroy me, I would stay in my lane, terrified of his intellect. He had no idea that he had just done the opposite. He had shown me that he was the only person on this earth worth conquering.

When I told him to erase it, I didn't think he would get this angry, this delirious. He hadn't even hesitated to start a war just because of that. He had gone too, too far, and that explained only one thing. Landon had claimed the baby with everything he had.

I needed to punish him. I had to teach him a lesson, to show him he should never play games with my life or my legacy again. And there was only one way to do that.

I wasn't going to erase the mistake anymore.

Landon wanted to raise a King in the shadows, away from the monster who had sired it? Fine. Let him try. But I was going to claim that child. I would make that heartbeat the anchor that tied Landon to me forever. I would turn his project into my leverage. If he wanted to dig my grave, I would be the god of his cage.

I would ensure this child never became a reflection of Landon’s chaotic brilliance. I’d strip Landon of his influence until he was nothing but a ghost in the nursery of a true Volkov heir. This child wouldn't be a project raised in the shadows, it would be the ultimate weapon of my legacy, the very lock that kept Landon pinned to my side forever.

I looked at the clock on the wall. It was just past seven. Good. That gave me enough time to put my plan into motion. I opened Landon’s contact on the phone.

Me: The boathouse. 8:00 PM.

It was the perfect place for this confrontation. Everything had started there, and I would seize control once again in that very spot. Landon wouldn't be able to escape me this time. I would possess him completely. I would show him that a King is nothing without his throne. And from now on, the only throne he would ever have would be the one by my side. Whether he wanted it or not.

I stood up, grabbing my keys. After one last check, I stepped out of the mansion with silent but sure steps. It was good that I didn't run into the others. I was in no state to offer explanations or lies. The morning's sunny weather had given way to more familiar clouds. When I reached my bike, I checked my phone one last time and silenced it. I had a game to play, and I didn't want anything distracting me.

It took me about twenty minutes to reach the boathouse. The smell of seaweed from the ocean and the sound of the waves were familiar, and they always had a calming effect on me. As I approached the door, the gravel crunched beneath my boots, a rhythmic, grounding sound that did little to quiet the storm brewing beneath my skin. I pushed the door open. It groaned, a familiar, weary sound that echoed through the hollow interior. I didn't reach for the light switch. I didn't need it. The fireplace was already prepared from the last time I was here, a pile of dry logs waiting for a spark. I struck a match and watched the flames take hold, the orange glow slowly stretching across the floorboards like a reaching hand. 

This was my secret palace. No one knew, and no one had ever seen it. Except for him.

My gaze drifted to the center of the room. To the velvet sofa.

Staring at it was like staring into a black hole. It swallowed the light of the fire, just as it had swallowed my sanity two months ago.

Just looking at it brought back the phantom weight of Landon’s body beneath mine. Our game started much earlier, born from the way he looked at me like I was dirt in his polished world. I had spent months as his shadow, waiting outside his studio, watching him through windows , studying him to catch the cracks in that perfect, aristocratic mask. I hated that I couldn’t stop. I hated that a Volkov was reduced to a spectator. So I decided to solve him. To break him until the real Landon King bled through.

And two months ago, in this very room, the flames consumed my whole being, and he had finally pushed me over the edge.

Flashback -  Two Months Ago

"You’re staring, Jeremy," Landon had said, not even bothering to look up from his drink. His voice was a silk-wrapped razor, cutting through the silence of the boathouse. "It’s a bit pathetic, don't you think? Like a dog waiting for a scrap of attention he’ll never get."

He was leaning against the window, swirling a glass of whisky. He looked like a masterpiece, and he knew it. He was testing my boundaries with the casual cruelty of someone who thought he was untouchable.

"Careful, Landon," I’d rasped, my pulse thundering in my ears. I took a step toward him, the wood floor groaning under my weight. "I don't play well with people who forget their place."

"My place?" Landon let out a short, jagged laugh that made my blood boil. He set his glass down and walked right into my personal space, tilting his head back to look at me with those haywire, crystalline eyes. "I’m a King, Jeremy. I don't have a 'place.' I have a throne. You, on the other hand... you're just a monster in a custom suit, trying so hard to pretend you have a soul."

He narrowed his eyes at me, a mocking smile playing on his lips. "Is that why you follow me? Hoping some of my brilliance will rub off on your hollow chest? Or are you just waiting for me to tell you what a disappointment you are to your father’s legacy?"

The mention of my father, of my legacy, was the spark. But the look in his eyes, the pure, unadulterated provocation, was the gasoline.

"You want to see the monster, Landon?" I hissed, my voice dropping to a predatory growl.

"I’m waiting," he whispered, his lips curling into a bruised, beautiful smirk. "Show me. Or are you just someone who’s all bark and no bite? Do something fun, Jeremy. Other than standing there looking like a grotesque statue."

I didn’t let his words get to me. I knew what he was trying to do. He was trying to make me lose it. To catch the monster itself. If I lost this hand, he would consider himself invincible. He had planned this match between us intentionally. While trying to maintain my composure, my hands moved toward his jaw with a calculated slowness. My grip wasn't soft or caressing, it was possessive. I expected him to fight, to claw at me, to scream. But he didn't. He didn't flinch. He didn't even blink.

And that was what destroyed my restraint. Because he stood there and allowed me to touch him without permission, without yielding. Like the outcome was already decided and this was just the formalities. His silence wasn't submission, it was a beckoning. It was him saying, 'Is that all you've got?'

I surged forward, driven by a primal need to own him.

My hand locked around his throat, pinning him back against that velvet sofa. Seeing him like that, parted lips, steady eyes, and a throat exposed to my mercy, made the hunger inside me turn into a starving, rabid beast. I didn't just want to silence him anymore. I wanted to consume him. I wanted to reach inside his chest and hold his heart until it learned to beat only for me.

"There... he... is," he choked out, a dark, erratic spark in his eyes, as if he had finally forced me to reveal the one thing I wanted to keep hidden. He grabbed my wrists, pulling me closer instead of pushing me away. "The real... Jeremy... Volkov."

That night, we didn't speak again. We collided. It wasn't love, it was an execution of every boundary we had ever built. I claimed him with a violence that felt like a blood oath. I thought I had won. I thought by taking him, I had finally put the ghost to rest.

Later, when the storm had dulled into something distant and the fire burned low, he stood by the window pulling his coat back on like nothing had happened. He looked as pristine as if we hadn't just destroyed the room and each other.

He paused at the threshold, his hand on the doorframe, looking back at me with a gaze that was terrifyingly clear.

“You should be careful, Jeremy,” he said quietly, almost kindly. “You mistake proximity for possession far too easily.”

I scoffed, still catching my breath. “You walked into this.”

His smile widened, slow and deliberate. The kind that settles under your skin and never leaves. “No,” he corrected. “I let you.”

And then he was gone. The door closed behind him with a soft click that echoed louder than any gunshot. I stood there alone, staring at the place where he’d been, already knowing something irreversible had occurred and realizing far too late that I hadn’t taken anything from him at all. Instead, I had given him exactly what he wanted. Proof.

Proof that he could walk into my world, strip me of restraint, and leave without a single crack in his crown.

No. That night, he had shown me that no matter what I did, Landon King always managed to stay two steps ahead. He had realized that I was damn near incapable of resisting him and his games. I couldn't allow this to happen again. I had to take control and never, ever submit to his desires again. Because I knew, that the one who seized control would be the one who ultimately possessed.

Present

I pulled my hand back from the velvet, my knuckles white. I was wrong. I hadn't put the ghost to rest, I had given it a heartbeat.

Landon thought he was the one in control now because he’d messed with my servers and burned my reputation. He thought the pregnancy was a shield that would keep me at a distance while he dug my grave. He was wrong. The mistake he was carrying wasn't his shield. It was his leash.

I heard the gravel crunch outside. The sound of a car door closing.

I stood tall, the firelight reflecting in my eyes like a warning. The Mastermind was here. He was coming to gloat, to show me how much damage he could do. He had no idea that I had already decided on his sentence.

Then came his elegant, untouchable footsteps.

"You took your time," I said, my voice low and oppressive, just as it always was when I wanted to strike fear into someone.

"I had more important things to do than rush to your side, Jeremy," he replied.

That voice. It was a silk-wrapped razor, cutting through my restraint. I turned slowly. He walked toward the center of the room, looking like a masterpiece standing in the middle of rot. The firelight caught the sharp, aristocratic lines of his face. A face I wanted to ruin and worship all at once.

Landon didn't look like a man who had just committed digital treason. He looked bored. He sat in the velvet armchair, not the sofa that was both of our deathbed, crossing his legs with agonizing poise. He looked perfectly at home in the center of my rot.

"So. Did you like my little gift at the docks? I thought the glow of your burning empire really highlighted your bone structure."

The sheer, unadulterated arrogance of it. He sat there, mocking the ruin he’d caused, acting as if he were the cat and I were the mouse. I stepped out of the shadows, my presence looming over him like a dark cloud.

"You think you’re so smart, don't you? You think burning my world makes us even?” I stood right in front of him, at a distance that was calculated to be threatening. I could smell the sea air clinging to his coat. “I know what you are thinking, Landon. I’ve known since the second the server went down."

"And yet, you did nothing," he mocked. A thin, cruel smirk played on his lips. "Because you're fascinated by me. Because you can't decide if you want to kill me or crawl back into my bed."

A jagged edge of fury sliced through my self-control. He was right. That was the poison. This hunger I've been feeling was a leash he knew exactly how to pull, and he was jerking it until my neck bled.

"Don't push me," I answered, still trying to hold the upper hand, still trying to win.

"You told me to erase the mistake, remember?" His voice dropped, becoming something cold and lethal. "Well, I decided to erase you instead. How does it feel, Jeremy? To be outplayed by the person you tried to discard?"

Discard. The word snapped the last thread of my restraint.

In a blurred second, I was across the space. My hand shot out, my fingers locking around his throat, not to choke the life out of him, but to claim it. I pinned him back against the armchair, the cushions sinking under the weight of my fury. His skin was like silk under my palm, a terrifying contrast to the violence in my heart.

"You think you're a god because you can hide behind a screen?" I hissed, my face inches from his. I could see the firelight dancing in his pupils. "You put my men in the hospital and my secrets in the hands of people who want me dead. You burned my life’s work, Landon, just because I didn’t agree to play your games."

"I burned them because you thought you could own me," he spat back. He didn't flinch. He didn't beg. Even with my hand on his throat, he looked down at me. "I’m not your toy. I’m the architect of your ruin."

My vision darkened. I slammed his head back against the wooden frame of the chair. Not enough to draw blood, but enough to rattle that brilliant, arrogant mind.

"I should break you," I hissed, feeling the blood pumping through my veins. "I should snap you in half right here and see if your little clay-handling hands can put you back together."

"Do it," he provoked, a jagged, evil laugh tearing from his throat. He wanted the monster. He was begging for it. "Kill me. Erase the mistake. Prove to the world that Jeremy Volkov is nothing but a mindless beast who destroys the only legacy he’ll ever have. Finish what you started two months ago on this very floor."

I stared into his eyes, looking for a crack. I wanted him desperate. I wanted him to realize that no matter how many servers he burned, he was still mine.

“You don’t get to walk into my world and light fires,” I growled. “You think you’re untouchable, don’t you? The almighty King, never caught, never held accountable.”

“No,” Landon said, his voice shaky and thin because of my hand on his throat. “I think you’re predictable.”

I opened my mouth to crush his spirit with the truth of my new plan, but the words died in my throat when the world suffered a catastrophic failure.

Landon didn't pull away. He didn't fight my grip. Instead, his entire body went terrifyingly rigid. A soft, broken gasp escaped his lips. A sound so fragile, so filled with genuine shock, that it paralyzed me.

His eyes widened, losing their focus, and his hands flew to his abdomen. He began clawing at the fabric of his sweater, his knuckles white as he doubled over.

The fire in my gut died instantly, replaced by a cold, paralyzing void.

"Landon?"

My voice was a flat, dead rasp. I stayed there, my hand still hovering near his neck, my body locked in position while my mind shut down. He hit my shoulder with his forehead, a heavy, involuntary thud. He wasn't a Mastermind anymore. He was a pale, trembling thing collapsing in front of me.

"Is this..." I started, my voice cracking. "Is this another one of your games? Stand up, Landon. Stop doing this."

I prayed it was a lie. I prayed he was just outplaying me again. But as I felt him shaking, a deep, visceral shudder that rattled his bones, I realized the truth.

"I... said... stand..." I reached for his arm to pull him up, to force his beautiful mask back into existence so I would know how to fight him. But the moment my hand touched him, he let out a choked, desperate sound, a whimper that tore through my soul.

I froze. The anger inside me vanished. I looked at the drained color of his face, the genuine terror in his eyes that I’d never seen before. I felt lost.

"Wait," I stammered, my grip loosening until my hand was just hovering there, shaking. "Landon? Are you... is this real?"

"Fuck… off," the words barely escaped his mouth, yet they still felt as sharp as a blade.

I scrambled toward the side table in a second. I grabbed a bottle of water and realized that my hands were shaking. I just didn’t know if it was with terror or shame.

"Drink," I commanded, though it sounded like a plea. "Drink it. Now."

He didn't take it. Even in agony, he refused my help. I watched him straighten up, slowly, as if he were trying to pull himself back together, his chin still tilted high despite the white needles of pain dancing in his eyes.

"I told you," he was using every ounce of strength he had left. "I don't... need... your help, asshole."

I stood there, not knowing what to do. I was a man who handled empires, yet I was terrified by this very scene between us.

"Is the... Is it okay?" I whispered. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to refer to it as a baby, as I was afraid it would make Landon angrier and the pain he felt would grow.

"He's a King," Landon spat, his voice shaky but filled with his usual poison. He pushed himself up, trying to regain control of his body. He took a single step, but his trembling legs weren't yet enough to carry him, and he bumped into the table, but he didn't stop. He headed for the door and reached for his phone. "He doesn't... belong to you. He never will."

He pushed past me. I didn't reach for him. I couldn't move. I just stood in the center of the shadows, trying to gather my thoughts and make sense of what had just happened. I watched him walk out into the cold night air, his silhouette swallowing the moonlight until the door clicked shut behind him. I stayed in the ruins of the boathouse, rooted to the spot.

I looked down at my hands. They were still shaking, not with the tremors of rage, but with a terrifying, foreign surge of adrenaline. All the things I had planned to say to him, the threats I’d rehearsed, the way I was going to tell him about his new life in my cage, had vanished. They were forgotten, erased the moment I heard his breath hitch in pain. All my calculated moves had been rendered useless by a single whimper.

The air in the boathouse, which had felt like a battlefield only minutes ago, now felt like a vacuum. Cold. Hollow.

A sudden, paralyzing wave of fear crashed over me. A feeling so alien to me that it made my knees weak. It wasn't the fear of losing a deal or a territory. It was the gut-wrenching, visceral terror of losing him. And beneath that, buried under layers of denial I wasn't ready to peel back, was a protective clawing in my chest for the life he was carrying.

The thought of something happening to Landon, or to the heartbeat that tied us together, made the world feel like it was collapsing. I had spent two days convincing myself that the baby was just a tool, a leash to keep Landon close. But seeing him double over in pain had stripped that lie away.

I wasn't just afraid of losing my leverage. I was terrified of a world where Landon King, and the part of me he held inside him, didn't exist.

I felt a sudden, visceral pull in my chest, a protective instinct so sharp it felt like a physical wound. It was a monster I didn't recognize. It didn't want to conquer or destroy, it wanted to shield. It wanted to reach out into the night, drag Landon back into the warmth, and burn the rest of the world down just to make sure he and that child were safe.

The realization hit me like a blow to the gut.

I had spent my entire life learning how to own things, how to possess legacies and lands. But as I stood there in the silence, staring at the empty doorway, I was finally certain of one thing. I was no longer the one in control. I had never been more possessed than I was in this moment.

Landon King thought he was walking away into his own war. He assumed that he could leave me standing in the ruins of my own pride.

He was wrong. As the protective beast inside me finally bared its teeth, fueled by the terrifying possibility of loss, I knew one thing for certain. I wasn't just his predator anymore. I was his shadow. And wherever he went, no matter how far he ran, he was carrying the man who would never let him, or our child, slip through his fingers.

Chapter Text

Landon

I have always loathed hospitals.

The smell of heavy medication, the hours of endless waiting, and the muffled sobs of miserable people in the hallways were nothing but a reflection of hell itself. Being here felt like a surrender, and if it were up to me, I wouldn't set foot in a place like this unless I were literally dying. Well, if it weren't for Brandon. After he came to get me from the boathouse and saw my shattered state, he convinced me, despite my fierce protests, that this could be a serious problem and that we had to come.

So now, I was lying on a narrow bed, the starch in the white sheets scratching against my skin. A translucent tube snaked out from the back of my hand, tethering me to an IV bag that dripped slow, cold salvation into my veins. Serum to stabilize the spasms. Serum to keep the little devil quiet.

"Drink," Brandon’s voice was soft, but it carried the weight of a command he rarely used with me. I pulled my gaze away from the IV and turned to him, giving him one of those looks that hovered somewhere between "I’ll make you pay for this" and "Thank you for being here" . He was standing by the bed, holding a plastic cup of water like it was the most important thing in the world.

I ignored the water, staring instead at the rhythmic pulse of the monitor beside me. "I don't need water, Bran. I need to leave. This place is making me look like a goddamn sick Victorian child."

"No, you just look like someone who is growing another life in their body and is exhausted from all the chaos, Lan." Brandon snapped, his patience finally fraying at the edges. He sat heavily in the plastic chair next to the bed and put the cup of water on the side table. His face was pale, eyes shadowed with a worry that made me feel a flicker of genuine guilt. "For once in your life, stop being a control freak and just be a patient. You terrified me."

I looked at him, my mask slipping for just a second, then turned my gaze to the monitor. "I terrified myself." I said nonchalantly, almost bored.

But deep down, admitting this horrifying truth, especially to someone other than myself, felt unexpectedly relieving. Despite all my talk about using the child as a weapon or a project, the second I felt that white-hot blade twisting in my gut, I realized I wasn't ready for the loss. I wasn't ready to let go of the only thing that was purely, undeniably mine. And I hated that, for a split second, I had expected a monster to care.

"The doctor said you've had these pains before," Brandon said, his eyes searching mine. "Why didn't you tell me? Why did you keep going with it all like nothing was wrong?"

I let out a dry, jagged laugh. "Because admitting it meant acknowledging that I wasn't in total control. I didn't want my life to change without my permission.” I took a deep breath. “I thought if I ignored the symptoms long enough, they’d realize I wasn’t interested in playing along."

"This isn't a problem you can just fix on your own, Landon," he sighed, reaching out to squeeze my hand, the one without the needle. "It's a life. And if you keep pushing yourself, if you keep letting him get under your skin like this..."

The moment he mentioned him, his voice hardened, and I saw the flare of anger cross his face. Brandon wasn’t clueless, and he was still my other half. I hadn’t told him exactly what happened at the boathouse yet, but he sensed that Jeremy was the reason I was in this state.

"He called you, didn't he?" Brandon asked, his jaw tightening. "That's why you prepared like you were going to war. What was his problem this time?"

"What else? To pick a fight, of course," I muttered simply, though my heart rate monitor gave a treacherous little beep-beep at the mention of him. "In his eyes, I’m responsible for every evil in the world, didn't you know? His only goal is to break me." I said, my fingers curling into the thin hospital blanket. I wasn't going to tell him how Jeremy had scrambled for water or how his hands had shaken. I didn't want him to have the grace of being human in my brother's eyes.

"You remember what I told you, about what he said after he broke into the safe house?” I narrowed my eyes, the memory of that night fueling a fresh wave of spite. “How he looked at the ultrasound and told me to erase it like it was a goddamn ink stain on his jacket?"

Brandon froze. I could feel the temperature in the room plummet. “Tell me… tell me he didn't hurt you physically. The doctor said it was stress, but…” He closed his eyes, taking a deep, stabilizing breath as if trying to keep his own demons at bay. “Tell me the truth, Landon. What did that bastard do to put you in this state?”

"He didn’t hurt me precisely, but he decided to play the executioner again.” My voice was as calm as if I hadn't been on the verge of fainting from pain only two hours ago. “He brought me there to finish what he started, to remind me that he doesn't want this mistake breathing in his world."

"He’s still on that? Even after seeing you like this?"

"He doesn't care about 'like this', Bran. He only cares about control." I lied through my teeth, twisting the truth until it served my rage, though I wasn't sure if I was trying to convince Brandon or myself. I ignored the memory of Jeremy's panicked voice calling my name, the way he’d scrambled for water, the way his hands had shaken as he looked at me. I buried those fragments deep.

"That’s why I’m in this pathetic bed. My body isn't breaking because it’s weak, it’s rebelling against the sheer toxicity of him. Every time he opens his mouth, he’s trying to tear down houses he didn't build.” I took a shallow breath.  “He thinks he can stress me into a loss, but all he’s doing is making me want to burn his legacy to the ground while he watches."

"Then we're done," Brandon said, his voice trembling with a terrifying certainty. "No more games. No more Jeremy. You're staying at the mansion, or I am staying with you. You need to lay low, Landon. If you keep engaging with him, you're going to lose everything. The doctor said your stress levels are through the roof. If this happens again..."

He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to. The silence in the room said it for him.

"Lay low," I muttered, the phrase feeling heavy and wrong on my tongue. "I don't know how to do that, Bran. I don't hide in the shadows."

"This isn't hiding, Lan... Just think of it as trying to protect what you have," Brandon countered, leaning in until we were inches apart. "Because if you don't, you won't just be losing a war with Jeremy. You’ll lose that 'little devil,' Landon. And if you don't think you can live with that, you have to listen to me now."

I looked at him, seeing my own reflection in his worried eyes. He was right, and that was the most frustrating part of all. I was The Landon King, the mastermind of the island, and yet, I was being brought to my knees by a biological variable I couldn't outsmart.

I sank back into the pillow, the cold serum finally starting to numb the dull ache in my belly. "Fine. For now. But don't think for a second that this means he won."

"He's already lost, Lan." Brandon said, a soft, understanding smile on his lips. "He just doesn't know it yet."

There was a knock on the door, and exactly two seconds later it creaked open. I noticed I was holding my breath when Dr. Aris stepped in with a clipboard, his expression grave. My stomach did a nervous flip. The game was about to get even more real. And it hit me, with a jolt, that I was actually afraid of hearing something bad.

Dr. Aris was our family doctor on the island, and an old acquaintance of my father. He had known us for many years, and he was the type of man who said what needed to be said without wrapping it in sugarcoat—a trait I respected him for. Brandon had insisted we come to him because he trusted his experience and he already knew our entire medical history. Perhaps I should have been terrified of this reaching my parents' ears, but Dr. Aris was a man who valued patient confidentiality and never stuck his nose into business that wasn't his. After a brief, tense discussion, we had convinced him that I would be the one to break the news to my parents in my own time.

He walked inside with the clinical look of a man who dealt with high-stakes anomalies. He flipped through the digital chart on his tablet, the blue light reflecting off his spectacles.

"Landon," he began, his voice flat. "The serum has stabilized the contractions for now, but your vitals tell a much more turbulent story."

"Contractions," I repeated, the word feeling like a foreign object in my mouth. "I’m barely two months in. Isn't it a bit early for the dramatics?"

"In a standard pregnancy, yes. But as I’ve told you two just before, there is nothing standard about a male pregnancy," Dr. Aris said, stepping closer. He looked at me over the rim of his glasses. "Your body is undergoing a massive physiological restructuring. It’s an incredibly delicate balance, Landon. And right now, that balance is failing."

I felt Brandon stiffen beside me. I kept my face a mask of bored indifference, though my heart was beginning to thud against my ribs again.

"What do you mean 'failing'?" Brandon asked, his voice low and dangerous.

"I mean that Landon’s stress markers are high enough to trigger a spontaneous termination," the doctor said bluntly. "The cramps you experienced tonight were just a warning. Your body is trying to reject the pregnancy because it feels under attack. If you continue at this pace, with the physical strain and the psychological pressure, the risk of miscarriage isn't just a possibility. It’s an inevitability."

The room went deathly silent. Inevitability. I wondered, briefly and against my will, if he would have laughed at the word. The sterile air mocked me.

"I’m not delicate, Doctor. I don't do fragile," I said, my voice cutting through the silence like a scalpel. "I’ve survived things that would break most people. I’m not going to be sidelined by a few cramps."

"This isn't about your willpower, Landon. It’s about biology," Dr. Aris countered, undeterred by my glare. "Male pregnancies carry a much higher risk of complications in the first trimester. You need absolute rest. No stress. No physical exhaustion. If you don't rest, you won't just be losing your health. You’ll be losing the child. Am I being clear enough?"

I didn't answer. I couldn't. I looked at the white blanket over my legs, feeling a sudden, terrifying surge of protectiveness for the little devil that I had so casually called a weapon. The thought of losing it, not on my terms, but because of a fucking failure of my own body, was a bitter pill to swallow.

"Understood, doctor," Brandon spat, pacing the small space of the room like a caged tiger. "Don't worry, I'll make sure he rests. I’ll do everything in my power to keep the stress away from him."

"Perfect," the doctor said, looking back at his tablet. "I’m prescribing bed rest for the next week. Minimum. And Landon... if you feel even a hint of that pressure again, you don't call a car. You call an ambulance."

He left as quickly as he’d entered, leaving the weight of his words to settle on us like a bomb.

I leaned my head back against the pillow, closing my eyes. I felt Brandon’s hand on my shoulder, letting me know that he was here with me. It was steady. Familiar. Wrong. But I couldn’t focus on the warmth, I was too busy calculating.

"You heard him, Lan," Brandon whispered. "No more games. You're coming home. We’ll tell the others you have a persistent flu. You’re going to stay in bed, and you're going to stay away from Jeremy." Of course. Distance. His favorite solution.

"Stay away from him?" I opened my eyes, a cold, jagged light dancing in the pupils. "He’s the reason I’m in this bed, Bran. He’s the reason my body is trying to tear itself apart. Do you really think I’m going to let him win by hiding?"

"It’s not about winning anymore! It’s about keeping you alive!"

"I am alive," I snapped, the rage finally bubbling over. "And I’m going to make sure he feels every bit of this inevitability. I am going to make him pay for this.” I stopped and closed my eyes just for a second. “I’m going to stay in bed, I’m going to lay low, but I’m going to hunt him while I do it."

I gripped the edge of the bedsheet, my knuckles white. "He thinks he can stress me out of this?" My voice sounded like a declaration of war. "He’s about to learn that Landon King is never more dangerous than when he’s been told he’s at his limit."

I took a deep breath. Jeremy considered himself my equal. He had no idea that simply lying in this bed would be enough for me to turn his life into a living hell.

As if we’d summoned the devil himself, the door swung open. Something sharp and familiar cut through the sterile scent of antiseptic—rain trapped in leather; clean, dangerous, and violently out of place in a white room. I didn’t need to turn my head, the shift in the air was enough to tell me who it was.

"Get out," Brandon’s voice snarled, stepping between me and the door.

Jeremy was standing in the doorway, his chest heaving. He looked like he’d ridden through a storm to get here. His eyes scanned the room like a predator looking for blood, and finally, they settled on me. For a split second, the look on his face wasn't one of hate. It was pure, raw desperation.

His gaze flickered to the IV in my arm, and I saw his pupils dilate, a flicker of visceral dread. It wasn't mercy. It was the frantic panic of a predator realizing his most prized possession was cracking.

But I didn't care. I adjusted my mask, tilted my chin up, and prepared my first strike.

"I said get out, Jeremy!" Brandon raised his voice in a way I hadn't expected from him. "Or I’ll call security and have you dragged out in front of everyone."

Jeremy didn’t pay him any mind. He took a step toward the bed, his entire focus pinned on me. "Landon," he rasped, his voice sounding like a blade scraping against bone.

"You heard Brandon, Jeremy. I’m not sure if you’re here to admire your handiwork or to finish what you started, but as you can see, I’m still breathing," I said, infusing every syllable with the cold, aristocratic poison of a King. I leaned deeper into the pillows, as if reclining on a throne. "So you can crawl back to wherever you came from. You didn't quite succeed this time, unfortunately."

Jeremy’s jaw tightened so hard I thought his teeth might shatter. Without sparing a glance at Brandon, he spoke one word. "Out." It wasn't a request, it was an order.

"Not a goddamn chance," Brandon said, stepping forward.

"Brandon. Get. Out," Jeremy repeated, each word heavy with a lethal weight. His eyes stayed on me, and in them was a look of such primal, dark possession that my skin crawled. "Or I will tear this hospital down around you. Don't test me."

"It's fine, Bran," I interrupted, my voice as smooth as polished marble. "Let him stay. This will only take a few minutes. I’m curious to see what he still thinks he has to say."

Brandon looked at me, still not entirely convinced. I gave him a curt nod, the kind that needed no explanation between us. He finally agreed and gave Jeremy one last murderous look before stepping out. As the door thudded shut, the room became a vacuum filled only by Jeremy’s suffocating aura. He moved to the edge of the bed, looming over me. He was so close I could smell the cold dampness of his coat.

"You look like a broken doll," he hissed, his voice vibrating with a lethal edge. "I told you not to mess with me. I told you not to play with my patience."

"And I told you to fuck off, yet here you are, haunting my recovery like a desperate ghost," I spat back, my eyes flashing with a hate so sharp it felt carnal. "What’s the matter, Jeremy? Am I suddenly too precious now that I look broken? Or are you just pissed that you can't put me back in your place like a goddamn puzzle piece?"

Jeremy surged forward, slamming his hands onto the metal rails of my bed. The sudden clatter made the heart monitor spike, the rapid beep-beep-beep exposing the lie of my composure. He leaned down, his face inches from mine, his eyes burning with a terrifying, cold fire.

"Don't test me right now, Landon. Not here. Not while you're taking strength from a plastic bag."

"Then leave," I hissed, my fingers clawing at the sheets. "Go back to your mansion. Go back to your empire and pretend that I’m not the one who’s burning it down. You wanted this gone, remember? You wanted me to erase it. So why are you standing here staring at me like I’m something you own?"

"Because you are something I own," he growled, the words vibrating through the bed frame. "You carry a Volkov heir. You think I’m going to let you raise my blood in the shadows? You think I’m going to let you use my child as a toy in your twisted little games?"

I let out a jagged, mocking laugh that tasted like copper. "Do you even realize how much of a fool you sound like?" I stopped to take a calming breath. "We’ve been over this, Jeremy. You lost any claim the second you told me to destroy it. This isn't a child to you, it’s just a piece of me you can't stand not to control. Well, newsflash, Volkov, I don't follow your scripts."

"Whether you follow them or not is irrelevant," Jeremy whispered, his voice turning into a lethal, quiet calm. “We didn’t get to finish our conversation at the boathouse. I called you there to tell you that I’ve changed my mind.” He was looking at me as if I were something he could watch for hours, waiting for the first crack in my composure. “That heir carries my blood. And if you’re too careless to protect it, then I’m taking control. From this moment on, every breath you take, every step you move, is subject to my approval."

This was something I hadn't expected. The sheer audacity of it left me speechless for a beat, and I could feel the blood boiling in my veins with a mounting rage. “Who the fuck do you think you are? You think you can just suddenly have a change of heart? You don’t even have a heart, Volkov. You can't just walk in here and claim ownership over something that belongs to me.” I was out of breath, fuming with a raw, electric fury. “I’ll kill you before I let that happen.” 

“I don’t care if you accept it or not, Landon, this is how it’s going to be.” He straightened his shoulders with the finality of a judge delivering a sentence. "You want to play the architect? Fine. But you’ll do it in a house I build. You’ll eat the food I bring to you. You’ll rest until I decide you’re fit to move. And if you even think about hiding from me again, I’ll remind you exactly why people fear my name more than yours."

I let out a jagged, mocking laugh that ended in a wince I tried to hide. "You think because I’m in this bed, I’ve become one of your soldiers? You're delusional. This child is a King. He’s mine. You’re just the biological accident I’m currently suffering through."

Jeremy’s hand shot out, his fingers hovering just an inch from my jaw, trembling with the urge to claim me. "You are my property until that child is born, Landon. I’ll take you out of your world and lock you somewhere you can never escape if I have to. I will wrap you in silk and iron until you realize that you belong to me."

"Then do it," I provoked, leaning forward until my forehead touched his, my voice a lethal whisper. "Lock the doors. Build the cage. But remember this, Volkov. Even from inside a cell, I will find every crack in your soul and bleed you dry.” I gave him a look of absolute, pitying disdain. “Look at you. You’re trembling because you almost lost me. You’re the one who’s possessed, not me."

Jeremy’s eyes darkened, a mix of carnal obsession and terrifying protectiveness swirling in them. He looked like he wanted to kiss me and kill me at the same time.

"Hate me all you want," he whispered, his breath scorching my skin. "But you will do exactly as I say. Because if you don't, if you risk the child’s life or yours again, I won't just destroy you. I'll burn the King name out of existence. Now lie down and be the mastermind you claim to be, because you’re not leaving this room without my signature."

"I’d rather die than be your property," I spat, my voice cracking but my spirit unyielding.

"Then you’ll die in my arms," he countered, his gaze lingering on my abdomen with a look of terrifying ownership.

That was the last straw. “Get. The. Fuck. Out. Of. Here.” I shouted every word. “You have officially lost your mind. Don’t come near me ever, and I mean ever again, Jeremy.”

He looked at me one last time before he straightened up. With a calmness that made his previous outburst seem like a fever dream, he adjusted the collar of his leather jacket. "I’m the one in charge of the blueprint now, Landon. Get used to it."

He turned on his heel, leaving the air in the room vibrating with a tension that felt like it was ready to explode. I sat there, my heart hammering, my hands clawing at the hospital sheets. He thought he’d won. He thought the IV was a leash.

He had no idea I was already planning how to turn his 'cage' into his graveyard.

Jeremy

Before I even reached his hallway, I had intercepted a young nurse near the station. One look at my face, one grip on her arm in the shadows, and she had stuttered out everything I needed to know. Stress-induced contractions. High risk of miscarriage. The "male pregnancy" complications. By the time I kicked that door open, I wasn't just angry. I was armed with the truth.

Now, stepping out of the room, the sudden silence of the hallway hit me like a physical blow. The click of the door behind me sounded final. My heart was still a frantic mess, a war drum beating against my ribs. Seeing Landon like that, pale, shadowed, looking like he was made of cracked porcelain, had stripped away the last of my sanity.

Brandon was leaning against the opposite wall. The second I stepped out, his posture shifted. He looked like he wanted to kill me. I didn't blame him. I’d want to kill me too.

"If you ever go near him again," he said, his voice a low, vibrating promise of murder, "I don’t care about the Volkov name or the Heathens. I will end you myself."

As much as I respected the depth of his bond with Landon, I didn't have the energy for his heroics. I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out my phone, acting as if he were nothing more than background noise, my face turning into a stone mask of Volkov indifference. "You can try, Brandon," I said, my voice flat and devoid of emotion. "But while you’re busy making threats, I’m busy making sure he, and my heir, are protected.”

"Your heir?" Brandon spat, taking a step toward me. "That baby is a King. He belongs to us. You are the reason he is in this delicate state. You pushed him this far and didn’t even care about what happened to them. You don't get a second chance now just because you've suddenly realized what you've lost."

I stopped and looked at him, my gaze hollow and dark. His words were echoing Landon’s more than he probably realized. “I haven’t lost anything,” I hissed, the air between us crackling. “I pushed him. I crossed a line I shouldn’t have touched,” I continued, the honesty in my voice brief and cold as winter steel. “But don’t confuse what I said before with what I intend to be.” I stepped closer, lowering my voice. “I’m not asking for a second chance. I’m taking responsibility for what I did.” I straightened. “He’s alive. I intend to keep it that way.”

Brandon stared at me, his jaw tightening as he tried to find a lie in my eyes. I didn't stay long enough for him to find one.

"Go back inside," I muttered, turning my back on him. "He’s going to need someone to bleed on, and I’ve already had my turn."

Ilya was waiting by the elevator, his face a map of genuine shock. He’d clearly heard what we were discussing just before. I ignored his unspoken questions and gestured toward Dr. Aris, who was standing by the nurse’s station, calmly reviewing a file.

"A word, Doctor," I said. My voice wasn't a shout, it was the low, dangerous hum of an incoming storm.

Dr. Aris didn't flinch. He slowly closed the file, adjusted his spectacles, and looked at me with the steady gaze of a man who had seen the King family through decades of blood and secrets. He didn't look afraid, he looked observant.

"Mr. Volkov," he said calmly. "I didn’t expect to see you here at this hour." He gestured toward a small consultation room. “Please, follow me.”

We stepped inside. Ilya stood by the door, a silent sentinel. I didn't waste time with pleasantries. I leaned against the desk, my shadow looming, but Aris simply sat in his chair, unimpressed by the display of power.

"I know you're close with the King’s," I began, my voice cold. "And I know you value your loyalty to that family. But the situation in that room has a Volkov variable now."

“Well, I assume you are the father then?” He took a weary breath, taking off his glasses. "I’ve been the King family physician for twenty years, Mr. Volkov," Aris said, his voice level and unshakable. "I've handled secrets far more volatile than an unexpected pregnancy. Threats don't work on me, so you can save your breath."

I felt a muscle twitch in my jaw. He was a tough old bastard. "This isn't just a secret. It’s my legacy. I want every test result. Every update. I want my own specialists to oversee your findings. I’m not asking for your loyalty, Doctor. I’m asking for a professional merger."

"And if I refuse?" Aris asked, raising an eyebrow. "Landon is my patient. His privacy is paramount."

"Landon is at risk of losing that child because of the pressure he's under," I countered, my voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "If you truly care about his health, you’ll let me provide the resources the Kings don't have. Our medical team has handled male pregnancies in the Bratva circles for years. We have data you don't."

Aris stayed silent for a long moment, calculating. He knew I was right about the medical risk. "Landon obviously doesn't want you involved."

"Landon doesn't know what's good for him right now. He’s too busy trying to spite me to realize he's killing himself." I leaned in closer. "Send the reports to this number. My specialists will review them and send back protocols. Landon doesn't need to know where the extra guidance is coming from. Think of it as a double layer of protection for your friend's son."

Aris looked at the card I slid across the table. He didn't take it immediately, but he didn't push it away either. "I will do what is best for my patient. If your resources can ensure a safe delivery, I will look at them. But don't think for a second that this makes me your man, Mr. Volkov."

"I don't need a man. I need a healthy heir," I said, straightening up. "Don't disappoint me, Doctor."

As I walked out, Ilya followed me, finally finding his voice. "What the fuck, Jeremy? Landon King? A baby? I thought the plan was to burn him to the ground, not to play house together."

"The plan hasn't changed, Ilya," I snapped, though the lie felt like ash in my mouth. "But the stakes have. From now on, I want shadows in the Elite mansion. I want to know when he eats, when he sleeps. If Landon so much as winces, I want a report.”

"You want to protect him?" Ilya asked, sounding genuinely stunned.

"I want to protect my legacy." I lied, my mind already drifting back to the image of Landon’s pale face on that white pillow. "He thinks he can keep me out. He thinks he can turn his life back into a game of chess."

I looked out at the rain-slicked streets. "The game ended the second he let me touch him. Now, he’s just a prize waiting to be claimed."

Chapter Text

Landon

The hospital discharge was not the victory I expected. I thought leaving those sterile white walls would return me to my throne, but as I stepped into the humid morning air, I realized I was simply moving from one cage to another.

Brandon had spent the night trying to convince me to go to the Elite’s mansion. After a final talk with Dr. Aris and a litany of warnings—not to be left alone, to be constantly monitored, and to stay in bed—defying my twin had become a battle I didn't have the energy to fight. To be honest, feeling valuable and important in someone’s eyes—especially Brandon’s—felt… good.

As we walked down the stairs, me leaning slightly on Brandon—though I’d die before I admitted I needed the support—the air felt heavy.

Jeremy was standing by the exit, his leather jacket on as usual, and his eyes—God, his eyes—were fixed on me with a terrifying, singular focus. He looked like he hadn't slept a second since I’d been admitted. I hadn’t seen him since our fight, but I knew he’d waited in the corridor all night. Brandon was extremely furious, and I spent the time planning.

"He's coming with me, Jeremy," Brandon snapped, his arm tightening around my shoulder. "He’s coming home. Where he’s safe. From you."

Jeremy turned his gaze toward Brandon, slow and predatory. “I don’t trust anyone to take care of what’s mine. He’ll be coming with me, where I can watch over him.”

I didn't give Brandon a chance to answer. I looked at Jeremy, my gaze sharp enough to draw blood. "I am not a package to be picked up, Jeremy. I am going with my brother. You’ve done enough watching for one lifetime."

For a split second, something flickered in Jeremy’s eyes—a flash of raw frustration, or maybe something darker—but he didn't move. "Fine," he whispered, his voice a low threat. "Go to your mansion. But don't think for a second that the doors are actually locked. You’re not escaping this, Landon. Not anymore."

The Elite’s mansion had always been a symbol of my power, but for the past seven days, it had become my tomb.

Brandon, in his typical over-protective fashion, had coordinated with Eli and Creighton. The official story? A severe, persistent flu. "Landon needs absolute rest," Brandon had told them, his face a map of practiced lies. "His immune system is shot. No visitors. No stress."

Eli had raised an eyebrow, and Creighton had given me one of those long, analytical stares that made me wonder if he could see through my skin, but they’d stayed away. For a week, I was confined to my suite—a sprawling, luxurious prison of silk sheets and golden crown molding.

My parents were worried. Especially my mother. She called both me and Brandon every day, asking how I was and why I wasn't getting any better. By the end of the first few days, when we told her my condition remained the same, we had to practically beg her not to hop on the first flight to the island. Perhaps I should have felt a shred of guilt for worrying her like this, but with the foxes constantly running in my head, I hadn't found the time for it yet.

But it wasn't the Kings who were suffocating me. It was Jeremy.

It started on the first morning. A knock on my door at 8:00 AM. Not a maid, but Brandon, looking confused as he held a thermal bag.

"Someone dropped this off at the gate," Brandon said, setting it on my nightstand. Inside was a bowl of organic bone broth, still steaming, and a small, white card with no name. Just a single instruction: Drink.

"He’s insane," I muttered. I didn't touch it.

For the next three days, the deliveries ran like relentless, surgical clockwork—every single day, the same times, the same routine. 10:00 AM vitamins and pills, 12:00 PM lunch, 2:00 PM iron-rich juice, and at 6:00 PM, a dinner fit for an army. Every night at 11:00 PM, I’d look out from my balcony to see the same black SUV haunting the edge of the woods. Ilya.

At first, I treated his deliveries like the insults they were, sweeping them into the trash as soon as Brandon left the room. I even went as far as sending Jeremy a single, jagged text: Stop sending your trash to my door. I’d rather rot than take anything from you.

He never replied. He just waited for me to break.

By the third morning, my body decided to betray my pride. The dizziness returned with a vengeance, and when I reached for the prescription bottle Dr. Aris had given me, I found it empty sooner than it should’ve been—a rare oversight by Brandon, or perhaps a deliberate move by the forces Jeremy controlled outside these walls. My skin was cold, my stomach rolling, and the room was tilting on its axis. My gaze drifted to the vitamin bottle on my nightstand—the one Jeremy had sent an hour ago. I knew what was inside. I hated that I knew. But as the world blurred, my pride finally gave way to the primal urge to stay upright. I opened the bottle, swallowed the pill, and felt the bitter taste of defeat slide down my throat. By noon, the dizziness had receded. By evening, I stopped throwing his gifts away.

Slowly, the watching had turned into an all-out siege. Every four hours, my phone would buzz. No text, just a notification that a private server had updated. When I logged in, I saw my own medical charts, analyzed and annotated by specialists in St. Petersburg. He wasn't just watching me, he was deconstructing me.

Jeremy was everywhere. He was the food I ate, the vitamins in my blood, the shadow at my gate. He was treating me like a high-value prisoner, a golden bird in a cage he had built around my own home. It was infuriating. It was an insult to my intelligence.

And yet... every time a text came in asking 'Did you eat?' or a specific tea arrived to help with my morning sickness, a traitorous, dark part of my psyche flinched. It wasn't warmth. It wasn't love. It was the feeling of being held. For the first time in my life, I wasn't the one holding the world together. Someone was holding me—even if it was with hands stained in blood.

Two days ago, while I was lying in bed, sketching to gather my thoughts, the door burst open and Glyndon walked in. She looked like she’d been crying. Brandon followed her, looking like a man who had just lost a war.

"Lan?" Glyn’s voice was a fragile thing. "Brandon said you were sick, but... I was in his studio. I saw the papers from Dr. Aris. Lan, please... tell me what’s going on."

Glyndon was always the cheerful one. Sunny, warm-hearted, someone who got along with everyone. She was everything I was not. But she was my sister, and I had always made it my mission to protect her. Perhaps it was the days spent rotting in this room, or perhaps it was the sorrow in her eyes, I don’t know, but in that moment, I made a decision.

“Come here, Little Princess.” I patted the space on the bed beside me. Even though I didn't understand the need for physical proximity, I could see that Glyndon needed a hug.

She approached with small, hesitant steps and sat on the edge of the bed. I reached out and took her hands, stroking her fingers as if to calm her. Brandon leaned against the wall, watching us with a quiet but sincere gaze.

“Glyn, there is nothing you need to worry about. There has just been… an unexpected change.”

She was looking at me with tear-filled eyes, her gaze heavy with an almost desperate expectation. It was the way she used to look at me when we were children—as if she believed a single word from me could fix the entire world, as if I were capable of rearranging the stars just to settle her fears. I hadn't seen that look in a long time. It was a weight I used to carry with pride, but now, it felt like a ghost haunting my skin.

I cupped her cheek, my thumb tracing her jawline in an attempt to offer her a strength I wasn't even sure I possessed. “I am not ill, Glyn. I am… pregnant.”

Her eyes went wide, doubling in size as she stared at me in shock. I calmly watched her reaction, waiting for her to speak. She didn’t. She stayed like that for at least twenty seconds, trying to rationalize what I had said. Then, suddenly, she threw her arms around my neck and started crying. Really loud.

I looked at Brandon, silently asking for some fucking help. But he stayed where he was, covering his mouth to hide his laughter. My sheer confusion and Glyndon’s unexpected reaction must have been entertaining for him. I gave him a “you’re going to pay for this” look and turned back to Glyndon.

I decided the only way to save the moment was to pretend everything was alright. “I hope these are tears of joy, Glyn. I simply would feel humiliated if this was your reaction to learning that you are to be an aunt.” I started patting her back in slow, rhythmic motions, trying to ground her—and perhaps myself—in the absurdity of the moment.

"Lan," she finally pulled back after a few minutes, her face a mess of smeared mascara and raw emotion. She sniffled, wiping her nose with the back of her hand, her eyes searching mine with a sudden, frantic urgency. "Who... I mean, crap. Who is the father?"

The air in the room felt thick, like a storm was about to break. Brandon stopped smiling, his gaze shifting to the floor. He didn't look like the steady shield he was trying to be; he looked like a brother who’d watched his twin fight for their life on a hospital bed.

I didn't blink. "It’s Jeremy’s, Glyn."

Glyndon froze. She knew him through Killian, through passing encounters at the Heathens' mansion, but I knew he had always been a mystery to her—a dark, distant figure.

"Jeremy?" she whispered, her voice high with disbelief. "Jeremy Volkov? But… how? I mean, I know you two have this... rivalry, but Lan, I thought you hated each other.”

"Hate and desire are two sides of the same coin, Glyn," I said, my voice turning into that familiar, cold armor. "A momentary lapse in judgment doesn't change the truth, it only complicates the future."

She looked at me, her shock melting into a deep, genuine worry, her eyes still glistening with tears. “This isn't just a momentary lapse, Lan. This is catastrophic! Does he know? What did he say?"

Before I could answer, Brandon stepped forward. “He knows.” His voice wasn't cold, it was heavy with a protective rage that he was trying to keep in check for our sister’s sake. “He didn’t take it well, Glyn. He told Landon to end it.” Brandon continued. His jaw tightened. “And when that didn’t work, he pushed. Hard enough that Lan ended up in the hospital, he almost lost the baby.”

Glyndon’s breath caught. She turned to me so fast the movement almost hurt to watch. “You almost—” She stopped herself, swallowing hard. “You almost lost it?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. The silence did it for me.

Brandon placed his hand on Glyndon’s shoulder with a calm but firm gesture. “He doesn’t deserve this baby. Not after what he did. That’s why we have to keep this in the family—because we can’t let that man have another chance to crush him.”

The color drained from Glyndon’s face. The idea of her strong, sovereign brother being pushed to the brink of losing everything clearly shook her. She turned back to me as I watched her carefully. There was sincereness there, yes—but also fear. Real fear. And she wasn’t wrong to feel it. “I thought he was just… quiet,” she said. “Cold, maybe. I had no idea that he was so cruel." She squeezed my hand. "Brandon is right. We'll protect you. Not a soul will find out until you're ready. We're a team, Lan."

The determination and loyalty I saw in my sister’s eyes were just as sweet as the compassion I saw in Brandon’s. I had always been strong enough to handle everything on my own—I used to view someone's help as an insult. But now, seeing them so resolute by my side, I couldn't stop myself from feeling satisfied. It wasn’t relief or gratitude. Just… pressure easing.

I let out a breath I’d been holding since the moment I stepped out of that hospital, feeling the tension in my shoulders finally give way to the warmth of their presence. I didn't reach for my usual mask of cold indifference; I didn't need it here. I looked from Brandon to Glyndon, really looking at them, and for once, the silence between us wasn't filled with secrets, but with an unspoken promise.

“I’ve spent so much time being the one who stands alone at the top,” I murmured, my voice low and a bit raw, almost a whisper to myself. “I forgot that the view is much less terrifying when you're not the only one looking out.”

I leaned my head back against the pillows, closing my eyes as I squeezed Glyn’s hand one last time. “Don't leave just yet,” I added, the vulnerability of the request surprising even me. “Stay. Just for a while. I think I’m done being alone—just for today.”  

For a few hours, the three of us stayed there. The King heirs, tied by blood and a new, heavy secret.

Now, two days after that conversation, I stood by the window, watching the world move outside without me. I was becoming far too accustomed to the feeling of being a prisoner. My thoughts were a tangled, chaotic mess—a rare state of mind for someone like me. For the first time in my life, I, Landon King, had no idea what to do next.

Waiting felt like surrender, and surrender had never been my language. I was not built to sit still and be handled, monitored, or managed. I was the one who anticipated moves, not the one reduced to reacting to them. And yet, every half-formed plan collapsed under the same weight—my thoughts returning to that bloody night, my body issuing a quiet, humiliating veto.

I didn’t need guarding. I didn’t need watching. I certainly didn’t need him deciding what was best for me.

I cursed under my breath, blaming the surge of gods-awful hormones for the lack of clarity. I felt trapped, yet I had to begrudgingly admit that laying low was doing wonders for my body. I would never, ever say it out loud, but the meals and vitamins Jeremy had been sending were actually working. I no longer woke up feeling like I was about to turn my stomach inside out, and the dizziness had finally begun to recede into a manageable hum.

That realization alone made my skin crawl.

As I stared out at the street, my hand drifted to my stomach for the first time in days, my fingers curling protectively against the silk of my shirt. My jaw clenched. A soft, bitter huff escaped my lips. “You’re a little traitor, you know that? I thought we were a team.”

Ever since that agonizing night at the boathouse, I felt... betrayed. It sounded like madness, but I hadn't expected the little devil to stage such a violent scene. The shock of almost losing it had left a permanent scar on my psyche.

“I understand that you wanted attention, but never do that again,” I said, my tone dipping into a dark, low threat. “Because if something happened to you, I’m not sure whether I’d break the cage—or let it close tighter just to keep you safe. I’d turn this entire estate into a fortress, just to make sure you never have a reason to scream again.”

I was not the type to build fortresses, I was the one who tore them down. I had never been one to accept charity, and I certainly didn't eat from the hands of my enemy. I would always choose starting a war over signing a peace treaty. And yet, doing something—anything—felt reckless now.

Every move carried consequences that no longer belonged to me alone. If I pushed too hard, if I shattered the silence too violently, the fallout wouldn’t land on my shoulders—it would land here.

I hated the waiting. I hated the stillness. But I hated myself more for staying still—and hated how well it worked.

Just then, there was a soft, hesitant knock on my door. I immediately pulled my hand away from my stomach, squaring my shoulders as I slid my usual mask back into place. Without turning away from the window, I said, “Come in.” My voice was a calculated blend of cold and smooth.

The door creaked open, and a young maid stepped in, carrying a silver tray. “Forgive me, Mr. King, but these were just delivered. We were told to bring them to you without delay.” Her voice sounded breathless, tinted with a touch of embarrassment. The staff must have found the constant stream of deliveries this past week bizarre, but so far, not a single whisper had reached my ears. They were smart enough to know that gossip was a luxury they couldn't afford in this house.

I turned slowly from the window, looking at the package as if it had personally offended me. “You may leave it on the table.”

I maintained an air of practiced boredom, as if my heart hadn't just spiked in rhythm for no reason. I moved toward the desk, pretending to be absorbed in my sketches, feigning an interest in lines and shadows that I didn't currently possess.

The maid moved quickly, following my command with efficient grace. “Is there anything else you need, Mr. King?”

I didn't look at her again. “Thank you, you may leave.”

She slipped out of the room, and I forced myself to wait a few seconds before approaching the tray. The sun was beginning to set, and the dying amber light flooding the room made the "gift" look like a sacrificial offering. Considering my current situation, it was a disturbingly fitting metaphor.

I took a deep breath and lifted the lid of the ceramic bowl placed in the center of the tray. What I saw inside was enough to catch the air in my throat. It was filled with dark, plump cherries, sitting on a bed of crushed ice. They looked like oversized rubies, glistening with condensation.

My heart did a slow, heavy thud against my ribs, and I dropped the lid back onto the tray with a sharp, metallic clang.

Flashback

“You know, for someone who claims he’s too busy to play, you’re overdoing the whole stalking thing, don't you think?”

I was in the university’s studio. I had no idea what time it was, but the darkness bleeding through the skylights told me I’d surrendered the entire night to the canvas. I’d had a taxing week; I needed to lose myself in something that didn't require words. Usually, my hands drifted toward the clay, but this time, a fresh canvas stood before me. Swirls of deep blue and erratic orange were already claiming the white space. This was my sanctuary—the place I came to retreat, to plan, to gather my strength.

I didn't need to hear the door to know he was there. I felt the air thicken, felt the heavy weight of his gaze before he even made a sound. I didn't turn around; I simply kept working, certain that he would eventually come to me.

First came the footsteps. Heavy, calculated, threatening. Then, the scent—gunpowder, leather, and cedar—wrapped around me like a shroud. His shadow fell over the canvas, cutting through the studio’s artificial light. He stood directly behind me, watching in silence for a few heartbeats.

“This doesn’t look like you, Landon. What’s on your mind?” His voice was just like his footsteps: dense and cutting.

I let out a short chuckle, the sound echoing in the high-ceilinged room. “Oh, because you know me so well, huh? You have a say on what’s 'me' and what’s not now?”

I finally turned my head to look at him. He was watching me with those familiar, dark, lethal eyes. In his leather jacket and black boots, with that dangerous aura radiating off him, he looked completely out of place in my messy, paint-stained studio. Which, of course, was exactly why I liked having him there. He held a crystal bowl in his hand, the red cherries inside looking as though they’d been dipped in blood.

“What’s that? A bargaining chip? How sophisticated of you.”

Jeremy’s eyes darkened, his gaze dropping to the blue smear of paint on my collarbone before traveling up to my mouth. He looked obsessed. Devoured. And a reckless part of me loved every second of it. I leaned back, my messy hands resting on my thighs, completely unbothered by the dirt. “Well? Are you just going to stare, or did you bring those for a reason?”

“I brought them because you’ve been in here for six hours,” Jeremy said. He reached out and placed the small crystal bowl of chilled cherries on my desk, right next to my messy, charcoal-stained erasers. He leaned against the table, his arms crossed, his eyes burning with an intensity that felt like a physical weight on my skin. “You have paint on your cheek,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. “It’s distracting.”

“Then stop looking,” I countered, my eyes dancing with a sharp, jagged light. I leaned toward him, my chin propped on my hand, mocking his seriousness. “So you’re going to feed me? How domestic,” I chuckled. “What’s next? Are you going to tuck me in and read me a bedtime story about the Bratva?”

“I’d rather watch you sleep,” he whispered, his voice so dark it felt like a caress. He leaned in, plucked a cherry from the bowl, and pressed the cold fruit against my lips. “Eat.”

The contrast was dizzying—the ice-cold skin of the cherry, the scorching heat of his fingertips, and the gritty dust of the paint on my skin. I should have pushed him away. I should have spat on his shoes. But the way he was looking at me—with a hunger that felt more like worship than hate—paralyzed me.

Slowly, I parted my lips. I didn't just take the cherry; I made sure my lips brushed against his fingertips, lingering there just long enough to see his jaw tighten. My teeth grazed his skin—a deliberate, sharp contact that made his breath hitch. The sweetness was an explosion, thick and cloying, followed by that sharp, acidic bite.

I chewed slowly, never breaking eye contact. A single drop of juice escaped, trailing down the corner of my lip. I didn't look away as I caught it with my tongue, a slow, provocative swipe. He looked mesmerized, almost predatory.

“Is that enough to keep your temper in check?” I whispered, my breath ghosting over his fingers.

Jeremy’s breath hitched—the only crack in his monolithic composure. His thumb didn't retreat; it reached out and wiped the remaining stain from my lip, his touch surprisingly soft, his eyes burning with a terrifying, protective obsession.

“For now,” he rasped, his thumb lingering on my lower lip as his gaze grew even darker. “But don’t think for a second that this is all I’m going to settle for.”

Present

The memory felt like a physical weight, pressing against my chest until I could barely breathe. For a split second, the coldness of the suite had faded, replaced by the ghost of a hunger I had no business feeling.

So, we’ve come to this, have we? I thought, my jaw tightening. Jeremy wasn't just sending nutrients or vitamins anymore, he had decided to start weaponizing memories. That fucking bastard was reaching into the past to remind me that he hadn't just messed with my present—he had started claiming me long before I ever realized I was being hunted.

I reached out, picking up a single cherry. I held it up between my fingers, examining it as if the fruit held the answer to every question I hadn't dared to ask, and a sudden, violent wave of self-loathing washed over me.

What the hell am I doing?

I dropped the fruit as if it had burned me. It hit the ice with a dull thud, looking pathetic and small. I was Landon King. I wasn't some tragic lead in a romance novel, pining over a bowl of fruit and a man who had tried to dismantle me. I was losing my mind, caught in a web of hormones and shadows, and I hated it. I hated him for thinking a handful of memories could soften the blow of his forced dominance. And I hated myself even more for letting him be right, even for a second.

“No,” I whispered, my voice trembling with a cold, jagged fury. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to haunt me.”

The confusion that had paralyzed me all afternoon didn't just vanish; it hardened into a lethal blade. If Jeremy wanted me in a cage, if he wanted to watch me from the safety of the dark while he managed my life like a project, he was about to learn a very expensive lesson. You don't put Landon King in a corner and expect him not to set the whole room on fire.

I grabbed my phone from the nightstand, my fingers steady despite the adrenaline roaring in my veins. I dialed Brandon. He picked up on the second ring, his voice laced with the usual worry.

"Lan? Is everything okay?"

"The 'flu' is over, Bran," I said, my voice as sharp and clear as a diamond. I stared at my reflection in the window—pale, sharp, and utterly merciless. "I’m done with the silence. I want a dinner organized in the mansion tomorrow night. I want everyone there. The Elites, the Heathens... and Jeremy. Especially Jeremy."

There was a long pause on the other end. Brandon knew that tone. It was the sound of a storm finally breaking.

"What are you up to, Lan?"

"I’m just tired of the shadow play, Bran," I murmured, a slow, predatory smirk touching my lips. "Just make sure the room is full. I want a witness for everything that happens next."

I hung up without waiting for an answer.

I looked back at the bowl of cherries, the red fruit glistening like blood under the dim lights. Jeremy wanted a show? Fine. Tomorrow night, I was going to give him a masterpiece of a disaster.

The following evening, the stage was set, and the players were in place, unaware that the script had already been rewritten in blood.

The Grand Hall of the Elite’s mansion was a monument to old money and quiet threats. Tonight, the long mahogany table was set for ten. Crystal glinted under the chandeliers, and the scent of roasted lamb and expensive wine filled the air—but the atmosphere was anything but festive.

It was a standoff disguised as a dinner.

From my seat at the head of the table, I watched them. Eli and Creighton sat to my left, side by side. Eli was swirling his wine rather than drinking it, clearly sensing the storm on the horizon. Creighton was his usual silent self, his analytical gaze dissecting every detail. We didn't typically use this room for casual dinners, and I could see them trying to solve the mathematical problem I had become.

Next to Creigh, Glyndon was busy throwing worried glances my way. When Brandon called her about the dinner, she had insisted on coming, which gave the 'hound' Killian a reason to be here. Said hound was looking around as if trying to sniff out the source of the tension, knowing something was wrong but unable to pinpoint the scent. I decided to ignore him for now.

To my right sat Brandon, with Nikolai—his ever-present lapdog—glued to his side. With his usual lack of situational awareness and underdeveloped brain, Nikolai was the only one talking, prattling on as if the room weren't a powder keg. I let him continue; it was too early for my move.

Gareth and Vaughn sat together, whispering quietly. And then, there was Jeremy.

He sat at the opposite end of the table in all his dark glory. From the moment I’d entered the room, his eyes hadn't left me for a single second. Every breath, every blink, every micro-movement was being tracked. He knew I had a plan, but he wasn't sure how far I was willing to go.

I didn’t pay him any mind and continued playing with my food. Eventually, the chatter died down, and Nikolai finally hit his limit.

“I have to say, King,” Nikolai said, dropping his fork and leaning over the table. “This feels suspiciously like a funeral. Whose are we celebrating?”

“Well, then.” I set my fork down, picked up my glass, and settled into my chair as if it were a throne. “I feel like I should address the elephant in the room,” I said lightly, lifting my glass but not drinking. “Mostly because it’s starting to bore me.”

The room went cold. Everyone stopped to listen. Glyndon’s eyes were wide with fear; the others were sharp with curiosity. Jeremy was looking at me with a silent “don’t you dare” expression, his arms on the table as he clasped his hands in front of his face, knuckles white from the strain.

I let the silence simmer for a few more seconds, savoring the effect.

“As you know, I’ve been in recovery for the past week. My body grew weak, as doctors called it, requiring constant rest and monitoring. And I must say, our dear mafia heir, Jeremy, was ever so attentive.”

The table went dead silent. Eli leaned forward. Nikolai stopped mid-sip.

“Weren’t you, Jeremy? So concerned that you forgot your place. You thought you built a cage around me. You thought you were protecting a secret that belonged to you.”

“Landon,” Jeremy’s voice was a low, warning growl. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Don’t speak?” I laughed—a light, melodic sound that chilled the room. “You’ve spent the last week treating me like your prized possession. You’ve sent your spies to my door and your vitamins to my table. You’ve claimed ownership over my life, over my body.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Landon?” Killian snapped, his gaze darting to Jeremy.

Jeremy stayed seated, but the chair beneath him moved—barely a millimeter—dragged back with the kind of restraint that meant he was choosing not to break something. His eyes didn’t darken; they ignited. I could see the fury, but beneath it, there was a dark fascination. He wanted to burn me, but he also wanted to watch me glow in the heat. The tension was thick enough to be cut with a blade. Brandon held his breath, his hand gripping Nikolai’s under the table to keep him still.

I turned my attention back to the others. “Well, I suppose it’s time for the truth. I am not ill. I don’t have a persistent flu, and I am certainly not dying.”

I paused, letting the weight of the moment settle before dropping the bomb.

“I am pregnant.”

The silence that followed was absolute. Then, the world exploded.

“What?!” Gareth shouted. “You’ve got to be joking!” Killian roared, slamming his glass down. Nikolai choked on his vodka, his eyes nearly popping out of his head. Eli stood up so fast his chair toppled over. “With his?”

The accusations started flying. Chairs screeched, voices rose in a cacophony of betrayal and rage. Glyndon was trying to hold Eli back as he lunged toward Jeremy, shouting about how he dared to touch me. The Heathens were on their feet, looking at Jeremy with a mixture of shock and newfound wariness.

Jeremy didn't look at Eli. He didn't look at the shouting men. He remained seated, his eyes locked onto mine. He looked like a man who had just watched his god burn down the temple, yet he couldn't look away. There was no anger left in his eyes—only a raw, haunting fascination. I had ruined him, and he had never loved me more.

I didn't give him the satisfaction of a second look.

I turned on my heel, my movements fluid and regal. I walked out of the hall, the shouting fading behind me like a distant storm. I didn't look back at the wreckage. I didn't look back at the man who thought he could own me.

Brandon was waiting in the shadows of the foyer, a single suitcase in his hand and a car running outside. He looked at me with a mixture of terror and admiration.

“Car’s waiting. Wheels up in forty minutes,” he said, his voice low. “Different country. Different name on the manifest.”

I smirked, the adrenaline finally starting to settle into a cold, hard resolve. “You always were my favorite accomplice.”

He dropped the suitcase, stepped forward, and pulled me into a tight embrace. His hand pressed firmly between my shoulders, grounding me to reality for a fleeting second.

“Come back alive, Lan,” he whispered against my hair.

I pulled away, my gaze steady as I met his eyes. “You know I always do.”

I took a final, lingering look toward the Grand Hall—at the muffled roar of the chaos I had ignited and the ghost of the man I was leaving behind in the wreckage. Then, I grabbed the suitcase. I turned my back on the mansion and on the life that had tried to suffocate me.

I stepped out into the biting cold of the night, my steps toward the waiting car firm and determined. The air was sharp, stinging my lungs, but it was the first honest thing I had felt in days. The cage was broken, the secret had been forged into a weapon. And only then—only when I was inside the car, when the mansion’s roar became a muffled storm behind me—did I glance back.

Jeremy had made it to the doorway, yet he didn’t chase or shout. He simply stood there amidst the wreckage I’d left behind, his eyes locked onto mine with a look that had finally shed its fascination, leaving nothing but a raw, devastating fire in its wake.

In that final, silent exchange, I knew he’d figured it out—not where I was going or how I’d planned it, but the only truth that mattered. I was truly gone.

As the car began to move and the mansion’s silhouette started to fade into the darkness of the night, the weight I was carrying finally lifted, and for the first time in a week, I could finally breathe.

Chapter Text

Jeremy

The Elite Mansion was supposed to be the birthplace of luxury, old money, and grandeur. But tonight, it felt like a battlefield waiting to be reclaimed. Silent, still, and utterly broken. The silence wasn’t peaceful; it was a physical weight, pressing against my lungs until every breath felt like inhaling crushed glass.

He was gone.

It had been ten hours since the theater Landon staged and the grand exit that followed. I hadn't slept a wink, let alone stayed in one place for more than five minutes. Airports, docks, private hangars… I’d gone over the passenger lists of every vehicle that left the island at least twenty times, but there wasn't a single trace of him. I was losing my mind and nothing was enough to calm me down. He. was. gone.

Landon was a genius. If he wanted to disappear, he wouldn't have made a move without ensuring I couldn't find him. He knew exactly how to use the doors his last name and legacy opened for him.

However, he had underestimated what I, Jeremy Volkov—the only son of the Bratva’s most ruthless strategist—was capable of. My father had raised me with the knowledge that information was the most powerful weapon. Knowing people’s dirty secrets and dark desires to get what I wanted was as natural as breathing to me. There was no door I wouldn't break, no bridge I wouldn't burn to find him. From London to New York, all the way to Moscow, I was going to use every ounce of power I possessed.

And that was why, at five in the morning, I was climbing the balcony of Landon’s room like a common thief. After Landon set everyone on me and vanished last night, hell had broken out in the dining hall. Eli was furious, Creighton was angry, and Brandon… Brandon hated me with a lethal intensity. I had no doubt they’d slam the door in my face if I even tried to knock, so I hadn't bothered. I needed to be in Landon’s room. I needed to see even the smallest crumb he’d left behind to figure out where he’d gone. My clever devil had dragged me into another one of his goddamn games.

The room still smelled like him.

That was the first thing I noticed when I stepped into Landon’s suite through his balcony. Silk sheets untouched. Curtains half-drawn. The faint trace of that sharp, expensive cologne that always clung to his collars. The air didn’t feel abandoned. It felt paused. As if he had stepped out for a moment and would return any second to mock me for standing in his territory. No signs of panic. No rushed packing. That meant he had planned it.

Of course he had.

My heart, that cold, rusted organ I’d kept locked away for years, gave a sharp, agonizing thud. I moved through the room slowly, methodically, like I was sweeping for explosives. I started with the desk. I needed to find a trace, a scent, a fucking reason why he’d chosen the cold unknown over the gold-plated safety I’d built for him. My hands, usually as steady as a surgeon’s, were trembling. Just a fraction. A micro-betrayal of my own nerves.

I pulled open the top drawer. Sketches. Charcoals. A gold watch he’d discarded as if time no longer mattered. And then, I saw it. A plain white envelope, tucked beneath a heavy leather journal.

My breath hitched. For a second, I allowed myself a moment of weakness. I thought it was a note. A goodbye. A map to where he was hiding. I opened it with fingers that felt numb, my eyes scanning the paper inside. It wasn't a note. It was a grainy, black-and-white image. An ultrasound.

The world stopped. The buzzing in my ears—the constant, frantic noise of plans and strategies—fell dead silent. I stared at the tiny, flickering shadow in the center of the frame. It was a smudge. A speck. A nothingness that meant everything.

My blood. For the first time since I’d learned of the pregnancy, it wasn't a 'condition' to be managed or a 'secret' to be kept. It was a heartbeat. My thumb traced the edge of the glossy paper, my touch so light I was afraid I’d smudge the ink. This was why I’d arranged the specialists. This was why I’d watched his vitals like a hawk.

The image of Landon in that hospital bed—pale, exhausted, but with that unyielding fire still in his eyes—wouldn't leave me. For the past week, every time I closed my eyes, I lived that moment over and over. And every time, I wanted to pick him up and take him somewhere away just so nothing could ever hurt him again.

At first, the food and the vitamins I sent were to show him that he couldn't escape me, that I was always in control. He was carrying my child, and protecting that child was my duty. I couldn't let anything happen to it.

But then, every time I remembered his gaunt, fragile state in the hospital, I realized I wanted to protect him too, not just the baby. He was carrying my life inside him, and I realized that his destruction would be my own; if he fell apart, there wouldn't be enough of me left to keep standing.

So, I decided to stop the fighting. I decided to declare a temporary truce. Whatever this game between us was, I wasn't going to let it harm the baby or break Landon.

A strange, terrifying warmth flooded my chest. It was a terrifyingly soft emotion, something akin to hope. I looked at that little shadow and made a silent vow. I would find him. I would solve this mess. I would tell him that the cage was gone, that I was ready to be the man he needed—not the jailer he feared. I looked at the ultrasound and felt, for one fleeting, delusional minute, that we could fix this. I’d sent him the cherries—a peace offering, a memory of the night in the studio when the air between us was thick with lust instead of hate. A reminder of how good we were when we stopped fighting. I’d sent them to tell him: I remember. I care. We don’t have to fight. I want you to be safe.

"I'll find you," I whispered to the empty room. "I'll make it right."

Just then, my eyes caught the wastebasket under the desk. In the dim light of the room, I couldn't quite make out what was inside, so I narrowed my eyes to look closer. At the sight before me, the warmth in my chest began to curdle into a cold, sinking dread. I leaned over, and my stomach did a violent, sickening flip.

The cherries were there. All of them.

They weren't just thrown away; they were decimated. Deep, dark red juice stained the white liner of the bin like a massacre. He had crushed some of them, the pits scattered like tiny, discarded bones. He hadn't just rejected them; he had desecrated the only olive branch I had ever dared to extend.

The peace I’d felt a moment ago shattered into a thousand jagged pieces. The red juice looked like blood. The blood of the memory I’d tried to evoke. He’d looked at my gesture of care, my attempt at "domesticity," and he’d spat on it. He’d seen the effort I was making to be less of a monster, and he’d used it as a distraction to facilitate his escape.

He’d used my own softness against me. Again.

A low, guttural growl escaped my throat. I felt the familiar, dark tide of my blood rising, drowning that brief spark of hope. The ultrasound in my left hand felt like a weight, while the sight of the ruined fruit in the trash felt like a declaration of war.

You fucking traitor.

He didn't want a father for his child. He didn't want a partner. He wanted a monster.

I reached into the bin, picking up a single, crushed cherry. The juice stained my fingertips, cold and sticky. It was the same color as the juice I’d seen dripping from his lip—the juice I would have died to kiss away—that night in the studio. But there was no sweetness here. Only the metallic tang of betrayal.

"So that’s how it is, Landon?" I rasped, my voice dropping into that lethal, flat tone that made even my father’s men flinch.

I had been ready to bend. I had been ready to change. But as I stared at the trash, I realized that mercy was a luxury I could no longer afford. He had run away with my child while taking my offer of peace and throwing it into the dirt.

I crumpled the ultrasound—just a little, the paper groaning under my grip—before smoothing it out with a hand that was now as steady as a grave. I had decided to stop fighting him, and he had decided to turn it into a fucking performance.

I looked at the empty bed, my eyes turning into shards of black ice. If he wanted a monster, I would give him one. But if he wanted a hunt, I would make sure that he would feel lost in the shadows until I decided to catch him—until he understood that I was the only one who could catch him.

I didn't need to be loved. I just needed him to be mine.

I turned and walked out of the room, not caring about seeing anyone on my way out, the ultrasound tucked into my inner pocket, right against my heart—the only thing I had left to protect, and the only thing I would use to destroy his peace.

This time, I would not chase blindly. I would calculate. And when I move—it will be final.

I hopped on my bike and drove through the morning breeze. By the time I reached the Heathens’ mansion, the adrenaline had soured into a cold, vibrating rage.

Ilya was waiting by the front gates. One look at his face—pale, rigid, and stripped of its usual stoic mask—told me the hunt was no longer my own.

"They're inside," Ilya rasped, stepping aside. He didn't need to specify who 'they' were. There was only one man in the world capable of making a man like Ilya look like he was standing before a firing squad. "In your study. They’ve been waiting for an hour."

"Did you tell them?" I asked, my voice flat.

"I didn't have to," Ilya whispered. "Your father knew the moment he stepped off the jet."

I didn't hesitate. I pushed through the heavy oak doors, my boots echoing like gunshots against the marble floor. I reached my study and paused for a heartbeat, my hand hovering over the handle. I adjusted the ultrasound in my pocket, ensuring it was hidden, then shoved the door open.

The room didn't feel like mine anymore.

Adrian Volkov was standing by the bookshelf, his back to me. He wasn't doing anything—just standing there—but the air in the room felt ionized, thick with the scent of expensive tobacco and the kind of power that didn't need to scream to be heard. My mother, Lia, was sitting in the velvet armchair by the fireplace. Her eyes were red, probably from the lack of sleep or jetlag, her porcelain skin looking translucent in the morning light. My sister, Annika, was sitting right beside her. The moment I walked in, she looked at me with worry in her eyes.

"Mom," I said, my voice cracking slightly. "Dad."

Mom rose instantly, her hands trembling as she reached for me. "Jeremy... oh, my God, Jeremy." She didn't wait for me to move; she collided with me, her arms wrapping around my waist in a desperate, suffocating embrace. She was shaking. "Are you okay? Where were you?”

I looked over her head at my father. He turned around slowly. He didn't look angry—that would have been easier to handle. He looked disappointed. It was the look of a god watching his creation crumble into dust.

"I expected many things when I received the call from the Kings," Dad began, his voice a low, lethal silk, thick with the Russian accent. He walked toward the desk, trailing a finger along the mahogany surface. "I expected a political chess match. A strategic alliance. But I didn’t expect to learn that my son was hiding the fact that I’m going to have a grandchild—and that the other father of this child, the Kings’ precious little psychopath, has vanished into thin air."

"Adrian, please," Mom sobbed, pulling back to look at me, her eyes searching mine. "Is he okay? Do you know where he is? Why… why didn't you tell us?"

“We would have stood by you,” Annika said quietly. “You didn’t have to carry this alone.”

"I thought I could handle it," I rasped, the words tasting like ash. "I wanted to protect him. I wanted to keep it between us."

"Protect him?" My father replied with the voice he usually reserved for his role as The Bratva’s Strategist. He moved with a sudden, predatory speed, stopping inches from my face. The scent of cedar and steel overwhelmed me. "You didn't protect him, Jeremy. I don't know what you did, but you did the exact opposite—you threw him right into the middle of danger. Do you have any idea what would happen if our enemies got wind of this? That boy is alone, God knows where, while he is carrying your child. I thought I raised you better than this.”

Mom let out a choked sound and buried her face in her hands as Annika hugged her to hold her together. The sight of my mom breaking made the fury in my chest double.

"I'll find him," I growled, looking at my father with determination in my eyes. "I won't let anything happen to them. I don't care what it takes. I'll burn every city until I bring him back."

Dad stared at me for a long, agonizing minute. He was looking for the crack in my armor, the moment where I would fold. But he found only the same ruthless obsession that ran through his own veins.

Slowly, the tension in his shoulders shifted. He reached out, his heavy hand landing on the back of my neck, his fingers digging into my skin with a bruising force. It wasn't a caress; it was a claim.

“You will find him,” Dad whispered, his voice dropping into that dark, fatherly register that offered no mercy. “I know you will. But if you make even a single mistake, if you let your pride blind you again..." He leaned in closer, his breath ghosting over my ear. "If so much as a hair on that boy’s head is harmed because of your arrogance, you will answer to me. Not as my son. But as a man who failed the Bratva."

He let go of my neck and turned to my mother, his expression softening just a fraction. "Lenochka, you should get some rest. Our son and I have some work to do."

Mom looked at me one last time, her blue eyes filled with a terrifying mix of love and warning. She reached out, squeezing my hand. "Find him, Jeremy. For the baby. For yourself. Don't let this be the end of you."

Annika pulled me into a brief hug, as if she could anchor something in me that was already breaking loose, before they walked out. As the door closed, the room felt emptier than before. My father turned around and walked toward the conference table with powerful strides, taking his seat at the head.

“Now, malysh,” he said, his gaze fixing on me. “You are going to tell me everything that has happened—and everything you’ve found—from the very beginning.”

Two hours of dissecting my failures under my father’s cold gaze later, we had mapped out every possible route, flagged every private jet Landon could have touched, and started the silent machinery of the Bratva. But the air was still thick with the aftermath of my confession.

My father listened to every word I said, every decision I had made. In his eyes, I could see him trying to understand me, but deep down, he was realizing that his own son had made the same mistakes he once did, and I could see him blaming himself for it. Yet, that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to help me; on the contrary, he had already mobilized every bit of intelligence under his command to assist me.

Suddenly, the silence was shattered by the screech of tires on the gravel driveway and the heavy, rhythmic thud of car doors slamming in unison.

Ilya didn't even knock this time; he burst in, his hand already on his holster. "The Kings are here. They didn’t come to talk, Jeremy. They brought a small army with them."

My father didn't even flinch. He simply adjusted his cufflinks and stood up. "Let them in, Ilya. It’s time we meet the men whose blood we’ve so recklessly entangled with ours."

We met them in the grand foyer, with my mom and Annika joining us. My mother stood beside me, as if she was trying to protect me from the upcoming storm. The double doors swung open with a violence that echoed through the marble hall. Levi King marched in first, looking like a god of vengeance. Behind him was Aiden King, his eyes scanning the room with a lethal, silent precision. And then there was Astrid King, Landon’s mother, accompanied by Brandon. She looked every bit the devastated mother, and with the raw pain she was radiating, she was perhaps even more frightening than Levi King himself.

There was no greeting. No polite nods between the patriarchs. Only a dead, heavy silence as two predators sized each other up for the first time.

"So," Levi began, his voice a low, vibrating growl that shook the air. He didn't look at me; he looked straight at my father. "As if your daughter shooting my nephew wasn't enough, now your son gets my son pregnant—and then drives him so far into the ground he disappears. Tell me, Volkov, what is your family's damn problem with ours?"

I felt Annika tense beside us as my father’s eyes narrowed, his own aura of power rising to meet Levi’s. "Levi King, I presume. If I had known of this situation, we wouldn't be meeting under these circumstances. My son’s choices were his own—as were the consequences. But we are not here to discuss history, but a future that involves both our families."

"A future?" Levi stepped closer, his presence suffocating. "There is no future where your son breathes the same air as Landon ever again. You call yourself a strategist? Then explain the strategy behind letting your son drive my son into the abyss. Explain how Landon ended up in a hospital bed because your son harmed him so much."

My mother stepped forward, her voice a fragile but firm shield. "We learned of this tonight, just as you did. I do not defend Jeremy, but trading insults won't find Landon."

Astrid King slipped from behind her husband, but there was nothing subtle about the storm in her stance. She looked feral, her eyes burned with the same wildfire I’d seen in Landon’s when he was cornered. "My son was terrified, alone, carrying a life he couldn't even tell his own mother about because he was too busy surviving yours.” She snapped. “He ended up in a hospital bed because of your son, and we didn't even know! You can’t treat this like a simple mistake just so you can lessen the guilt!"

Levi turned his lethal gaze to me. He took a step closer, until I could smell the expensive gin and the scent of a man who had nothing left to lose.

"Listen to me, punk," Levi whispered, the threat so heavy it felt like a physical weight on my chest. "I don’t know you, and I don’t care to. The only reason you’re still standing is because you might be the only one who knows the specific shade of hell you put him through. But if anything happens to my son... if he feels a single second of fear because he’s out there alone... I will personally see to it that the Volkov name is erased. I will turn your empire into ash and bury you under it. Do you understand me?"

"I understand," I rasped, refusing to look away. "And I'm the one who's going to find him."

"You?" Levi laughed, a dark, terrifying sound. "You've done enough. Aiden, get the jet ready. We aren't waiting for the fucking mafia to fix their mess."

My father stepped forward, his voice commanding the room one last time. "Our resources combined will find them faster. You may not like us, and I certainly have no love for you, but we have a common goal. My grandchild’s life is at stake."

Levi stared at my father—two kings who had never met, now tied together by a secret they both hated. For a brief second, something unspoken passed between them. It wasn’t trust, and surely not alliance. Recognition. Two men who run empires understanding exactly what it meant to lose control of something that mattered.

Finally, Levi gave a sharp, jagged nod. "Fine. But if I find him first, Volkov... your son will never lay eyes on Landon or that child again. I will make sure of it."

They turned and walked out, the silence they left behind even heavier than their presence. My mother stood by the door, watching them go, her hand over her heart.

I looked at my father, but he didn't look at me. He just stared at the empty doorway. "The Kings are as cold as they say, Jeremy. And you’ve given them a reason to turn that ice into a blade. Find him. Before they do."

Two weeks passed in a blur, as if time itself was mocking me, moving faster than it ever should have.

Days were full of searches, meetings, and leads that went nowhere—only to be replaced by a gnawing uncertainty that ate at me from the inside. I didn’t eat, I didn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the crushed cherries in the trash. I saw the red juice—Landon’s silent, violent scream of rejection—staining everything I touched. 

I spent eighteen hours a day in front of monitors, my eyes bloodshot, watching satellite feeds and bank alerts that never came. My mind was a carousel of 'what ifs'. What if he’s hurt? What if the stress is too much for the baby? What if he’s already halfway across the world, laughing at how easily he broke me?

Then, when night fell and there was nothing left to do but wait, I would go to his studio. I’d sit in the dark, surrounded by the scent of clay and the ghosts of his sculptures. I stared at the empty space where he used to stand, the silence of the room mocking me with every tick of the clock.

My father’s men were scouring the globe, and Levi King’s private army was burning through every contact from London to Macau. Every lead ended in a dead end. Every manifest was a lie. Landon hadn’t just run; he had erased himself with a precision that I almost admired, if it didn't make me want to tear my own throat out. He had been raised by the best; he knew how to disappear because he had spent his whole life hiding parts of himself from the world. Even my father, a man who made a living out of finding people and their secrets, was impressed.

By day eight, the "Strategic Alliance" between the Kings and the Volkovs had turned into a cold war. My father’s resources and the Kings’ connections were clashing in the dark, both sides desperate to be the first to find the ghost of Landon King. But I had something they didn't. I had the obsessive, singular focus of a man who had lost his own soul. I didn't join the loud searches. Instead, I stayed in the shadows, my eyes fixed on the only person Landon still trusted. Brandon. I had my tech team—the best the Bratva could buy—clone his phone the moment he stepped back into the Heathens’ mansion.

Then came day fourteen.

I was in my study, a glass of untouched vodka on the desk, when the software finally chirped. It was a faint, high-pitched sound—the sound of a breach. I held my breath, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard it was painful. Brandon had finally let his guard down for a split second. A single, encrypted burst of data sent to a masked server.

[Incoming Signal Decrypted] [Target: B. King] "Safe. Don't worry."

Three words. That was all. No location. No "I miss you." Just a cold confirmation of life. I stared at the screen until the letters burned into my retinas. He was alive. He was safe. He was talking to Brandon. He was giving him peace, while he left me to rot in this silence. The rage that had been simmering under my skin for two weeks finally boiled over. I swept the vodka glass off the desk, watching it shatter against the wall—a pathetic echo of how I felt inside.

"You can’t hide from me, Landon," I whispered to the screen, my eyes narrowing. "Not anymore.”

I didn't call the Kings. I didn't tell my father. This was no longer about a 'grandchild' or an 'heir.' This was about Landon. My Landon. 

I knew then that I couldn't just hunt him. If I went to him now, he’d see it coming. He’d vanish again, and next time, he wouldn't even message Brandon. I had to change the game. I had shown him my mercy, but he hadn't accepted it. He had torn my good intentions apart. So now, I had to become the shadow he didn't even know was following him.

The next month was an exercise in brutal patience.

I found the location through a trail of breadcrumbs Landon didn't even know he was leaving. A small, offshore account Brandon had accessed. A specific type of medical supply ordered in a quiet coastal town in Southern France. He was living under the name 'Leo'. He was sculpting again. He was eating well. My guards—dressed as locals, invisible as the wind—watched him from a distance. They reported every movement, every meal, every doctor’s visit while I stayed on the island, playing the part of the defeated man. But my private, invisible circle closed in around him.

Day 4: He walked to the beach. He sat for two hours while reading a book. He ate an ice cream. Day 11: He visited a local doctor. He talked with the receptionist for 5 minutes. Everything is stable. Day 26: He sculpted in the morning. He ate steak from a local restaurant. He walked along the beach for 30 minutes. He sat and looked at the sunset and didn't move for an hour.

I was memorizing his new life from thousands of kilometres away. I was the ghost in his machine, the wind at his back while he was hiding from me. I wouldn’t reach out; I wouldn’t fucking beg. But whatever he did, wherever he ate, wherever he drew breath, he would never truly escape me. I was waiting for the perfect moment to remind him that the world he built for himself was nothing but a larger cage I allowed him to inhabit.

Then, the report from yesterday arrived.

"He visited the local market. Spent ten minutes at the fruit stand. He purchased a kilogram of cherries. He ate one while walking back to his house."

The words hit me like a physical blow. Cherries.

I felt my blood rushing through my veins. It was the thrill of a predator seeing his prey finally stumble. He had crushed my peace offering in the trash, yet now, he was buying them for himself. He was craving the taste of the very thing I’d used to try and reach him. It was a sign. A crack in his armor. A micro-betrayal of his own stubbornness. He had grown comfortable; he thought he was safe enough to indulge in a habit I had associated with myself. It was a mistake. Or maybe—it was an invitation.

I didn't wait. I didn't call anyone. I boarded my private jet. The flight was a blur. The drive to the coastal town felt like an eternity. By the time I reached the small, sun-drenched house overlooking the sea, the sun was beginning to set, casting long, bloody shadows over the cobblestone streets.

I didn't feel like a man seeking a truce. I felt like a monster coming home to collect its prize.

I climbed the stairs, my heart thumping a slow, heavy rhythm against the ultrasound still tucked in my pocket. I reached his door. It wasn't locked as if he was waiting for me. I pushed it open slowly. The scent hit me immediately—clay and that sharp, citrus tea. 

And there he was.

Landon was standing by the window, his back to me, silhouetted against the orange sky. He was holding a bowl of cherries. He didn't jump. He didn't turn around right away.

"Finally," Landon said, his voice as calm and cool as the evening breeze. He turned around slowly, popping a cherry into his mouth and looking at me with those piercing blue eyes that held no fear. Only a dark, triumphant spark. "What took you so long? I expected you a month ago."

I stayed by the door, my shadows stretching toward him like a dark stain on his sanctuary.

A month ago. The words echoed in the small room, louder than the crashing waves outside. He had sent that message to Brandon intentionally. He knew. He fucking knew I would track his twin. He knew I would find him here. Every report I’d received, every doctor’s visit I’d tracked—it hadn't been a hunt. It had been an audience.

He was brilliant. A terrifying, beautiful masterpiece of deception. I thought he was hiding from me in this coastal fog, but he had simply changed the terrain of the game, transforming my moves into his own personal gallery.

I looked at the slight curve of his stomach, the way the thin linen shirt draped over the new, fragile weight of my child. My breath hitched. It was more noticeable now—a month and a half of life growing in the midst of our war. Then, I looked back at his face. He looked glowing, untouched by the ruin he’d left behind on the island.

“If you knew I had already found you,” I said quietly, each word sharpened to a blade, vibrating with the weeks of suppressed madness. “why didn’t you run?”

Landon smirked, a drop of red juice staining his lip—the same color as the carnage in the trash weeks ago. “Why would I? I wanted to see how long you would last.”

He was looking at me as if he was examining the final result of one of his own artworks. As his eyes sparkled with his usual Landon mischief, he held the bowl out toward me. The scent of the cherries was overwhelming—sweet, cloying, and smelling like a trap.

"Want one?"

Chapter Text

Landon

The Mediterranean sun, though still early in the morning, was already searing my skin with a sweet, lingering heat. The waves crashing against the shore created a soft, rhythmic melody in the background, a lullaby for my mind as I lay on my lounger with a book balanced against my knees.

The beach was empty—a hidden stretch of coast tourists hadn’t yet managed to ruin. I had chosen this place specifically to be far away from prying eyes and unnecessary chatter. I was savoring the moment, occasionally closing my eyes to let the silence settle in my bones. Everything was peaceful, indulgent, and still. Except for one thing.

“You are staring again, Volkov.” I didn't look up from the paragraph I was supposedly reading. My tone was light, playful, but laced with a subtle edge of warning for the man currently pretending to sunbathe beside me.

“I’m not staring,” he replied. His voice was a low, gravelly vibration, but he didn't even bother with the pretense of looking away.

“At least try to be more convincing,” I murmured, finally lowering the book just enough to catch the glint of his dark eyes behind his sunglasses. “I swear I can feel your eyes burning holes into my skin.”

“I’m just waiting to see what your next move is,” he said with practiced ease. “Believe me, you’re not making it easy.”

I rolled my eyes and finally gave up the act, setting the book aside. “My next move is a nap.” I stretched my legs out, letting the heat soak into my bones, laced my fingers behind my head, and closed my eyes. “If you’re bored, Volkov, you’re free to go terrorize someone else.”

He didn’t answer immediately. That silence alone was suspicious enough to make me crack one eye open. I caught him looking at the subtle curve of my stomach beneath the thin linen shirt, his gaze dark, heavy, unapologetically possessive—the same glint I had grown far too familiar with. After a few seconds, his eyes dragged slowly back to my face.

“I’m exactly where I want to be,” he said at last.

Between the sheer intensity of his stare, the morning sun, and the little devil inside me playing with my hormones as if they were a biology experiment, it took me a few seconds to summon one of my usual retorts. I forced a small, mocking smile to my lips, desperately trying to reclaim my armor. “Careful, Jeremy. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were actually enjoying yourself.”

He tilted his head slightly and narrowed his eyes before responding. “I didn’t come here to enjoy myself, Landon.”

No, I thought, looking at the sharp, lethal line of his jaw. You came here to be my armor.

I watched him as he turned back to the sea, his profile looking like it had been carved from the very cliffs that guarded this cove. He was a monster, a stalker, a man who didn't understand the concept of a boundary. But as the breeze carried the scent of salt and moss between us, I couldn't deny the terrifying stability his presence provided.

"Statistically speaking," I said, my voice dropping to a provocative whisper, "your presence here is a disaster for my peace of mind. But I have to admit, you’re less an eyesore than the local fishermen. The symmetry of your face is… tolerable."

Jeremy let out a dry, jagged sound—a ghost of a laugh. "Tolerable. High praise coming from you."

“Don’t get used to it,” I murmured. “I’m feeling generous today.”

I turned my gaze back to the sea, and for a few long minutes, we simply existed in the quiet. Neither of us knew what to do with this new, fragile dynamic; it was too foreign, too far removed from the sharp edges of our usual battlefield.

“You’re too calm,” he said after a while, his voice slicing through the stillness. “You’re too settled. It makes me wonder what you’re hiding.”

I looked up at him, the sun casting his face into a sharp, lethal silhouette that looked like it belonged on a Roman coin. “Maybe I’m just enjoying the view.”

“Are you?” He turned fully toward me then. His eyes didn't just look; they wandered, tracing every inch of my face with a hunger he barely bothered to conceal. I could feel the heat radiating from him, smelling of salt and that expensive, woodsy scent that always felt like a threat to my sanity. He leaned down, slowly closing the distance between us until the air felt heavy with the weight of him. “Because from where I’m standing, the view is nothing but a beautiful lie.”

I didn’t back down. I couldn’t. “Everything is a lie, Jeremy. We’re just choosing which ones we want to believe for a few days.”

He stared at me for a long beat, his jaw tight enough to snap. He looked like he wanted to reach out—to grab me, to shake the truth out of my lungs, or perhaps just to remind himself that I was actually real and not a hallucination born of the heat. But he didn't. He just straightened and looked back toward the house.

“We should go inside,” he said, his voice returning to that flat, commanding tone I both hated and craved. “The sun is getting too high, and your skin is starting to flush.”

“There he is,” I sighed, letting my head fall back against the lounger. “I was wondering how long it would take for you to start issuing orders. I was almost worried the French air had turned you into a person.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” he muttered, standing up with that fluid, predatory grace that made my heart do a traitorous little skip. “I have to keep you focused on me, don’t I?”

He stood over me, his bare chest and sculpted muscles making him look like a Greek statue come to life in the Mediterranean light. As his shadow blanketed me, blocking out the intrusive glare of the sun, he reached down and extended his hand. I looked at his palm, then back at his face, the silent challenge hanging heavy between us. Normally, I would have snapped something provocative about not needing his assistance, slapped his hand away, and walked off without a second glance. It was my nature. My rebellion.

But this time, the rebellion didn’t come. I reached out, my fingers sliding against his, and allowed him to pull me up.

As he pulled me to my feet, the world tilted for a split second. His touch was electric, like it was burning every bit he touched with an eternal fire. I didn't let go immediately, and neither did he. We stood there in the shifting sand, his shadow still shielding me, until my gaze drifted past his shoulder, up toward the narrow road carved into the cliffs.

The black SUV was parked under the silver-green canopy of the olive trees, exactly where it had been yesterday.

I forced myself to blink, tearing my eyes away from the road before Jeremy could follow my gaze. I pulled my hand away from his, the sudden absence of his heat leaving a cold ache in its wake.

”I want to go to the market,” I said, my voice steady as I turned and began gathering our things, stuffing them into the bag with a sense of urgency I hoped he wouldn't detect. “I need to buy clay for my sculptures, and I’ve decided to cook dinner tonight. I want to test your body’s reaction to certain poisons.”

Jeremy narrowed his eyes, studying me with that clinical intensity, clearly searching for the hidden motive beneath my words.

"It's too hot to be wandering the streets," he finally replied, but he was already moving to take the bags from my hand, his protective instincts overriding his suspicion.

"Then wear a hat, Volkov. I’m going."

At this hour, the market was teeming with the pleasant hum of the locals out for their morning groceries. The air was thick with the scent of freshly baked bread, laughter echoing between the stalls as people leaned in to whisper to one another in that lyrical, effortless French. I had spent over a month in this small town, blending in, pretending to be one of them. But today, with a mafia thug trailing two steps behind me like a dark, looming shadow, I felt like a stranger who had accidentally stumbled into a scene I no longer belonged to.

The gentle breeze from the beach had surrendered to the oppressive midday heat. My linen shirt—perfectly suited for the season yet undeniably elegant—was starting to cling to my skin. I loathed to admit it, but Jeremy was right. The heat was draining the life out of me, every step feeling heavier than the last, as if my body were threatening to give way at any moment.

I had been standing in the shade of a fruit stall, pretending to examine the peaches with an artist’s precision just to gather enough strength for the last five minutes. Finally, I pulled my gaze away from the fruit and turned toward my self-appointed guardian.

He was standing there, a stark, lethal contrast to the colorful vibrancy of the market. His eyes were cold even behind the sunglasses, scanning the crowd as if every grandmother with a basket and every child with a gelato was a high-level threat. It was almost funny to watch.

“You’re scaring the locals, Volkov.” I murmured, leaning slightly against the wooden edge of the stall. “Relax. Tomatoes are not going to declare a war anytime soon.”

Jeremy’s gaze snapped to mine, his expression unreadable behind his dark lenses. “The lemons look suspicious.”

I froze, my mind struggling to process what I had just heard. A few seconds passed in stunned silence before my eyes slowly widened, my mouth parting in genuine shock. “Did you just... make a joke?”

A corner of his mouth twitched upward—the closest thing to a smile in Jeremy’s limited repertoire. “You can’t prove it.” He said nonchalantly before returning to analyzing the crowd.

“Oh, I don’t need to prove it.” I said sweetly. “You’re a terrifying man, Jeremy. But apparently, you’re an even more terrifying comedian.”

I turned back to the stall, my fingers finally settling on a couple of ripe, heavy peaches, but my mind was no longer on the fruit. The air between us had shifted again—less like a battlefield, more like a secret shared in the middle of a crowd.

But then, as I moved to pay the vendor, I saw it again.

Reflected in the small, dusty mirror hanging at the back of the stall was the street behind us. The black SUV was idling near the fountain at the end of the square. It wasn't moving. Just waiting.

My heart did a sharp, painful double-thud. Jeremy was distracted by the exchange of coins with the vendor, his back turned to the street for a fraction of a second. I didn't say anything. I couldn't. Instead, I reached out and did something I hadn't planned on.

I grabbed the hem of Jeremy’s sleeve, pulling him slightly closer.

“Landon?” He looked down at me, his playful mood vanishing instantly, replaced by that sharp, clinical alertness. “What’s wrong? Are you dizzy?”

“No,” I lied, my voice a bit too breathless to be convincing. “I just... I remembered something I need to take care of. Let’s grab some of those suspicious lemons and get out of here. I’m tired.”

Jeremy narrowed his eyes, studying me with a look that made it clear he didn't believe a single word coming out of my mouth. Having stalked me for years, he likely knew my every micro-expression better than I did; lying to him was like trying to hide a flame in a glass box. Yet, perhaps because he truly noticed the exhaustion pulling at my edges, he chose not to push.

He took the bag of peaches from the vendor with one hand and wrapped his other arm firmly around my waist, pulling me flush against his side. The movement took me by surprise. The heat of him was unexpected—a solid, living wall. A shield I was becoming far too reliant on.

“What are you doing?” I murmured, my body instinctively trying to put our customary distance back between us.

“We’re going back,” he commanded, his voice returning to that low, territorial growl. “You look like you’re about to collapse any second, and I don’t trust this crowd. So, for once, stop fighting me. Let me help you so we can get out of here quickly.”

I wanted to argue. I wanted to mock him, to ask him how he dared to touch me with such casual authority. But the gaze of the men in that SUV felt like it was carved into my spine, a cold needle against my skin. For the first time, instead of snapping back, I went quiet. I let the rebellion die in my throat and leaned just a fraction deeper into Jeremy’s side, seeking the shelter only his shadow could provide.

The market was close to the house, and the walk back took only about fifteen minutes. Amidst the crowd and the noise, Jeremy’s hand never left my waist. It was too much—an overwhelming, suffocating proximity—yet it was exactly what kept me grounded.

When we finally reached the villa, we didn’t speak about it. I could tell Jeremy was just as unsettled by this unfamiliar dynamic as I was. Taking a deep breath, I adjusted my mask, reclaiming the distance between us with surgical precision. I moved toward the kitchen with an air of practiced confidence, my posture screaming that nothing had happened, everything was fine, and life was perfectly normal.

“Go and get some rest. I’ll bring you something to drink,” Jeremy said, dropping the bags onto the counter with that habitual, brook-no-argument tone of his.

I acted as if I hadn't heard him, opening the fridge and pulling out a bottle of water. “I’m not sick, Jeremy. I don't need you to babysit me.” The interior of the house was still soft with the midday sun, the distant sound of the waves providing a deceptively soothing backdrop.

“I’m not babysitting, Landon. I’m telling you to rest.” He stopped what he was doing and crossed his arms over his chest, blocking the exit of the kitchen with his sheer mass. “And don’t drink the water that cold. You’ll get sick.”

I took a deep breath, tilting my head back as if searching the ceiling for patience. “Jeremy, if a bottle of cold water is what finally defeats me, I’ll accept my fate with dignity.” I turned my gaze toward him and took a slow, deliberate sip anyway, watching him over the rim of the bottle. “You may stand down.”

Jeremy didn’t move for a long beat. Instead of the cold, lethal retort I expected, a subtle change passed over his face—a softening around the edges of his eyes that made my heart do a traitorous little skip. He let out a breath that sounded more like a sigh than a growl.

“You’re going to be the death of me, Landon,” he murmured, and for once, it didn’t sound like a threat. It sounded like a confession.

He reached out, his hand wrapping around the cold bottle in my hand. He didn’t pull it away, but his fingers covered mine, his warmth seeping into my chilled skin. “Fine. Drink your cold water. But if you’re shivering by dinner, don’t expect me not to say ‘I told you so’.”

He didn't pull back his hand immediately. He stayed there, his thumb tracing a slow, absent-minded circle over my knuckles, his focus shifting from the water to my face. The kitchen was quiet, filled only with the distant hum of the Mediterranean and the heavy, electric stillness between us.

“Go lay down,” he said, his voice dropping into a softer, almost intimate register. “I’ll bring some fruit. We’ll have a proper meal when the sun goes down.”

I looked at him, searching for the monster, but all I found was a man who looked tired of fighting. It was disarming. It was dangerous. Because if he stopped being the villain, I might forget that I was supposed to destroy him.

“I’m making the dinner, Jeremy,” I said, though the bite was gone from my voice. “Don’t forget, I have to test some poisons on you.”

Jeremy actually let out a dry, short sound—a ghost of a laugh that made him look younger, more human. “Don’t worry, I’m looking forward to it,” he replied, his gaze lingering on mine for a second too long. “Now, move. Before I decide to carry you there myself.”

I rolled my eyes, but a small, genuine smile tugged at the corner of my lips as I turned toward the living room. I didn't see him watching me as I walked away, but I felt it. Not as a weight, but as a warmth.

The terrace of the villa was a sanctuary of evening calm, offering a strange peace that felt entirely unearned. The searing heat of the morning had surrendered to a cool, salt-tinged breeze, and the only thing breaking the rhythmic sigh of the waves below was the soft clink of our silverware.

Jeremy Volkov, my sworn enemy, was sitting across from me, in my house, eating the meal I had prepared. He ate with the same terrifying efficiency he applied to everything else, but there was a rare looseness to his shoulders tonight. His black shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest, his hair tousled by the wind, and damn him, he had never looked more handsome. It was a lethal kind of beauty, the kind that made you forget he was a monster until he showed his teeth.

“You’re surprisingly good at this,” Jeremy said, breaking the silence. He gestured to the plate with his fork, his movements fluid and relaxed. “The fish. The atmosphere. Maybe you could even make a living out of it if the art world ever turns its back on you.”

I let out a dry, melodic laugh, leaning back into my chair and swirling the water in my glass. “Don't get too comfortable, Jeremy. I only cooked because I wanted to see if I could actually stomach eating a meal with you without stabbing you with the fork.”

Jeremy took a slow sip of his wine, his dark eyes never leaving mine over the rim of the glass. The candlelight danced in the obsidian depths of his gaze, making it impossible to look away. “And? How are we doing so far?”

I looked at the pristine white lace of the tablecloth, then back at his face, a small, mocking smirk playing on my lips. “There is no blood on the tablecloth,” I murmured. “Consider that a victory.”

“A victory indeed,” he rasped, setting his glass down. He leaned forward, his presence suddenly looming larger, warmer, his shadow stretching across the table until it touched me. “Though I suspect the night is still young, Landon. There’s plenty of time for you to change your mind.”

I felt the air thin between us. For a second, I forgot about the secrets I was keeping, forgot that we were supposed to be at war, forgot about the fact that he was the reason I came here. In this light, he wasn't a Volkov and I wasn't a King. We were just two people caught in a beautiful, dangerous lie.“Don’t worry,” I said lightly, though my voice lacked its usual edge. “I’m not such a terrible host that I’d turn into a murderer before dessert.”

Jeremy’s mouth curved faintly, a look that wasn't quite a smile but felt more intimate than one. “I prefer to stay prepared.”

The candle between us flickered, the flame bending with the breeze as if even it couldn’t decide which direction to lean. The scent of grilled fish and saltwater lingered in the air, warm and deceptively domestic. It was obscene how normal this felt.

I leaned back in my chair again, crossing one leg over the other, forcing a casualness I did not entirely feel. The sea below us stretched into an endless sheet of ink, the moon carving a silver path across its surface like an invitation to a world that didn't demand our blood.

For a dangerous, treacherous second, my mind slipped.

What if we stayed like this?

What if there were no secrets buried between us, no battles we refused to surrender, and no scars we had spent years carving into each other’s skin? What if the war waiting for us back in London didn't exist? What if we were just... this?

What if we stayed like this? Just us, calm, safe… happy? Because the first time in forever, I was happy. I wasn’t pretending, I was truly, undeniably happy. And that realization scared me to death. The thought was so foreign, so violently tender, that it felt like swallowing glass.

I watched him as he reached for his wine again, his fingers long and steady around the stem. He looked almost peaceful. Not relaxed, Jeremy Volkov would never truly relax, but anchored. Present.

Would he stay if I asked him to? 

Would he give up his empire, the endless, inherited war or would he burn the world down and build it again around me? If I asked him to stay, would he become the father this baby needed, or would he only ever be the monster I had used to build a wall around us? The most terrifying part wasn’t that I didn’t know the answer. It was that a small, traitorous part of me wanted to find out.

The breeze shifted, cooler now, brushing against my skin and slipping beneath the collar of my shirt. Instinctively—unconsciously—my hand drifted lower, resting for a fleeting second against the subtle curve of my stomach. The movement wasn’t lost as his gaze dropped to my hand, then slowly rose back to my face. He didn’t ask what I was thinking. He never asked the obvious questions. 

“You’ve been holding your breath since we sat down.” he said quietly.

I gave him a forced smile, meeting his unyielding stare. “I cooked an entire meal,” I replied lightly. “You should be impressed I’m still conscious.”

Jeremy didn’t smile. He leaned forward, the candlelight reflecting in the dark voids of his eyes. “I’m impressed by many things you do, but your ability to lie to yourself isn't one of them.” He reached across the table, his fingers barely grazing the space where my hand had just been. “I want you to be honest, Landon. Even if it’s just for tonight.”

I felt a slow, painful roll in my chest. I looked down, escaping the suffocating weight of his stare, and pulled my hand back to the table. I gripped my glass so tightly my knuckles turned white, the cold crystal the only thing keeping me anchored.

“What do you think,” I asked, my voice lower than I intended, “it would be like?”

Jeremy didn’t move as he replied. “About what?”

I lifted my eyes to his, holding them. “If it wasn’t just you and me arguing over who gets the last word.”

A heavy silence followed, one where the only sound was the distant crash of the waves and the erratic thrum of my own pulse. Jeremy reached out, but he didn't grab my hand. Instead, his fingers brushed against the stem of my glass, his touch nearly electric in the quiet air.

“It would be quiet,” he said finally, his voice so low it was almost a whisper. “It would be a world where I wouldn’t have to check the perimeter every time you walked into a room. A world where I could just... look at you. Without thinking about the consenquenses.”

He leaned in closer, the scent of him—salt, woodsmoke, and something uniquely Jeremy—enveloping me. “Is that what you want, Landon? A life without the noise?”

I looked at him, and for a fleeting second, the image of him holding a child with his eyes and my stubbornness flashed through my mind. It was a beautiful, terrifying hallucination. I want it. I thought. Why do I want it?

“I think I’ve forgotten how to live in the quiet,” I whispered, forcing myself to break the eye contact before I confessed something I couldn't take back.

I stood up abruptly, the legs of my chair scraping against the stone floor with a jarring screech that shattered the moment. “I’m getting tired,” I said, my voice regained its clipped, clinical edge. I didn't look back as I moved toward the glass doors. “Don’t forget to clear the table, Volkov.”

As I turned my back and walked away from the terrace, I felt Jeremy watching me. His gaze was a physical weight on my spine, heavy and unapologetically possessive. He didn't say a word; he simply sat there, a dark pillar of truth in my house of lies.

After a sleepless night, the morning light was unforgiving, reflecting off the white stone of the patio with a brilliance that made my eyes ache. I sat hunched over the workspace, my fingers caked in drying clay. My mind, however, was far from the art. It was drifting toward the small, encrypted device hidden in my room, toward the silent notifications that had pulsed like a warning heartbeat since I woke up. I knew the signs. The air in this paradise was getting thin, the oxygen of our "truce" running out. I had orchestrated this arrival for a reason—a calculated move in a game only I knew the full rules of—but even I could feel the board starting to tilt.

Jeremy was a constant presence in my space. He sat in the shade, a dark silhouette against the vibrant bougainvillea, watching me with that unnerving, silent focus. He didn't ask what I was making, he was simply waiting for the clock to run out.

Growing tired of the game of calm I had been playing since dawn, I took a sharp breath and turned toward him. “If you have something to say, say it. Or are you planning to drown us both in your boredom?”

Jeremy didn't move, he didn't even blink. “You've been at it for three hours. Drink your water first.”

I gave an annoyed huff and turned back to my clay. “I’ll drink when I’m finished.”

"Landon." Just my name. It wasn’t a threat, yet it carried the weight of one. He stood up, the shadow of his massive frame falling over me and my work like a solar eclipse. He didn't wait for a retort, he simply held the glass to my lips.

I looked up at him, the rebellion dying in my throat as I saw the raw, unmasked concern in his gaze. I took a slow sip, my fingers brushing his as I held the glass, and for a second, the quiet he had spoken of last night felt almost within reach. Even after the water was gone and I lowered the glass, Jeremy didn't pull his hand away. His touch was cold, warm, and searing all at once.

“Is everything alright?” I asked, refusing to break eye contact.

"The jet is confirmed for tomorrow morning," Jeremy’s voice was crisp and final. He studied me the way an artist examines his masterpiece, searching for the impact of his words on my face. "We leave at dawn." 

I pulled my hand away from his, instantly sliding my mask back into place. “Good. I was getting bored of eating seafood,” I lied, turning back to the clay to pretend I was busy. But a sudden thought made me pause. I turned my head slightly toward him, a sharp glint in my eyes. “You realize we’ve been side-by-side for a week and haven’t killed each other once, right? We should celebrate before we go.”

Jeremy crooked an eyebrow, his expression skeptical. “Celebrate how?”

I gave a bored, elegant shrug. “I don’t know. I prepared dinner last night, so it’s only fair it’s your turn now.” I turned back to my clay.

Jeremy lingered behind me, the weight of his silence almost as heavy as his presence. “Fine,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling octave. “I can handle dinner tonight.”

He leaned down then, his movement fluid and predatory, until his lips were just inches from my ear. The heat radiating from him was a direct assault on my senses. “But tell me, Landon... aren’t you afraid that tonight, I’ll be the one doing the poisoning?”

My hands stiffened on the clay, the cool earth hardening against my skin as my heart did a traitorous skip. He was close. Too close. He was playing with a fire he didn’t even know existed—a fire fueled by those damn pregnancy hormones that made my skin feel too tight and my pulse too fast.

He wanted to play? Fine. Then we would fucking play.

I took a shallow breath, forcing my composure to return like a blade into its sheath. Jeremy was still waiting, his breath ghosting over my neck. I pulled my hand away from the clay and, in a calculated, deliberate move, I pressed my palm against my stomach.

I turned my head just enough to bridge the gap between us, my lips nearly brushing against the sharp, lethal line of his jaw. I leaned in, letting the scent of him overwhelm me for one reckless second.

“Careful, Jeremy,” I whispered, my voice a provocative lace of honey and ice. “You wouldn’t want to set a bad example... would you?”

I felt him go still. His breath hitched, a microscopic break in his iron control, and for a heartbeat, the power shifted. I didn't wait for a response. I stood up with a bored, elegant grace, leaving the ghost of my touch and the weight of my words hanging in the humid air.

“Seven o'clock, Volkov,” I called over my shoulder as I walked toward the house. “And try not to burn the kitchen. I’d hate for our last night to end in a domestic tragedy.”

The dinner Jeremy had prepared was surprisingly decent—not that I’d ever give him the satisfaction of hearing it. We had moved to the garden afterward, the air heavy with the scent of blooming jasmine and the salt from the distant sea. A soft, amber glow spilled from the villa, but here, under the canopy of the ancient trees, the shadows were our only companions.

I leaned back against the outdoor sofa, my body feeling heavy, a strange warmth spreading through my limbs. It was the hormones, I told myself. They made everything feel more intense—the breeze on my skin, the rhythmic hum of the crickets, and the presence of the man sitting just inches away from me.

In the quiet, Brandon’s messages from weeks ago flickered in my mind like a haunting reel. “He’s losing it, Lan... He’s tearing London apart looking for you... He’s a goddamn monster on a leash that’s about to snap.” I stole a glance at Jeremy. In this light, he didn't look like a monster on a leash. He looked like the anchor I hadn't realized I was searching for. He looked like he was finally breathing.

He was sitting close—closer than he had all week. I could feel the heat radiating from his shoulder, smell the woodsmoke and expensive wine on his skin. When he turned to look at me, his eyes weren't cold. They were dark, cavernous, and filled with a hunger that made my lungs feel too small.

"You're doing it again," he murmured, his voice a low vibration that settled deep in my bones. "Thinking about the end."

"I'm thinking about the beginning," I whispered, my gaze dropping to his lips despite all my efforts. "About the battlefield we'll be returning to tomorrow."

Jeremy didn't look away. He reached out, his hand moving with agonizing slowness until his fingers brushed the hair away from my face. His touch was electric, a searing contrast to the cool night breeze. He tilted my chin up, forcing me to face the raw intensity in his gaze.

"Then let's forget about tomorrow," he rasped.

He leaned in, closing the final inch between us, and kissed me. It wasn't the violent collision I expected. It was slow, deep, and devastatingly intimate. It tasted of red wine and secrets, of a week spent pretending and a lifetime spent wanting. His hands moved to frame my face, his thumbs tracing the line of my jaw with a possessive tenderness that shattered the last of my resolve.

I let out a shaky breath against his lips, my fingers tangling in the front of his shirt, pulling him closer until there was no air left between us. It was a surrender—not to him, but to the terrifying truth that I didn't want him to stop. In the quiet of the garden, with his heartbeat thudding against mine, I felt a dangerous sense of belonging.

But as his lips moved down to the sensitive skin of my neck, the memory of the black SUV and the moves I was hiding flared up like a warning light. I forced myself to pull back, my chest heaving, my mind racing to rebuild the walls I had just let him tear down.

I placed both hands against his chest to put some distance between us. I closed my eyes, taking a jagged breath as I struggled to pull my cold, unshakable mask back over my features. When I finally opened my eyes again, I saw that he was just as breathless as I was, his gaze still fixed on me with that same hunger—if not more.

“This doesn’t change anything, Jeremy,” I said, my voice brittle and thin, as if I were trying to convince myself more than him.

He stayed still for a few seconds, his dark eyes searching mine as if trying to translate a language he no longer understood. Then, his brow furrowed, a flash of something dark and dangerous crossing his face.

“What the hell do you mean, Landon?” he rasped, his hands moving with lightning speed to grip my wrists against his chest. His hold was tight, unyielding—a physical manifestation of the tether he refused to cut. “Everything already changed.”

I tried to pull away, but he only tightened his grip, pulling me back into his space until our foreheads were nearly touching. 

“You can’t show me what it’s like to wake up with you every morning, kiss me like you’re starved while you’re carrying my child, and then tell me nothing has changed.”

I looked at him, feeling as though the air had been sucked out of my lungs. He was right—damn him, he was right—but I knew that the moment we returned to England, the cycle would begin anew. He would return to being the monster trying to cage me, and I would return to the man trying to destroy him. And besides, he still didn't know the real reason I had summoned him here.

I added another layer to the mask on my face, a feat that required far more effort than I was willing to admit. “We go back tomorrow, Jeremy. The holiday was fun, but we both know this isn't our real life.” I fixed my eyes on his. “Tomorrow, you go back to being the precious mafia heir, and I go back to being the enemy you hate. Nothing has changed.”

Jeremy’s eyes darkened, a predatory glint appearing in the obsidian depths. He leaned in until his lips were brushing against mine again, but this time, there was no softness. “Then tell me, Landon... if it doesn’t change anything, if you’re so eager to go back to that war... then why the fuck did you call me here?”

The silence that followed was agonizing. The truth was a physical weight between us, a heavy, suffocating pressure.

“Why, Landon?” he demanded again, his voice dropping to a whisper that felt like a threat. “Give me the truth before we leave this garden. Because once we hit that tarmac, I’m not letting you go again.”

I looked into the eyes of the man who had spent years hunting me, only to become the only person I felt safe with. My wrists were still trapped in his grip, my heart hammering against my ribs like a rhythmic warning.

"I didn't call you," I lied, though the words felt like ash in my mouth. "You found me because you're obsessed, Jeremy. Because you don't know the meaning of 'fuck off'."

Jeremy let out a jagged, bitter laugh that vibrated through my very bones. He didn't let go; instead, he pulled my hands up, pressing my palms flat against his heart.

"You left a trail only I could follow. You sent Brandon that message because you knew I would find out. You wanted me here. You needed me here." He leaned in, his lips brushing my ear, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly soft whisper. "So tell me, Landon. What are you so afraid of that you had to call your favorite monster to your side?"

“I’m not afraid of anything,” I dared, my voice trembling despite my best efforts.

Jeremy stared at me for a long, agonizing beat, his jaw tight enough to snap. He searched my face for the truth, and for a second, I thought he saw it. But he just tightened his grip on my wrists one last time before abruptly letting go.

“Fine,” he said, his voice returning to that cold, clinical edge that chilled me to the bone. “Keep your secrets for now. But you better know this, Landon. Tomorrow, we leave. And when we land on the island, I won’t let you go back to the way it was before.”

He turned and walked toward the villa without looking back, leaving me alone in the dark garden. The scent of jasmine was suddenly suffocating. I stood there, my hands instinctively drifting back to my stomach, watching his shadow disappear into the house.

Chapter Text

Jeremy 

The rhythmic, sharp thrum of the private jet was enough to signal the death of a dream. It was early morning, and while my mind was as dark as the abyss as we returned from France to England, the weather was the opposite—the sunrise was illuminating our surroundings as if it had stepped out of a masterpiece. But I wasn't looking at the sky; I was staring at the masterpiece sitting right in front of me, the one who had made it his mission to ignore my very existence.

Landon was watching the sky through the window and hell, he looked breathtaking. His brown hair had taken on a soft, almost caramel tone in the first light of dawn. His jawline was as sharp as the cliffs of the coves we had left behind. His blue eyes, even when they weren't looking at me, were deep enough to hypnotize. One hand rested on the book in his lap; the other was placed over his stomach in a protective way I was certain he didn't even realize he was doing—guarding our baby. After our argument last night, he had once again put on that aristocratic, cold prince mask I hadn't seen in a week.

He was driving me insane.

I wanted to rip that mask off his face. I wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him, to scream at him not to throw me back outside his walls after everything we had shared this past week. I wanted to roar at him that he couldn't just act like nothing had changed.

Landon was a strategist. Every move, every glance held a hidden meaning. He was an expert at planning everything and playing the game by his own rules. But last week, something had shifted. Last week, finally, he had allowed me to see a fraction of the real Landon beneath all the performance.

That was why this current attitude of his was getting under my skin more than ever.

“Our families will be waiting for us when we land.” I decided to speak, just to pull his attention away from the damn sky and back to me. My voice was loud enough to be heard, yet calm.

He continued to watch the sky, his eyes never straying from the window. I wasn’t even sure if he’d heard me. After a few beats of agonizing silence, he answered without so much as a flinch. 'I know.' His voice was flat, draped in a boredom so clinical it felt like a physical dismissal.

I ground my teeth as a reflex but forced myself to stay composed and tried again. “Your father was furious the last time I saw him. Do you want me to be there when you speak to him?”

Finally, he snapped his gaze from the sky he had been watching like it was the most interesting thing in the world. The calm expression in his eyes was instantly replaced by a look that seemed ready to spit fire. “What the hell does that mean?”

My brows furrowed instinctively. “It doesn’t mean anything. I just wanted to help.”

He watched me with furious eyes, then took a deep breath as he was trying to rein himself in. “I don’t need your help, Volkov.” His voice was sharp, nearly a scolding. “I can fight my own battles.” He turned back to the window, signaling that the conversation was over.

“You don’t have to fight alone, Landon,” I said, my voice barely audible over the roar of the engines.

He didn't turn. He didn't even flinch. “The vacation is over, Jeremy. Act accordingly.”

The rage beginning to simmer beneath my skin was enough to kill anyone else, but for him, it turned into a suffocating, helpless heat. He was doing this on purpose– hiding something, deliberately carving a distance between us to keep me out. I knew that no matter what I did or said right now, I wouldn't be able to shatter his resolve. The truce was dead. It could be felt in the way the air between us had turned brittle, losing the warmth and replacing it with the clinical chill of the altitude.

But no, I was not going to allow things to go back to the way they were. No matter what Landon did, no matter what lies he chose to believe, I was not going to let him slip away again. Not this time. Even if he fought me every step of the way, I would do whatever it took once we landed. And I was going to find out exactly what he was hiding from me.

I forced my gaze away from him, letting the suffocating silence he had built become a physical wall between us. 

The rest of the flight was a masterclass in torture. I stared blindly at the security files on my tablet, not absorbing a single word, my focus entirely consumed by the man treating me like a ghost in his periphery. He didn't spare me a single glance. But I knew him too well. Two hours later, as the jet tilted into its final descent, his flawless facade cracked. Just a fraction. I caught the microscopic, betraying tremor that shuddered through his rigid shoulders. He was wearing his armor, but underneath it, his bones were bracing for the violent collision with the world we were about to step back into.

When the jet finally touched down and the engines cut out, Landon straightened his coat with a slow, deliberate precision, pulling that invisible crown back onto his head. The softness I’d seen in the garden was gone, replaced by cold, sharpened steel.

"Landon," I called out, standing up to follow him.

He paused at the cabin door, his back still turned to me. He took a single, shaky breath before his spine snapped rigidly into place. "Stay back, Jeremy. Let’s play our parts."

The door opened, and Landon was the first to step out, leaving the illusion of France behind him.

I followed him down the stairs, our boots hitting the asphalt like a synchronized drumbeat of war. The biting cold air of the Brighton island slapped us in the face, a harsh welcome, while the confrontations we were about to face watched us with rapt, lethal attention.

On the right stood my parents. Adrian Volkov looked as terrifying as ever, while my mother, with the perfect, upright posture of her former ballet career, looked delicate yet undeniably regal. My father’s men were lined up behind them in a flawless formation fit for the emperor they had taken orders from for years. I met my father's eyes, and he gave me a curt nod—a subtle acknowledgment executed with a mastery no one else could detect.

On the left, Levi King stood like a monolith of fury. Behind him were his guards, and on his face was the same arrogant expression I had grown so accustomed to seeing on Landon, radiating a stance that showed he was ready for war at any second. Beside him stood Brandon and Astrid King. Astrid was trembling with the overwhelming relief of reuniting with her son after more than a month, her eyes shining with unshed tears. The moment Landon took the last step off the stairs and hit the tarmac, she surged forward without a second's hesitation, wrapping her arms around him like a queen finally reunited with her prince.

"Landon," she whispered, her voice thick with tears but anchoring a profound, overwhelming relief. "My beautiful boy."

Landon hugged her back with a genuine, unshielded sincerity I had never seen in him before. "Hello, Mum." He held onto her tightly, and the sight of it clawed at something nameless and raw deep inside my chest.

After a few seconds, Astrid pulled back. Her hands were trembling with emotion, yet they were firm as she cupped Landon's face. "You look well." Her voice had steadied, a restrained, watery smile gracing her lips as she tried to keep her composure.

Landon gave her one of his signature, everything-is-fine smiles, reaching up to gently hold the hand resting against his cheek. "You know I always do."

Finally, Levi King approached his wife and son with heavy, measured steps and Landon shifted his attention to him. Levi stood before Landon with the absolute authority of a patriarch. He placed a heavy hand on his son's shoulder, and even from a distance, I could see the firm, reassuring squeeze he gave him—a silent I am here.

They looked at each other in a way that convinced me they were communicating without a single word. Even the air seemed to hold its breath, watching this silent exchange between father and son. At last, Levi offered his son a rare, grounding smile and pulled him into a crushing embrace. Landon seemed caught off guard by the reaction; his arms hung rigidly at his sides for a few seconds before he finally melted into the hug, wrapping his own arms around his father.

Watching this intimate moment felt like a violation, like I was an intruder trespassing on sacred ground. I ripped my gaze away from them, staring down at the wet asphalt to afford them a few seconds of privacy. When the rhythmic, commanding steps of my own father entered my peripheral vision, I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.

My father took his place beside me and his solid, unyielding presence caused the air on the tarmac to drop another ten degrees, as if that were even possible. His commanding aura was more than enough to draw the immediate attention of the opposing authority. 

Levi King’s posture shifted instantly from a relieved father to a lethal apex predator. Moving with deliberate slowness, he pulled away from the embrace, but instead of stepping back, he positioned himself directly in front of Landon, shielding him as he fixed his threatening, murderous glare on me. Astrid’s watery eyes instantly dried, turning into shards of ice.

"King." My father broke the silence. His voice was calm, utilizing that polished, gentleman-businessman tone I had heard him use since my childhood right before he ruined someone's life.

Levi’s gaze swept over me one last time with absolute loathing before snapping to my father. "We are done here, Volkov." His threatening voice was as sharp as a blade against the freezing air. "Your son will never bother my son again. He won't even come near him. If he does, you can be certain I won't stop until I bring your entire kingdom crashing down on your heads."

Before the echo of the threat could even fade, Landon stepped out from behind his father with his usual, effortless nobility. "It is hardly appropriate for you to make decisions about my life as if I'm not standing right here, Dad." Beneath his mocking tone, there was another cadence—a sharp, calculating edge that told me he was already planning his next move.

He didn't stay put. He began walking toward us, and I could feel my pulse quicken just from the sight of him moving in my direction. However, he didn't come to my side. He stopped right in front of my father.

With defiant, piercing eyes, he looked fearlessly up at the Bratva leader who had ordered the deaths of hundreds. "Adrian Volkov. A pleasure to meet you at last." His voice was steady, even carrying a faint hint that he was actually amused by this deadly theater.

"Landon King,” my father replied. “I've heard a great deal about you," His dark eyes narrowed as he measured the boy standing before him.

“I certainly hope they were inspiring,” Landon said, his tone dripping with a polite, razor-sharp sarcasm. “I find that people only see what they’re capable of understanding. Your son, for instance, has a very limited field of vision."

The jab hit me like a physical blow, but I didn't move. I stood there like a footnote in my own war.

My father’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of genuine interest—perhaps even a dark respect—crossing his features. “Is that why you wanted to punish him?” he asked. “Because he couldn't understand you?”

Landon, perhaps not expecting such a direct interrogation, raised his right eyebrow and studied my father. Acknowledging the sheer weight of the authority standing before him, he decided to indulge the question. “I simply wanted to take a vacation. What happened in my absence is hardly my responsibility.”

“Indeed.” My father’s voice carried an equal measure of dark respect. “But what happens from now on is entirely your responsibility.” He paused, and his dark, calculating gaze dropped to the subtle curve hidden beneath the expensive fabric of Landon’s coat. “You are carrying my grandchild.”

I waited for Landon to snap, to throw insults, or threaten my dad. But he didn’t. His gaze didn't even waver. He looked my father directly in the eye, his spine turning to steel.

"I'm carrying my child," he said, with the same quiet, absolute certainty he always brought to that particular correction. "The genetics are a shared inconvenience. The rest is mine."

The silence that followed was so thick I could hear the rain hitting the hoods of the SUVs. My father considered this, his tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth.

"And if I were to tell you," my father said carefully, his voice dropping to a whisper that felt like a threat to the entire island, "that a Volkov heir is not a matter I intend to remain at a distance from—regardless of the current state of affairs between you and my son?"

Landon let out a short, melodic laugh that sounded like a blade sliding against glass. It was beautiful and incredibly deadly. "Then I would tell you that distance is the only thing keeping this 'affair' from becoming a funeral, Adrian. I’m sure a strategist of your caliber understands the value of a perimeter."

The way he slipped back into the role of the enemy without a second thought to the time we’d shared in France was the final straw that shattered my patience. I took a step forward, unable to stomach the absolute dismissal anymore. "Landon—"

When he shifted his gaze to me, his eyes held a single, chilling command: Don’t. He held my stare for a fraction of a second, then, like a king who had reached the end of the time he deigned to grant his subjects, he turned his back on my father and me.

"Mum, Dad. It's time for us to leave." He walked toward the lead SUV, his hand sliding into his mother’s as if I hadn't spoken at all. "There is nothing left to discuss, and I am exhausted. I want to rest."

He didn't even look back. As if I weren't even there.

The King convoy roared to life, a synchronized growl of engines that signaled the abrupt end of the encounter. I stood on the tarmac, the cold rain finally starting to soak through my coat, watching the red taillights bleed into the grey fog.

I felt my father’s hand land heavily on my shoulder. I expected anger. I expected a vicious lecture on how I had let the Kings walk away with my child.

"He's a remarkable creature," my father murmured, still staring at the empty space where Landon had stood. "Beautiful, arrogant, and entirely too intelligent for his own good.” He let out a long breath. “It’s a pity, Jeremy."

"What’s a pity?" I rasped, my heart feeling like a lead weight in my chest.

"That you've fallen for a boy who is already calculating how to survive your demise," My father said, his grip tightening on my shoulder until it bruised. "Get in the car. We have much to discuss."

The drive back to the mansion was steeped in a suffocating silence, broken only by the low hum of the engine and the light rain tapping against the tinted windows. The grey, dreary sky outside was nothing compared to the violent storm of darkness caving in on my mind.

My mom sat beside me, her delicate hand resting on my knee in a silent, desperate offering of support. She was radiating a quiet sympathy, but her upright posture was rigid with the thick tension filling the car.

My father sat across from us, staring out the window. He was quiet, but even from a distance, I could practically see the lethal gears turning in his head. That alone was enough to send a cold spike of dread through my veins regarding whatever he was about to say. Whatever it was, it was monumental enough to render the ruthless Adrian Volkov this deeply pensive.

When we finally reached the estate, I followed my father straight to the study. I shut the heavy oak door behind me and turned around. The grey light filtering through the windows clashed with the dark, oppressive interior design of the room, creating a suffocating, claustrophobic chill. Today, the room didn't feel like a study. It felt like a battlefield.

My father walked over to the liquor cabinet. With unhurried, deliberate movements, he pulled out a specific bottle of vodka—the exact one he had gifted me for my birthday. Knowing him, I was absolutely certain there was a calculated, hidden message even in that choice. He moved to the crystal display and, without asking, poured us both a heavy glass.

It was barely 10 AM. If we were drinking straight vodka at this hour, whatever he had to tell me was going to be catastrophic.

Fuck.

When he finished pouring the drinks, he carried them over to the two leather armchairs positioned opposite each other in the center of the study. He took his seat and gave a curt nod toward the empty chair. Masking the suffocating dread that was beginning to claw at my insides, I closed the distance with heavy, measured steps and took my place across from him.

My father set one crystal glass in front of himself and slid the other across the low table toward me. “Drink, malysh.”

Before reaching for it, I stared down at the clear liquid as if it held the answers to all the questions tearing through my mind. When I finally wrapped my fingers around the crystal and took the first sip, the sharp, biting burn down my throat felt familiar. Grounding.

My father took a slow sip of his own vodka, skipping the pleasantries. “Tell me what you saw when you were there.”

I lifted my gaze from the glass to meet his dark, unreadable eyes. “He was hiding something. He thought I didn’t notice, but I saw the SUVs.” My voice was flat, steady, as if I were delivering a routine reconnaissance report. “They were all around him. Watching. Tracking his every move. But still, he didn’t say a word to me about it.”

My father watched me, his gaze calculating and sharp enough to flay skin. Then he sighed—a dry, hollow sound completely devoid of warmth. He reached beside him, picking up the thick, black leather folder he had brought over from the desk, and tossed it onto the glass table between us. It landed with a heavy, definitive thud.

"I received this an hour before your jet touched down," my father said, his tone shifting from a stoic patriarch to the lethal head of the Bratva. "Encrypted communication logs recovered from the Alborov servers."

My brows furrowed instinctively. The Alborovs. The Russian splinter faction that had been trying to dismantle our London operations for the past six months. We had been hunting them, but recently, their organization had inexplicably started cannibalizing itself. Safehouses blown up, lieutenants executing each other over supposedly stolen money—we had written it off as a massive stroke of luck, an internal crisis that had bought us time.

"What does a dying faction have to do with Landon?" I asked, though my heart was already hammering a frantic, warning rhythm against my ribs.

"Open it."

I set the crystal glass on the table. My hands were steady, but as I flipped the leather cover open, a sickening chill washed over me.

Surveillance photos. A secluded restaurant near the French marina. Landon, sitting across from a man I instantly recognized as an Alborov lieutenant.

I flipped the page. Decrypted chat logs. IP addresses tracing back to the villa. And at the bottom of the initial agreement, a digital signature I knew intimately.

L.K.

I stared at the dates. Right before he sent that message to Brandon. Then, another one two weeks before I went to France. "He wasn't hiding there, Jeremy," my father’s voice slithered through the cold air, precise and merciless. "He was negotiating with the very people trying to wipe us out."

"No," I whispered, the word slipping out before I could stop it. "He wouldn't. Why would he call me there if he was working with them?"

"Think rationally, Jeremy," my dad said softly, as if trying to soften the blow of the betrayal I was facing. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "He meets with them. He agrees to provide them with intel to weaken us from the inside. And then, suddenly, he calls you to a remote location in France. Why? To pull you out of England. To leave our defenses vulnerable while their operatives moved in." He took a deep, heavy breath. "Or perhaps, to leave you exposed and turn you into a direct target."

The world tilted on its axis. The air in the study evaporated.

"But they didn't attack," I argued, my voice sounding desperate, hollow. "If he gave them what they wanted, if he handed me over... why didn't the Alborovs strike? Why were those SUVs just watching from afar?"

"Because," my father sighed, a dark amusement flickering in his eyes, "the Alborovs imploded. Their leaders turned on each other over missing funds before they could execute the plan. A sudden civil war. A stroke of absolute luck for us."

He leaned back in his chair, his eyes locking onto mine with devastating pity. "The plan failed, Jeremy. The SUVs you saw? They were most likely there to gather more intel, or they were simply waiting for the right moment to strike. But his intent... is right there in black and white."

I looked down at the file.

He played me.

The realization hit me with the force of a bullet tearing through bone. He hadn't called me to France because he wanted me near him. He hadn't surrendered to my touch because he was finally letting his walls down.

Every single move he made was a game.

He called me there to distract me. To pull me away from my stronghold, to weaken me. While I thought I was protecting him, he was the one inviting the enemies in. The softness, the fragile peace we had built... it was all a calculated performance to keep me distracted while our enemies prepared to burn the Volkov empire to the ground.

While I was ready to do whatever it took to keep him safe, he was planning my annihilation.

"He sold you out, Jeremy," my father said, the quiet certainty in his voice suffocating me. "He tried to erase us all."

Erase. That damned word hit me in the face like a physical blow.

He still hasn't given up, I thought, a bitter taste coating my tongue. He still hasn't let go of his grudge. No matter what I do, he still hasn't forgiven me.

My mind, against my will, dragged me back to France, forcing me to relive the counterfeit peace we had built there. It was the third night since my arrival. The coastal air had turned unusually crisp, forcing us indoors. We had lit the fireplace. The room was bathed in nothing but the soft, amber glow of the flames and the pale moonlight spilling through the glass. And yet, even in the dim light, Landon looked utterly breathtaking.

Exhausted from the day, he had rested his head back against the couch, stretching his long legs out onto the coffee table. The hem of his thin sweatshirt had ridden up just slightly, exposing the subtle, newly forming curve of his stomach. It was a sight that had awakened a fierce, unfamiliar tenderness inside me—a profound, terrifying ache I had never known before.

I hadn't been able to stop myself. I had moved closer to him than I had ever dared, until the sides of our thighs pressed together and our shoulders brushed. For a moment, time had ceased to exist.

He didn’t do anything. He didn’t shout. He didn't pull away. Instead, with a quiet exhale, he had tilted his head to the right, resting it gently against my shoulder. We had sat there like that for minutes. I had been so utterly captivated by the weight of him against me, convinced he was finally seeking comfort in my presence.

I squeezed my eyes shut, my chest caving in under the weight of my own delusion.

He hadn't been seeking comfort. He hadn't been resting because he felt safe with me. He was just keeping the guard dog sedated. He had let me sit close, let me look at our unborn child, just to make sure I was completely, hopelessly blind to the war he was orchestrating behind my back.

The pain in my chest, the agonizing, shattering heartbreak of realizing that everything in France had been a lie, lasted for exactly ten seconds.

And then, the heartbreak burned away.

It was replaced by a white-hot, vibrating rage. A madness so pure, so absolute, it felt like perfect clarity. I slowly closed the black folder.

"Where are the remaining Alborovs?" I asked. My voice didn't sound like my own; it dropped into a lethal, deadened octave that made even my father pause.

"Scattered. Hiding in a few remaining safehouses by the docks," he replied, watching me carefully. "Why?"

I didn't answer. I stood up and walked toward the heavy oak doors. Landon wanted to play games with my life? Fine.

I was going to hunt down every last Alborov he had spoken to. I was going to tear the truth out of their throats with my bare hands. And when I was done, when I was covered in the blood of the men he had conspired with, I was going to pay my beautiful, treacherous mastermind a visit.

"Jeremy," my father called out just as my hand touched the brass doorknob. "Don't let your obsession blind you. He is a King."

I looked over my shoulder, my eyes reflecting nothing but a hollow, violent abyss.

"Not anymore," I whispered. "He's just a traitor."

For the next three days, I operated like a machine. I hunted down the goddamn Alborovs—or whoever was left of them—one by one, like a predator. Ilya was by my side. While I slaughtered our enemies like a man who had lost his mind, he ensured everything else ran flawlessly. My father had offered his help when he learned of my plan, but I refused. This was my personal war; I wouldn't find peace until I ended it all with my own two hands.

I was looking for answers. I was looking for someone to tell me what exactly Landon King had planned to do. But all I found were pathetic, greedy men who confirmed my worst nightmare. Yes, the King boy sold you to us. Yes, we were going to strike if our lieutenants hadn't turned on each other. They confirmed every single lie. They confirmed that every touch, every soft breath in France was a transaction.

By the time I stood on the balcony of the King Mansion, the freezing rain washing the Alborov blood from my knuckles, there was nothing left of the man who had worshipped Landon King. There was only a hollow, vibrating hatred.

I forced the glass door open and stepped into his bedroom.

Landon was sitting in a velvet armchair in the corner of the room, reading a book under the solitary glow of a floor lamp. He looked up, his piercing blue eyes landing on me. For a fraction of a second, his gaze dropped to my blood-soaked shirt, and I saw the microscopic tightening of his jaw. But it vanished instantly, replaced by that impenetrable, aristocratic mask.

"I would say welcome, but we both know that would be a lie." He let out an exasperated breath, closing his book and placing it on the small side table next to him. "You look absolutely dreadful."

"I know what you did," I rasped, my voice sounding like broken glass. I closed the distance between us, bringing the metallic stench of rain and fresh blood into his pristine sanctuary. "I know you met with the Alborovs. I saw the logs. I saw your signature."

Landon didn’t flinch. He looked at me with that fucking empty look in his eyes, his expression completely unreadable. Then he stood up, closed the short distance between us, and stopped right in front of me.

"Congratulations? I don't know what you expect me to say," Landon replied, his voice a smooth, infuriating drawl completely devoid of guilt.

The casual, arrogant confirmation severed the last remaining thread of my sanity. Whatever microscopic, pathetic hope I had harbored—the hope that he would deny it, that he would tell me my father had forged the documents—died right there on his expensive carpet.

"You fucking used me," I spat, the words tearing out of my throat like jagged pieces of metal. "You called me to France, let me hold you, let me touch you. You made me live inside a goddamn illusion while you were feeding me to my enemies behind my back."

I took a ragged breath, forcing my eyes shut just to summon the strength for the next words.

"Do you hate me that much? Enough to work with enemies who want me dead? Enough to blind me with your fake intimacy just to leave me defenseless for them to destroy?"

He didn't say a word. He just kept watching me with that infuriating, goddamn calmness. And somehow, that made me even more furious.

"Say something, you fucking traitor!" I finally snapped, the crushing weight of the past few days exploding out of me.My hands flew to my head, pulling at my hair as if to punish myself. "Tell me you didn't plan my death while carrying my child! Tell me you aren't that heartless! Tell me you didn't weaponize my feelings, this goddamn poison I feel for you against me!"

Landon watched me as if he was watching a child throwing a tantrum, then tilted his head slightly to the left. "It seems you've already drawn your own conclusions."

He wasn't denying it. He wasn't telling me I misunderstood. He wasn't even raising his voice.

It took me a few seconds before I found my voice again. "You are nothing but a treacherous snake, Landon." My eyes darted down to his stomach then back to his face. "A sociopath who would use his unborn child as a pawn on a chessboard just to win a game."

Landon’s eyes remained locked on mine, an icy, impenetrable fortress. But something flickered deep in those blue eyes. Something dark and wounded, but it was buried so fast, so flawlessly, I convinced myself I had imagined it.

"Is that all?" he asked quietly.

The three words hit me harder than a bullet to the chest. His chilling, arrogant dismissal was everything I hated.

"Is that all?" I echoed, a hysterical, broken laugh escaping my lips. "Yes. That's fucking all. Because there is nothing left. Whatever sick, twisted illusion we had in France is dead. You are dead to me." I stared into his eyes. "From now on, I will only tolerate your existence for the sake of my child."

Landon held my gaze for a long, agonizing moment. "Then I suggest you leave, Jeremy. You're ruining my carpet."

He turned his back on me, walked back to the armchair as if he hadn't just brought my entire world crashing down around me, settled into the velvet cushions with infuriating grace and resumed reading his book.

I stood there, trembling with a rage so consuming it felt like a physical fire. I stared at him, desperately searching for a goddamn crack. But he just sat there, rigid and motionless as a statue, reading that fucking book. Even his hands weren't shaking.

I stumbled back toward the balcony, the cold wind hitting my face. I gripped the stone railing until my knuckles bruised.

I hate him, I thought, the words a frantic, desperate mantra in my mind. I hate him. I hate him. I repeated it over and over as I disappeared into the rainy night, praying to any god that would listen to make me believe it. Because if I didn't hate him, the pain was going to kill me.