Page 44 of Santa Daddy
The front door opened behind me with a soft, decisive hiss.
I spun around, clutching my bleeding hand to my chest.
Konstantin stepped inside like he’d just returned from a quick coffee run instead of whatever Bratva-king errands he actually did. Snow dusted the shoulders of his dark coat, melting as the warmth of the apartment wrapped around him. He shrugged the coat off, handed it to no one, and his eyes landed on me.
On the blood dotting the marble. On the paperweight by my feet.
His expression shifted from bland indifference to something razor-sharp.
“What did you do?” he asked.
His voice was quiet. Too quiet. Steel underneath.
What did I do?
“I tried to escape your five-star prison, you psychopath,” I snapped, holding up my bloody knuckles like exhibit A. “Turns out your windows are harder to break than my spirit. Who would’ve thought?”
He moved toward me.
That same lethal grace. No wasted motion. Just decision made, executed.
“Let me see,” he said.
“Don’t.” I backed up until glass kissed my spine again. “Don’t touch me. Don’t play medic. Don’t pretend you give a shit about anything other than your precious leverage.”
Stay away.
I couldn’t think when he was close. Couldn’t remember who I’d been before his world rewired my circuits.
He kept coming anyway. Of course he did. The man probably didn’t understand the word no unless it came with artillery.
When he reached for my hand again, rage eclipsed my better judgment.
I grabbed the nearest object—an art-deco lamp that had probably never done anything to anyone—and hurled it at his head.
He ducked like he’d expected it, the lamp sailing over his shoulder. It shattered against the wall in an explosion of crystal and lightbulb, shards skittering across the marble in a cascade of tiny, glittering knives.
It was beautiful. Violent. Satisfying.
For one stupid second I felt better.
At least something in this place could break.
When he straightened, he was smiling.
Not the cold, carved thing I was used to. Something almost amused. Almost human.
“Did you miss me?” he asked, as if I hadn’t just tried to decorate his skull.
“Not even close to as much as I miss having my freedom, my phone, and my basic human rights,” I shot back. “I didn’t miss you. I was too busy plotting your murder.”
His smile deepened.
Wrong reaction, Zverev.
He stepped closer, shoes crunching over crystal. I realized too late I’d backed myself into another corner, wall behind me, shards in front of me, six-plus feet of Russian problem in front of that.
This was it. This was where he finally snapped and showed me exactly what happened to prisoners.
