Page 52 of His Hold

In just a few hours since the incident, the bodies weigh heavier than they usually would. That’s the thing with the dead—they always look at peace, but you know from their eyes it’s bullshit. They go through more than the living. Flesh turns to stone the moment the soul abandons it, and they’re trapped in grim purgatory with other frustrated souls like theirs, clawing for attention from the ones they once knew on earth, fighting to be remembered before they’re forgotten for good.

That’s the thing about bodies—they never lie. Blood seeps through the fabric as I wrap each one carefully, tying knots tight enough to strangle the truth. The acid I’ll use to dissolve them later waits patiently in large plastic barrels I keep in store here, a silent judge ready to erase what remains.

I’ve lost count of how often I’ve done this, but it never feels any cleaner. This dance is old, well-rehearsed, but never clean. The filth clings like guilt, and you can’t wash away either. Not really.

I glance outside. Clouds have drifted away, and the roads glisten clearly beneath fading daylight. I should call my men for help, but waiting means risk, and I’ve already gambled enough.

Katya watches silently, her eyes fixed on the stained wooden floor, carefully avoiding the sight of what I’m doing. Her knuckles whiten as she grips her jacket tighter around herself.

“We need to go,” I say, lifting the last body.

She nods once, sharply, swallowing whatever questions burn her throat. We leave the stench behind, moving swiftly toward my car parked beneath the shadowy pines.

The city swallows us quietly. Streetlights flicker as dusk stretches, buildings rising on either side. Katya shifts uneasily in the passenger seat, eyes scanning familiar streets as we near her apartment.

“Drop me off here,” she says abruptly, voice strained.

“Not tonight.”

She straightens, facing me fully. “What do you mean ‘not tonight’?”

“You’re safer at my place.”

Her jaw tightens. “Is this about Irina? Are you keeping me away because I’m too close to finding out—”

“No,” I interrupt sharply, the words slicing out harsher than intended. “This is about Kirill.”

She pauses, eyes narrowing. “What about him? What aren’t you telling me?” Her voice rises, shaking with frustration and something closer to fear. “You’ve been stringing me along for weeks, Nikolai. Promising answers, giving me nothing. I should’ve known better.”

“Katya—”

“You think I don’t see it?” she snaps, eyes blazing now. “You want me locked away, hidden from the truth. You say you’re helping me, but all you do is keep me further from Irina. Is that what this is about? Keeping me in the dark? Protecting your precious Kirill?”

“This isn’t about him.” My voice drops, hardening. “It’s about you. About keeping you alive. Kirill is dangerous, Katya. More than you realize. And if you keep pushing, you’ll end up like Irina. Or worse.”

Her lips part, eyes widening. The silence between us thickens, charged and unsteady.

“I can’t bear to see you hurt,” I say, the confession slipping out like a wound torn open. “You can think whatever the hell you want about me. But know this—if keeping you away from Kirill means you stay breathing, I’ll do it.”

She stares at me, disbelief mingling with something else. “Why do you care? You shouldn’t care. You’re supposed to be one of them. Just like Kirill. Just like—”

“I’m nothing like him,” I say, the words slicing through her anger. “And I’ll prove it. I’ll bring you answers. Just...stay here. This is where I can keep you safe.”

She doesn’t respond, but the resentment etched into her face is enough. I leave her at the penthouse, my men waiting to escort her upstairs. Katya stiffens immediately, stepping back.

“I can walk on my own,” she snaps.

“Just let them take you upstairs.”

Her eyes narrow, angry heat burning behind them. But she doesn’t argue further, brushing past without another word.

When I arrive at Kirill’s mansion, the guards step aside quickly. Kirill waits in his study, pacing restlessly in front of tall windows overlooking the garden.

“You’re late,” he says, eyes cold. “I expected answers by now.”

“I’ve narrowed it down,” I reply, careful to keep my tone measured. “The attack at the cabin—likely retaliation from our rivals.”

“Likely?” Kirill repeats. “You’re usually certain, Nikolai.”

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