Page 42 of Crimson Sin
The words are spoken with what appears to be genuine concern, but they feel rehearsed somehow, like lines delivered by anactress who's performed the same scene too many times. My gaze narrows slightly, though I try to keep my expression polite. I'm still learning the rules of this world and figuring out how to navigate the complex web of relationships and power dynamics that govern every interaction.
“That's… thoughtful.”
Her smile deepens, just a touch, and for a moment, I see a twinkle of amusement dancing in her eyes. “We all serve the Bratva in our own way, Naomi. Sometimes that means comforting those who carry our burdens, even if they don't realize it yet.”
There's something ominous about the way she phrases it, as if I'm already carrying burdens I'm not aware of, and my role in this organization extends far beyond what I've been told. She tilts her head, studying me with the intensity of a scientist examining a specimen.
“Rest well. I'll see myself out.”
With that, she turns and walks away, leaving me rooted in place, my mouth slightly ajar. The encounter feels significant in ways I don't understand and loaded with subtext I'm not equipped to decode. In Daniil’s world, nothing is ever simple and even acts of kindness might be weapons in disguise.
Inside the room, the air smells faintly of lavender. The scent hits me as soon as I step across the threshold, floral and soothing. Sure enough, a small navy box sits on the nightstand, tied neatly with a silver ribbon. The presentation is flawless, but it feels like a violation, nonetheless. I approach it slowly, hyperaware of each breath I take and the soft whisper of cloth shifting with my movements.
I open it and find the items just as she described, a tiny bottle of essential oil and a silky eye mask in a deep smoky gray. They're beautiful. The kind of luxury items I would have admired in a store window but never purchased for myself, as they seemed too impractical to justify spending money on such indulgences.
And somehow, it feels all wrong. Irina doesn't strike me as the type to believe in aromatherapy. She's too much of a pragmatist to put stock in something as ephemeral as scent therapy. Unless they serve another purpose entirely.
I shake my head and tell myself to stop being paranoid. I move into the bathroom, seeking the familiar comfort of my evening routine. The marble surfaces gleam under soft LED lighting, and the shower beckons with promises of hot water and temporary solitude. But first, I need to find my lip balm, something small and normal to ground me in reality.
I rummage through my toiletries bag, fingers finding the familiar shapes of everyday items. Floss. Cotton swabs. Compact mirror. The mundane objects of a life that feels increasingly distant from who I'm becoming. Each item is a small anchor to the woman I used to be, before armed guards became part of my daily existence. And then my fingers close around the familiar plastic of my birth control pack.
I pull it out slowly, grateful for the routine of it, the one small act of control in a life that currently feels completely beyond my influence. Taking these pills every night is one of the few choices that remains entirely mine, a tiny rebellion against the forces that seem determined to reshape every aspect of my existence. Yet something's… off.
The pills have always been the same. Pale pink. Smooth. Stamped with a tiny, uniform imprint that I've seen thousands oftimes. But a few of them in the second row look slightly different. The color is duller, as if it's been exposed to other conditions or manufactured by different hands. The imprint is barely there, like it was rubbed down or never pressed fully to begin with.
I run my thumb across the row, my brow furrowing in concentration. The pack is still sealed, and the foil backing is unbroken. Yet those few pills seem just a touch off. A whisper of suspicion slithers through my mind.
No, it's just stress. My brain is reading too much into things, finding patterns where none exist, because I'm living in a constant state of hypervigilance. Maybe the manufacturer changed something. Maybe I just never noticed before because I wasn't looking so closely and questioning every detail of my existence. It's easy to spiral when you live under twenty-four-hour surveillance, and every interaction might hide multiple layers of meaning.
I press tonight’s pill from the pack, return it to the travel bag, and let my gaze drift to the nightstand again. The silk mask. The lavender oil. Maybe Irina was only trying to be nice. Stranger things have happened.
After finding my lip balm, I walk to the nightstand, slip the ribbon free from the box, and lift the mask, pressing it lightly against my face for a moment. The fabric is luxurious against my skin, smooth, cool, and perfectly crafted. I focus on breathing slowly and steadily. It smells faintly of lavender and new fabric.
The scent is subtle but pervasive, designed to soothe and relax. And maybe it really is just a thoughtful gift from someone who understands the strain I'm under and wants to help in the only way she knows how. But even as I try to convince myself, a shredof doubt remains, gnawing at the edges of my consciousness like a persistent ache.
I set the mask aside and reach for the oil, uncapping it and dabbing a few drops onto my wrist. The scent unfurls gently, floral, sweet, familiar. Despite my reservations, I can't deny that it's pleasant, soothing in the way that good aromatherapy should be. The tension in my shoulders begins to recede, my nerves dulling as the fragrance works its subtle magic.
I crawl into bed and pull the blanket up to my chin, grateful for the softness of Egyptian cotton sheets. The mattress is perfect, of course, designed for optimal comfort and support. Everything in this house is the best money can buy, calibrated for luxury and ease. But something just doesn’t feel right. Paranoia is nibbling its way through my mind. Yet, exhaustion is winning the battle against paranoia, pulling me down into depths where conscious thought becomes impossible. I close my eyes, willing my thoughts to still.
14
DANIIL
The Lake Forest estate is silent, but silence here never feels safe. Security systems hum their electronic lullabies, cameras sweep the grounds in methodical arcs, and my enforcers pace the perimeter. It’s a fortress, but fortresses fall. History teaches us that walls crumble, defenses collapse, and even the mightiest strongholds become graveyards for those who trusted stone and steel.
In my mind, I still see my family’s estate window exploding, glass shards scattering like sparks in the dying light, a bullet slicing past Naomi by mere inches. The memory plays on an endless loop, each detail burned into my consciousness with perfect clarity. I remember throwing myself over her, my body moving before my mind could process the danger, forcing her to the floor as gunfire cracked through the air like thunder. The thought gnaws at me relentlessly. If I'd been a heartbeat slower, if my reflexes had failed me for even a fraction of a second, she would already be gone. Another ghost to haunt my dreams.
I should send her away. Get her as far away from me as possible. Find some remote location where Viktor's reach cannot extend,where his poison cannot touch her. But I don't want to. Not now, not ever. The very idea of her absence creates a hollow ache in my chest.
Sasha's ghost lingers in the corner of my mind, persistent as smoke. Her laugh, bright and musical, echoes through rooms that now hold only silence. Her eyes were full of life and mischief. Losing her nearly destroyed me, shattering something fundamental inside that I thought could never heal. Losing Naomi would finish me. Complete the destruction that began years ago.
The office smells faintly of smoke and leather, familiar scents that usually bring comfort but tonight feel suffocating. I sit behind the massive Carrara marble desk, waiting in the amber glow of the desk lamp, the ice in my glass melting untouched. The whiskey grows warm, forgotten as my thoughts spiral through dark possibilities. The knock comes exactly when expected, firm and steady. Lex's timing is always impeccable.
“Enter.”
He steps inside, his posture crisp and military-straight, voice clipped as always. Years of service in Russia have honed him into the perfect soldier, loyal beyond question, efficient beyond reproach. “Perimeter is secure. Patrols doubled. No breaches detected.”
I nod once, my eyes narrowing as I study his face for any subtle sign of concern he might be hiding. “And Viktor?”
