Page 1 of His Contract Queen

1

ALEKSANDR

Ilean back in the high-backed leather chair that dominates the head of the long oak table, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee

This room is my inner sanctum within the Volkov estate just outside Moscow, all dark wood paneling, heavy velvet drapes drawn against the winter night, and the low amber glow of sconces that make every shadow look like it’s bending to my will.

A glass of vodka sits untouched at my right hand, condensation beading on the crystal like sweat on a man’s temple. I don’t lift the drink to my mouth yet. I’m far too busy savoring something much more intoxicating—the knowledge that every man in this city knows exactly whose roof he stands under when walking through my gates.

Power isn’t loud with me.

It never has been.

It simply settles into my bones the moment I enter a room.

Six-one, two-twenty, black hair threaded with silver at the temples that only makes the rest of it look darker, eyes the color of deep water, almost black when the light hits them at certain angles. Today, my suit is dark charcoal, tailored impeccably to feel like a second skin. The collar is unbuttoned just enough to show the hollow of my throat and the edge of the ink that climbs up from my chest.

Fear and respect trail behind me like loyal hounds that I’ve learned how to keep well-fed.

I smile when I want to disarm, I laugh when I want to confuse—a sharp remark here, a lazy insult there, all of it just enough to remind everyone that I’m enjoying myself, no matter the situation. Men expect monsters to snarl and rage, but I give them charm instead, let arrogance do the heavy lifting for me.

It unsettles them far more than brute force ever could.

As Pakhan of the Volkov Bratva, that title carries enough on its own, but it’s the way I wear it that matters—with a confidence so effortless, it borders on insulting. I want them to wonder if I’m amused or bored, if they’re entertaining me well or if they’re already dead and just don’t know it yet.

Power, to me, isn’t something to clutch onto with white knuckles. It’s something you savor, roll around on your tongue, and taste until it dissolves into nothing. Control is sweetest when everyone else is tense and calculating, and I’m simply enjoying the game.

It’s one I always win.

Ramil Borchin is the kind of man who is the exact opposite.

He sits across from me the way men like him always do, with a rigid spine, chin lifted just a fraction too high, hands carefully folded as if his posture alone might convince the people in this room that he’s the one still in control. He wears authority like a costume, tailored and rehearsed with each movement meant to project competence.

But his eyes give him away.

They always do.

They flick around the room just enough to betray the panic gnawing at him from the inside. He doesn’t look at me directly for long. He looks at the door, the walls, anywhere his mind can run to avoid the reality settling in front of him.

I’ve seen this performance countless times.

Before the begging starts and the hollow bargaining where men like him swear they will uphold their end of deal, that they simply need just a little bit more time to follow through. It’s the illusion of bravado, the belief that if they hold themselves just right and speak just carefully enough, the monster across from them might be negotiated with.

They come into rooms like this one armed with assumptions and a comforting belief that we snarl and rage and announce ourselves with violence before anyone has time to breathe. Men like Ramil survive as long as they have because they build their defenses around that misconception.

They think if they remain calm enough, dignified enough,respectfulenough, they can manage someone like me. It is a lesson I have had to teach many that monsters like me are never what people expect.

They’re wrong.

I didn’t get to the position I’m in simply by being walked over.

“I see you’re finally well enough for our meeting.” I finally say.

Ramil’s lips press into a thin line, the corners tightening just enough to betray his irritation for being called out so blatantly.

We both know his so-called “illnesses”are nothing more than a convenient lie to get me off his back for a while. He’s been dodging my calls for weeks, hiding behind supposed frailty and scheduled obligations he’s believed so far have placed him beyond my reach.

Under any other circumstance, I would never allow that kind of disrespect. When I call, people answer. They understand there is no negotiating their way out of a meeting with me when I call for it.