Page 6 of Unleashed

"Of course she isn't," Semyon says with an eye roll and icy glare. "She's got an old lady with her and two guards.”

"Old lady?" It’s illogical, frankly, unless she’s employing the classic tactic of hiding in plain sight, exactly where she’s least expected. Right in the heart of Moscow, within walking distance of Zalivka.

"Are yousurethis is the right person?" I finger the cufflinks in my pocket, my good luck charms. I don’t go anywhere without them.

Semyon's eyes narrow at me as he slowly pushes his glasses further up his nose. Henevermakes mistakes. His precision is perfect in damn near everything he does. My right-hand man, Semyon is calm and pragmatic, a master of calculated methods and, when he executes, foolproof. We're identical when it comesto brute force and fear as an effective tactic, but Semyon is the strategist, always seeing several moves ahead.

“Of course I’m right. Do I make mistakes?”

Arrogant, yeah, but he knows his shit. I give him a sharp look as he scrolls through footage and notes on his phone.

Tall and muscular with sharp, angular features, Semyon’s demeanor is cold but composed. He's protective of our younger siblings, prone to showing his care through actions and not words. The cool technician behind our empire's most successful operations. I know what he's put on the line for our family. I know what I have. I know that both of us prioritize our family's stability above all else, and even though I am the eldest and was technically guardian of the rest, he's always pulled his own weight.

"Remember why we're here," Semyon reminds me, always the foil to my intensity. He checks his watch, a force of habit, before he glances at the specs of our location on his phone. "And remember who’s watching. Tempting as it may be, you can't punish her on the streets of Moscow, Rafail, no matter how badly you want to." His voice drops, and his eyes grow ice-cold. "No matter how much she deserves it. Save that for when you get her back to your house."

I breathe in through my nose, and I know he's right. I didn't get to where I am by being hardheaded and impulsive. That would be Rodion, who is standing behind me now, casually flipping a switchblade open and closed.

"Put that away," I snap. “Jesus.” Always the reckless one, though he’d call it courageous, and always the one to land on his twofucking feet like a cat. But thankfully, he has some respect for me.

I narrow my eyes at him. "Rodion.” He blows out a breath and, with great reluctance, tucks his knife away. He loves his fucking weapons. Some assholes jerk off to pinups or porn, but I swear to fuck, Rodion would stroke one off with his handgun if he could.

"What's your plan?" he says, not bothering to hide a note of jealousy in his tone. "Take her back. Tie her up.” He wriggles his brows. “Punish her before you do dirty things to her?"

My vision blurs as rage thrums through my veins. "She fucked over our family," I say with cold deliberation. "Iwillbring her back. Iwilltie her up. And Iwillpunish her."

“Fuck, stop bragging,” Rodion groans. Kinky bastard.

"And keep in mind she'll be your wife," Semyon says quietly. "It might be in your best interest to keep it…mildlycordial."

"And it might be in my best interest to teach her who is the man of this fucking house," I say with chilling decision.

I’ll show her in vivid detail why no one escapes me. I’ll make her beg for mercy. I’ll strip her of every last defense, every vestige of defiance, until she doesn’t know where pain ends and pleasure begins. She’ll learn her place—beneath me, pleading, desperate, begging. And when I finally claim her, I’ll take my sweet time, every stroke a reminder of the vows she tried to escape.

Semyon holds a hand up, his gaze razor-sharp and focused ahead of us. “There she is,” he murmurs. “Look.”

The air is tense but chilly. Winter comes to Moscow and neighboring cities with a vengeance. I turn toward the icy cold and look for her.

What is she doing here? When my uncle got word that she'd been spotted, we left dinner immediately. My stomach growls with hunger.

Dressed in all black, we hide in the alleyway bordering an empty square. A bird crows overhead, and behind closed doors, someone plays the violin.

Her shadow passes by a first-floor window. I've stared at those pictures in my file so many times she's begun to haunt my dreams. The Siberian princess, she’s called. A delicate, precious jewel that I’m going to break.

Yeah. That’s her.

Originally from Siberia, she's in her early twenties, so a little older than my sister Zoya. Slender and graceful, she has delicate, aristocratic features and a pale, snow-like complexion. Her long, almost white-blonde hair spills down her back like moonlight, and the pictures I've seen show ethereal blue eyes that reveal a deep well of emotion. Just by looking at her picture, you wouldn't think she was the type to run away from someone at the altar. She seems far too clever for such a reckless, desperate move.

I wonder what she thinks about me.

She appears fragile, almost delicate, but I sense a fiery spirit. A fiery spirit I'm going to fucking tame.

And then something nearly miraculous happens. We step back when she steps onto the pavilion alone. No old lady, no guards, just my beautiful, willful bride. She stands and looks out, not even turning in our direction, and then she turns back and faces her room. Her voice carries in the cold, dark night.

"I'm going for a walk," she says quietly. No one objects. The older woman is talking with the guards as she looks from side to side. Maybe it's a stroke of luck, or maybe fate is playing its hand and uniting us, but I watch in surprise as she walks down the staircase alone.

The guards are talking with the lady as she quickly slips out.

She’smine.I haven’t seen her this close before, but now that I am, I note the pale canvas of her skin, her thick, nearly white hair, the delicate bones in her wrists, and the slender breadth of her shoulders. The need to claim her claws at me with inhuman strength.

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