Page 95 of Imperfect Desires

Almost.

The moment he says it, he moves. I don’t even have time to brace before his fist collides with my jaw. My head whips to the side, pain exploding across my cheekbone. The world tilts for a second, but I stay upright, breathing through the sting as the metallic taste of blood floods my mouth.

Zasha straightens like he’s about to intervene, but I lift a hand without looking at him.

“Don’t,” I rasp.

This isn’t a fight; it's a reckoning. Viktor’s eyes remain fixed on me, fury barely restrained behind them. He doesn’t allow me a moment to recover.

The second punch strikes my gut, delivering enough force to knock the wind out of me. I bend slightly, gripping the edge of the table with one hand, coughing once before I rise again.

“That one,” Viktor grits out, “is for getting her pregnant out of wedlock. Like some damned street urchin.”

I breathe in slowly and steadily. My ribs ache, but I keep my mouth shut. There’s no defense for what I did; there’s only the truth. And I’ll take every blow because I deserve them.

The third punch comes fast and brutal, straight to my temple. My vision flares white for a second, and this time I do stumble. The floor tilts beneath my boots, and I land hard against the table’s edge before catching myself again.

I wipe the blood from my lip with the back of my hand, then look at him. He’s breathing hard, rage still burning in every line of his body. However, his fists have dropped to his sides.

“That,” he says in a low voice, sharp like a knife cutting through frost, “was for disappearing. For running. For leaving her to suffer alone.”

I don’t argue; I simply nod once, wiping more blood from my mouth.

“I know.”

Silence follows. Sharp. Unforgiving.

But I don’t move.

I’ll accept whatever he needs to offer because what I did shattered something sacred. This is the only way we can begin to piece it back together.

Viktor’s fists are still clenched at his sides, his knuckles pale. His chest rises and falls with the kind of restraint that comes after holding back a second storm.

I don’t flinch. I don’t speak. I just watch him. Blood drips from the corner of my mouth onto the floor, and all I feel is the weight of what I owe him for how I failed Alina. For walking away when I should have stood my ground. He takes a step toward me, his gaze as cold as a blade.

“You’d better take care of her.”

The words land heavier than the punches. They’re not a warning; they’re an order: a threat, a vow. I meet them head-on. I rise to my full height, every inch of me made of steel and the oath I’ve already taken in my heart.

“I will,” I say, my voice low, calm, and absolute, “For anything to get to Alina, it’ll have to go through me.”

It’s not a boast. Not a line. But a fact.

Zasha shifts slightly beside the counter, tension radiating from him like heat. He watches us both, waiting for either of us to move—prepared to intervene if blood spills again.

But it doesn’t. Not this time. Viktor holds my gaze for another second. Then another. And finally… he nods. I take a deep breath, knowing he has passed his verdict. He turns and walks out of the room, footsteps heavy yet steady, leaving behind a silence so thick it presses against my chest.

I don’t relax. Not yet. Because that wasn’t forgiveness, that was permission. A line in the sand has been drawn not with anger but with trust—the fragile kind, the kind that can’t be broken twice.

Zasha exhales and mutters, “Well, that could’ve gone worse.”

I don’t answer. I just reach for the cold coffee and finally take a sip. It’s bitter. But I’ve tasted worse.

Later that morning, we gathered in the Bratva’s planning room—a space designed for war, not comfort.

It’s nothing like the rest of the safehouse. The air here feels colder- harsher. The walls are lined with steel shelves and blacked-out monitors. The table is long and dark, made from oak polished to a shine, but its surface is scarred by the weight of a thousand decisions. Power hums in the silence. Plans havebeen made here. Empires have shifted. Blood has been spilled because of what was said across this wood.

I take a seat on the right, and Zasha takes the seat next to me. Viktor stands at the head of the table. He doesn’t sit. He never does when he’s about to make something bleed. He pulls a photo from a folder and tosses it across the table. The edges curl slightly as it slides.

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