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“For the two of us, home isn’t a place. It is a person. And we are finally home.”
? Stephanie Perkins
Volk
Six hours left.
In just six hours, Igor will be back, and I’ll have to tell him everything: Viktoria’s betrayal, his illegitimate child, and Vlad’s vile revenge.
In six hours, he’ll want to take them all down—Helena, Dasha, Vlad, and Sofiya. But a part of me can’t let Sofiya go down for nothing.
I never cared about innocent people before. Business was just business. But with Sofiya, things are different, and I hate myself for it.
A mere glance from her with those captivating brown, almond-shaped eyes is enough to make me bow at her feet.
So, I decided to let Alexsei whisk her away back to San Francisco.
She’ll be on her own now. Knowing Igor, he’ll try to wipe out anyone connected to Viktoria, and Helena’s first in line. Ever since I locked Helena up in our warehouse, she’s been obedient. She can sleep, eat, and find some peace until all hell breaks loose. I’ve even heard she asks about Sofiya often. And as for Vlad, that son of a bitch is stuck in the basement, securely locked up.
They’re all waiting for Igor’s return. And so am I.
“Is Volk your real name?” Sofiya’s breath caressed my chest as she spoke.
She lay still on top of me, her arms encircling my waist, her head resting against my chest, where she traced little stars with her fingertips. I
seized her hand abruptly, bringing it to my lips and kissing her knuckles one by one, eliciting the most adorable little chuckles from her.
Adorable? Again? I had never used that word before, and yet I’d already used it twice with her. Fuck, she messed up my brain.
“Nyet,” I replied, letting go of her hand and allowing her to continue drawing on my bare skin.
“No?” she repeated, a puzzled expression on her face. “Then what’s your name?”
She sat up, clutching the covers to her chest. The sight of her perky breasts sent blood to my dick, but I pushed the thought aside.
“Wait, let me guess!” she exclaimed, her hand resting on her chin in a playful imitation of Auguste Rodin’s The Thinker.
“Give it a shot,” I encouraged, genuinely curious to see where her imagination would take her this time.
She was like a bouncy rabbit, hopping around with excitement, all fired up for a treat.
“Hmm, David? No, not David. Let me think… Ah, got it! Sergey,” she shouted, a triumphant grin spreading across her face as she settled on the name she thought suited me best.
“Sergey? Seriously? That’s the most cliché Russian name you could think of?” I teased, my hand playfully tracing her neck, soaking in the sound of her laughter.
It was like the cutest little bird chirping on a sunny spring day.
Cutest? Ah, shit!
I rubbed my beard in frustration, trying to shake off the effect she had on me. But her laughter was infectious, and I couldn’t help but join in.
“Yes,” she giggled, playfully attempting to push my hand away. “But wait, I’ve got another one!” She pushed her hair away from her face, her eyes laced with amusement as she nervously nibbled on her nails, eagerly waiting for my response.
“Hit me.”
“Nicholas, like the Tsar!” she quipped with a smirk. “You give off major dictator vibes.”
A playful smirk tugged at the corner of my lips as I silently raised an eyebrow.
