VIKTOR
He dropped like a ragdoll the moment my knuckles kissed the side of his head.
I caught him before he hit the ground, one arm slipping under his knees, the other cradling his back. Up close, he looked nothing like the photo Jarek had slid across the table.
This version of Kairen Alexei Kurov-Shin was flushed, sweat-slicked, pupils still wide from whatever he'd smoked or snorted. His lips were parted like he'd been in the middle of saying something smart, probably another curse meant for me. I preferred him quiet.
He was lighter than expected. Smaller, too. I'd trained with assault dummies heavier than him. I hauled him over my shoulder without effort, and he hung there limp, arms dangling, like he belonged there.
Footsteps skidded behind me—his little entourage of black suits finally catching up, panting and red-faced.
"Jesus," one of them muttered, stopping a few feet from me, clearly unsure if I was about to turn on them too. "He's… uh. He's been getting real good at slipping away. It's good he's knocked out."
I didn't answer. Just adjusted his weight slightly and walked towards the parked number of cars with a van, ignoring the way strands of his damp hair stuck to my arm. He smelled like smoke and sweat and a hint of overpriced cologne that couldn't mask the drugs laced under his skin.
Another man opened the van door without a word.
I stepped in first, Kairen still over my shoulder, and laid him carefully across the bench seat like a package. His mouth twitched, and for a second I thought he might stir. But no—out cold. Good.
The door slammed shut behind us. The engine roared to life.
As we pulled away, I leaned my head back, eyes half-lidded, watching the boy through the low light of the van. The golden son, they'd called him. All I saw was a mess of bruises, too much eyeliner, and the weightless kind of chaos that came before a fall.
He didn't look like power. He looked like trouble.
The plane hummed low and steady, just like always. I preferred the noise—it filled the empty spaces in my head.
He was still out when we boarded, arms and legs bound tight to the seat across from mine. First class cabin. Plush leather seats, warm lighting, champagne chilling beside the window. Wasted on him.
His head rolled slightly to the side, cheek pressed against his shoulder. There was a smear of something red near his temple—lipstick, maybe. I didn't wipe it off.
The plane began to taxi, and right on cue, his fingers twitched.
Then his eyes flew open.
For a second he looked confused—still foggy from the hit and whatever chemicals he'd swallowed. Then realization struck. He thrashed instantly, tugging at the restraints, eyes blazing.
"The fuck is this?!" he shouted, voice hoarse and cracking. "Untie me, you bastards!"
I stayed seated across from him, legs stretched out, watching the scene unfold like I was at a theater. He didn't even notice me at first. Too busy yanking on the ropes and yelling empty threats.
When he finally saw me, something flickered across his face. Recognition. Rage.
"You!" he spat, teeth bared. "You fucking psycho—what the hell did you hit me with?!"
I stood, slowly. Strolled over, letting the engines vibrate through my boots. He glared at me like I'd murdered his puppy.
"No hard feelings," I said, deadpan. "Just doing my job."
"Fuck your job!" he snapped. "You think you can just—"
"Shut up," I muttered.
He kept going.
I didn't even look at the guard sitting at the front of the cabin—just slightly tilted my head. The man rose immediately and left the room. Kairen noticed that.
His eyes darted back to me as I stood up and sat down in the seat opposite him, elbows on my knees, and studied him properly this time.
He was smaller up close. Narrow shoulders. Collarbone sharp beneath his loose t-shirt. His wrists were bruised from the bindings already. His hair was a mess, dyed dark blue at the root, matted in places. But those eyes—amber and hot—blazed like he was still high on adrenaline.
"What's your name?" he finally growled.
"Viktor."
He sneered. "Well, Viktor, you're getting fired the second I speak to my father. You're dead, you hear me?"
I gave him a dry smile. "I don't work for you. I work for Dimitri."
That shut him up. For a second. He scoffed. "Figures. He's always hiring lunatics."
I leaned back, arms folded. "Well too bad he hired the right one this time."
The boy squirmed, still fuming, chest rising and falling like he was ready to scream again. But he didn't. Not yet.
This was gonna be a long flight.
And honestly?
I wasn't bored yet.
He asked to use the bathroom about twenty minutes into the flight.
More like demanded. Said it like I owed him something, like he was royalty and I was the chauffeur who forgot to open his door.
"You can't seriously expect me to sit here and piss myself," he snapped, eyes locked on mine. "Or maybe you do. Maybe you're into that sort of thing."
I raised a brow.
"Do I look like I'm into that?"
He smiled, all teeth. "Wouldn't surprise me. Bet you get off watching guys piss."
That one almost made me laugh. Almost.
I sighed and stood up. The guard hadn't returned yet—I hadn't needed him. Kairen looked like he wanted to bite, but he'd break a tooth on me.
"I'll untie you," I said, "but try anything, and I'll break your kneecaps before you blink."
"Well Isn't that romantic?" he muttered.
I let the rope drop. He rubbed his wrists dramatically, stood up fast, stretched like a damn cat. His shirt slid up, revealing the sharp lines of his stomach. He caught me looking and smirked.
"What," he said, sauntering toward the bathroom, "you gonna follow me in and hold it for me too?"
"I'm not into that," I replied flatly, following close behind. "But I don't trust you."
He snorted. "That what? I'm gonna jump from the plane? Idiot."
He went in and slammed the door. I waited just outside, leaning against the wall.
Inside, he kept muttering to himself. Probably cursing me out. I heard the trickle, then the flush, then nothing.
"Done pouting?" I called.
"Go choke on a dick you piece of shit," he snapped back.
I smiled.
When he came out, his eyes landed on the seat across from his—his bag had been placed there. His jaw tightened.
"My bag," he said, slowly. "You went through it?"
"Standard protocol."
He walked past me and flopped down into his seat, grabbing a lighter from the bag. "Figures," he mumbled, flicking it open and shut. "Bet you jacked my weed too."
I didn't answer. He didn't really expect one.
As he sulked, I watched him.
Kairen Alexei of the Kurov-Shin dynasty. Age: 26. Height: 5'8. Weight: 69 kilos. Blood type: who the fuck cares. Last seen during an overseas business trip with his father's entourage—vanished for three months. Picked up traces in Ibiza, Tokyo, Berlin. Finally landed in this godforsaken hole.
Partying. Getting high. Threesomes with strangers. Running from daddy's empire. The typical rich kid story.
The photos Jarek showed me didn't do him justice. He looked out together with that practiced smile, like trouble wrapped in silk sheets. But now? In the flesh?
He looked like a grenade someone forgot to defuse.
And the sickest part of me—maybe the soldier, maybe the killer, maybe something worse—wanted to know what would happen when he exploded.