Page 44 of Brutal Monster
The breeze lifts a strand of hair across my face. Vanya reaches up, tucks it behind my ear with unexpected tenderness. His fingers linger at my jaw, tracing the small scar there—my own reminder of survival.
"My father would be proud," I whisper, the words like ash in my mouth.
"And what about you, Inez Bravo?" His eyes hold mine, searching. "Are you proud of what you've built? What you've protected?"
I consider lying, but what's the point? He sees through my masks as easily as I see through his.
"I'm still standing." I straighten my spine, feeling steel replace the doubt. "My people are safe. My empire is almost secure."
His lips curve slightly. Not quite a smile, but something close. "Then tonight, we drink to that. Tomorrow..."
"Tomorrow we prepare for what comes next." The familiar calculation returns to my blood, clearing my head. I raise my glass. "To necessary evils."
Vanya takes the glass from my hand, his fingers brushing mine deliberately. He drinks from the same spot my lips touched, his eyes never leaving mine.
"To survivors," he counters, and hands the glass back.
When I take it, he doesn't let go immediately. For a moment, we're connected by nothing more than crystal and wine and the understanding that passes between predators who recognize their own kind.
The tears have dried on my cheeks. The ocean still roars below. But something has shifted, solidified between us—an alliance forged in blood and survival that feels increasingly like something I can't afford.
Or something I can't live without.
Vanya steps away, returning a moment later with a bottle. Not wine, but vodka—Russian, expensive. The kind meant for savoring, not drowning sorrows.
"Perhaps we need something stronger," he says, producing two crystal tumblers from somewhere inside his suit jacket. The man is always prepared, always three steps ahead. It's infuriating. It's comforting.
I watch as he pours two fingers in each glass, his movements precise. When he hands me one, our fingers brush again, this time lingering. The electricity between us hasn't dimmed since the first day we locked eyes.
"To the future," he says, raising his glass.
I tilt my head, studying him. "That's uncharacteristically optimistic coming from you."
A rare smile touches his lips, transforming his face from dangerous to devastating. "I have reasons to be optimistic lately."
The vodka burns clean going down, nothing like the wine's bitterness. It tastes like snow and fire and something essentially Vanya.
"Our wedding," he continues, voice dropping lower, "will unite more than just us, Inez."
My breath catches. We've discussed the marriage—a strategic alliance on paper, something far more complicated in reality—but hearing Vanya speak of it so directly makes it suddenly, terrifyingly real.
"In three days," I say, the words barely audible over the crash of waves below. "Three days and I become Inez Bravo Zhukov." Testing the name on my tongue feels strange, foreign.
"Does it frighten you?" He watches me with those penetrating eyes that miss nothing.
"The marriage? Or being tied to you?" I counter, deflecting.
He refills our glasses without answering, then sets the bottle on the small table beside us. When he turns back, he's closer than before, close enough that I can smell his cologne mingled with the scent that's uniquely his.
"Both," he finally says.
I look out at the ocean, gathering my thoughts. "I'm not afraid of the commitment. I'm afraid of—" I stop, unsure how to articulate the fear that's been growing since I agreed to this union.
"Of losing yourself," he finishes for me. "Of becoming an extension of me rather than a power in your own right."
The accuracy of his assessment startles me. I meet his gaze, finding unexpected understanding there.
"That will never happen," he says firmly. "I don’t want a docile bride, Inez. I will never allow you to be overshadowed—not by me, not by anyone."
