Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Moscow, 8:15 AM. 

Walentyn entered his supervisor's office. For months, he'd been working, undercover, as Victor Volkov's assistant; however, he was actually an agent—sent from Warsaw by the Agencja Wywiadu (the Foreign Intelligence Agency in Poland). Victor Volkov was young—so young that it was outstanding that he already had a high ranked position at his family's company (he was still a bit older than Walentyn, though)—but, he was also an uncannily cold blooded and ruthless man: Not the least bit hesitant to use violence, not waiting to strike or attack. That did not make him any less handsome, objectively speaking, of course. It was evident, for Victor would rarely spend one night alone; although, those visits of such kind had stopped ever since he'd gotten engaged. Also, Victor was incredibly intelligent, clever and calculated—sharp eyed, like an eagle. 

When Walentyn walked inside, Victor stood there—he did not turn around—and the morning light carved his profile with precision: High cheekbones, a sharp and well-defined jawline, cold silver eyes tracking a bird of prey circling above the city with hunger. He was large, very large, and broad shouldered; all muscles. Between his fingers, he'd caught a cigarette, and the tip of it was burning. He took a drag, his eyes still scanning the streets of Moscow, which lay in front of him like a chessboard, and he was taking into consideration every next move he could make, measuring it. Then, slowly, he exhaled the smoke, and the plume was curling to the ceiling, before he finally spoke, in a low voice: »You're late.« He did not sound angry, neither was he shouting. He was solely stating a fact which, in itself, made the room feel a thousand times heavier. While he was waiting for Walentyn to explain himself, or not, his gaze was still out on Moscow's frozen sprawl below. 

»I apologise,« replied Walentyn slowly, in Russian, and as best as he could. With a strong pull, he closed the heavy mahogany door behind him. Although Russian wasn't his native language, he had, in a few months, already adapted to it—enough to have a proper conversation, at least, and to handle his duties as an assistant.  

Finally, Victor turned. It was a fluid movement, a measured one. His silver eyes slid over Walentyn, nearly as sharp as a blade: He was assessing his assistant, missing nothing, not the tiniest shift, not the slight tension in the younger man's shoulders—or the way he closed that door with deliberate quietness, as if not to disturb. 

A beat passed. 

Another puff of smoke, and Victor was still watching Walentyn as ash curled off the tip of his cigarette, right into the tray on his desk. »Your Russian is better,« he said, still in that stoic and cold voice, but there was something else beneath it; was it curiosity? Or, rather, approval? Those things were hard to tell with Victor Volkov, for he rarely showed any emotion of any kind on that sculpted and stone-cold face, at least not unless there was a reason to show any—or unless he approved it, allowed it to show. He took away a step from his desk—still without taking his eyes off Walentyn. 

The sudden and unexpected compliment, or whatever it actually was, caught Walentyn off-guard and made him feel awkward. He bobbed his head, silently thanking Victor, though even that made him cringe. He tried to block out the strange tension and, instead, focused on what he'd come for. In his hand, he held a small device on which all of Victor's appointments had been entered into a digital calendar—to have everything in order and in a quick overview. »At 9:30 AM you have a meeting with Nikolai Kotov.«

Kotov was one of the many business partners Victor had and he was roughly around Victor's age—also rather young. Between those two men existed the one-sided idea (and that idea came from Nikolai's side) that they were friends, more than associates. However, by now, Walentyn knew Victor a little better. Those months had revealed a lot about his personality, and Volkov had proven that he definitely did not regard Kotov as a friend. 

And the aversion became evident, even now, for Victor's expression visibly shifted—it almost darkened at the mention of Kotov's name. A muscle in his jaw jumped, a subtle shift; it was there, though. Yes, that man disliked Nikolai, there was no doubt about it. Without a word, he walked towards Walentyn and took the device out of his hand, scanning the screen with his eyes. There, it said: 9:30 AM—Kotov. And knowing him, that guy would be punctual, as always, showing up and pretend they were friends, equals even. »Cancel it,« ordered Victor, his voice sounding flat, and he handed back the device to his assistant as if it had offended him, only by displaying that meeting before his eyes so shamelessly. He did not give an explanation, offered no reasoning—only a cold command, dripping with disdain for Kotov and his false camaraderie act he played out every damn time they met face-to-face in public places—or closed-door negotiations. 

Victor stood so close to his assistant now, utterly close, and like that, he was towering over Walentyn, for he was so large. However, Walentyn wouldn't let that man intimidate him, and he simply ignored that silent display of power and dominance. »Impossible, sir,« said Walentyn, and his voice sounded calm and steady, though he knew he was talking back to a man who despised being talked back to. »If you don't attend the meeting, there will be trouble.«

There truly would be trouble: The Volkov Family and the Kotov Family had been business partners for decades. And, as Nikolai's surname suggested, he was like a cat, too—meaning, if he wanted something, he would get it with all means it took him. 

Victor narrowed his eyes, not in anger—at least not yet. Actually, it was something way more dangerous that flickered in his eyes: Displeasure. The kind which silenced the room and shut up everyone in a second with one single look. Worse, he did not blink but solely stared at Walentyn, as if all of it was somehow his doing, and that quiet authority radiated off him, as strong as a storm. »Trouble?« Repeated Victor, the Russian word rolling over his tongue—to his utter, utter distaste. Only then, when that word echoed in his own ears, did Walentyn realise that, the way he had worded it, it had come out like a threat. He definitely had to work on that.

Victor took forward another step; and now, there was barely any space between the two men to breathe comfortably without touching shoulders. Then, he lifted his free hand—not to strike, not yet. Perhaps, it was something else entirely; he could try and grab Walentyn by his collar, just to get rid of some frustration that had pent up inside of him. Instead of physical violence, he chose to exhale the smoke right into Walentyn's face, deliberately—a power mover, disguised as something casual—or rude, even. 

Walentyn grimaced as he inhaled the smoke, his lungs burning, and he coughed, curling and clenching his hands into fists at his sides. He hated that, when Victor exerted his dominance so deliberately, so shamelessly and without any consideration. Nonetheless, Walentyn knew he had to remain calm, for losing his temper now would only bring him trouble. 

Still, Victor noticed the shift, the tension. Good, he thought. A flicker of satisfaction crossed his face, but that was gone in a heartbeat. But what he saw was to his liking: Walentyn disliked secondhand smoke? A good man. And he did not flinch outwardly, stayed still and calm, and he did not scream nor back down easily. However, his eyes: They showed it—the tension inside of him. 

And if there was one thing Victor loved? 

Tension. 

He turned and dropped down the cigarette into the crystal ashtray, then crushed it slowly, deliberately and with calm precision—the way he usually handled things. Then, he folded his arms across his broad chest and said: »You think I care about Kotov's feelings?« He spoke smoothly, not slow, but Walentyn still managed to follow. »I don't go to meetings merely because a spoiled brat expects me to.« Another pause. No, Victor Volkov was certainly not a man who would let others tell him what to do—or let them have any expectations. He tilted his head and observed Walentyn. »Perhaps, in Poland, you handle things differently,« he proceeded, his gaze remaining on Walentyn's significantly slimmer frame, studying him: Up and down, from head to toe, shamelessly so. »But here, in Russia, we don't.«

Poland. There it was, that quiet jab beneath the surface. A harsh reminder that Walentyn was not one of them, not Russian, not born and raised in a, as he perceived it, world of brutal hierarchy and bloodline politics. He came from somewhere softer, quieter—a place that, and so Victor thought, lacked teeth. And yet, somehow, someway, he stood there, in Victor's office; and he was calm, on the outside, despite the attack to his face and the towering, walking intimidation named Volkov. 

For a split second, at the lack of reaction from Walentyn, something unusual sparked behind those silver eyes: Not respect, no—never that. But something else, close to curiosity about Walentyn's silent defiance. Quickly came the cold reminder, though, delivered in a low and icy voice: »I don't care where you're from.« And now, Victor pronounced each syllable slowly, as if to make sure Walentyn caught onto every word while he also proved just how much he mastered his own language. »You work for me now.« He uncrossed his arms and took one long stride forward, once again closing the distance between them completely. Merely inches away, he halted. He was now close enough to see the faintest flecks of darker grey in Walentyn's already grey eyes, and he was close enough to see the subtle tension in the younger man's jaw, too. He was, visibly, not as composed as he pretended to be. 

The air between them had grown thicker, charged—hell, not in a romantic sense, no, but with power imbalance; between them was a silent battle disguised as pure professionalism. And then, without a warning or any other way Walentyn could have prepared himself, Victor reached out one hand and grabbed Walentyn's tie, yanking him upwards and forcing him to tilt his head back for a fraction. It wasn't even painful, not even aggressive—it was, in a twisted way, dominant. A test. »And don't tell me what to do,« murmured Victor, a quiet warning laced with authority that was so absolute, it felt as though he'd rewritten the law. 

Helplessly, Walentyn was held in Victor's strong grip, as if he was a dog on a leash. Despite the increasing want inside him to defy, Walentyn knew he had to obey: For the sake of the mission and thereof, also the safety of his beloved home country. »Yes. Forgive me,« he managed to say, though his voice sounded tight—what with his tie cutting into his throat. 

A second longer, for Volkov never spared anyone mercy, not even his own assistant, he held Walentyn's tie—and he did not miss the tension in the younger man's stiff yet controlled voice. Forgive me, a statement so polite, submissive and perfectly obedient—a sweet melody to Victor's ears. However, he saw—or heard—right through that tone: Not real remorse, no. Performance. The tone of a man who swallowed his pride because he had to. And something about that irritated Victor; it wasn't that Walentyn disobeyed—it was the opposite. The younger man did not fight back at all. 

With a slight shove, Victor released the hold around Walentyn's tie and stepped back himself. Then, dismissively, he turned away, towards his desk. »You will reschedule Kotov,« he spoke coolly and finally, leaving no room for any argument. Now, he loosened his own tie—and the contrast was obvious: One man was bound to duty, and another casually shedded power like one shedded clothes after a long, long day at work. 

Not glancing at his assistant even once, Victor walked around his desk—polished mahogany, sleek black monitors, and one single photo frame facedown. He sat down in the high-backed leather chair with effortless grace and opened the drawer at the top. Out he took a flask, silver and engraved with his initials: V.V. 

Without asking or offering, he unscrewed it and poured the clear liquid into a tiny glass. Then, he took a sip of it—and it slid down his throat like water. Behind him, through the window, the morning light spilled inside the room. Moscow slept beneath winter clouds; and Victor Volkov was preparing for another day of cold deals and even colder betrayals. »Leave.« Again, there was no anger in his voice, and he did not raise his tone, either. It was that cold, quiet dismissal—the kind that carried more weight than any command ever could.

And Walentyn would not wait for Victor to repeat himself. Soon, the door clicked shut behind him with a soft click. 

Victor remained still, his gaze was fixed on nothing. The silence inside his own office now settled like a heavy snowfall: Thick, hushed and isolating. He exhaled through his nose and set down the glass—he did not take a second sip, not yet. For a moment, a very rare moment, his mask had slipped. A flicker had crossed his well-crafted facade: Something close to annoyance—but not at Kotov or politics. No, it was at Walentyn's obedience. It was too perfect, he was too submissive and Victor's sheer presence had him crushed. 

How boring. 

Victor Volkov hated boring people, despised the ones who folded too easily once one put pressure on them they could barely bear. 

So, despite that, even now, Victor was bored, he did not call back Walentyn into his office. 

Inside the company's restroom, the one on Victor's floor, other was quiet: Sterile white tiles, two sinks and the hum of fluorescent lights above the head. There, Walentyn had found some privacy. He leaned against the cold wall and adjusted his earpiece with his fingers, carefully so. The device was tiny, nearly invisible; and it served solely one purpose—to report from Moskow to Warsaw, thousands of kilometres apart. A soft beep confirmed the connection, and then came a voice—not loud, but crisp and commanding in Polish: »Report.«

No greeting, no warmth. Just business, as always from Kasprzyk. 

For a brief moment, Walentyn closed his eyes, switching from Russian into his fluent native tongue—the language that felt like home after months of pretending someone else in Moscow's icy embrace. »He's acting suspicious,« whispered the young agent into his earpiece. He realised how much smoother he sounded now, unlike seconds ago when he had spoken so stiffly in a language he had learned in only a few months. He breathed; a quick glance at the restroom door to make sure it stayed closed and that nobody would walk inside now. »Volkov cancelled Kotov's meeting without explanation. I had to argue with him—and he did not like that.«

A pause as Kasprzyk proceeded the words on the other end—and even through satellite encryption, the silence stretched. Then: »Did he threaten you?«

No time for small-talk or phrases like »How are you?«—they had to get straight to business, assess the level of a possible threat. In that line of work, personal feelings or comfort were luxuries no agent could afford on a mission, not if they wanted to be professionals. »...No,« responded Walentyn after a second of consideration. »He just told me not to interfere with his decisions. I'm sure he thinks I am boring, but that is good. That means he isn't suspicious of me.«

A low hum came through the earpiece—Kasprzyk was thinking. »Agreed. Boring is safer than bold.« His voice remained flat, however, there was a bit of approval in it. It wasn't warm, but it confirmed that the mission could process as intended. »Stay close. Observe routines—who meets who outside business hours, who calls him late at night.«

Walentyn was familiar with that drill: Victor Volkov was not only a target because of his family's empire and political influence. They watched him for his weaknesses, too, and for cracks in the ice prince facade. 

Kasprzyk went on: »Be careful with Kotov. If Victor refuses to meet him? That man will look for another way—and that way might as well involve you.«

The warning settled heavily in Walentyn's chest. Yes, his (real) supervisor was right. Kotov wasn't just Volkov's business partner. His family had influence, too—and on top of that, Nikolai was social and charming, the type of man who wined and dined his allies to build up trust. So, if Victor rejected him? Kotov would not give up that easily—he'd find a backdoor; perhaps, through Walentyn, the new assistant. 

Slowly, Walentyn exhaled, his eyes flicking to his reflection in the mirror above the sink: Pale-faced from the stress and cold climate in Moscow, but somewhat composed on the surface level. »Understood,« he murmured.

A beat of silence passed before Kasprzyk ended their exchange: »End comms.«

Nothing beyond a quick goodbye, no sentiments at all. In an instant: Static. 

Chapter Text

At around 2 PM, Walentyn was going through paperwork—and just then, the calendar on the small device sent him a reminder: Irina Ivanova had scheduled a meeting with Victor—to have lunch at a prestigious restaurant at 3 PM. 

Irina Ivanova was the golden daughter of the Ivanov Family; and, she was engaged to Victor. The two families, meaning the Ivanovs and the Volkovs, had been close business partners for many years as well. It wasn't new, neither was it a coincidence: Russian oligarchs and powerful families did not just leave things to chance. Arranged marriages, political unions through bloodlines—all of that was to maintain an empire they had build on blood. And, as Victor had only recently turned thirty-four, it was the perfect timing to set up Irina and him for marriage. 

What did Walentyn know about Irina? Not much, he'd just heard of her reputation, never met her personally. What he knew, though, was that the head of the Ivanov Family was Moscow's most feared industrial tycoon—and his daughter was very dear to him. How could she not be? She was young, elegant and intelligent, so they said, and trained since childhood in diplomacy and social graces. All in all, the perfect bride for a cold-blooded prince like Victor. 

Walentyn had no particular personal interest in Victor's private matters—however, he had to keep an eye on everything, as any information could be of great significance for the mission. Thus, now that he saw the reminder of the scheduled meeting, Walentyn made a mental note: Ivanov Family, business partners, Irina Volkov-to-be. 

In espionage, every connection mattered. If Victor married Irina, if those two families formally merged through marriage, that would change power dynamics across Moscow's elite circles—and that would definitely be dangerous. Alliances could shift, wealth could be redistributed and influence consolidated. And, as Kasprzyk had told Walentyn once: Know your enemies' allies, too. 

So, as Walentny continued to sort the paperwork on his desk—filing invoices, reviewing security clearance lists—he quietly flagged a file labeled as »IVANOV HOLDINGS—QUARTERLY REPORT«.

He did not open it, not yet—but he saved it for later retrieval. 

Lunchtime would be at 3 PM, that meant there was almost an hour left until Irina would arrive. Knowing that Victor would take out his fiancée to a fancy restaurant, Walentyn brought him a cup of coffee only—as Victor had instructed him. Wasn't it nice to play the assistant of Moscosw's prince? 

Behind his desk sat Victor, looking, as always, so perfect in his tailored suit—a black tie, his cufflinks gleaming under the office lights from above. Walentyn placed the coffee neatly on the desk: Strong, black—exactly how Victor liked it. He did not thank his assistant, though, and neither did he glance up at him in acknowledgement or appreciation. However, there was no hostility, either. It was, well, that quiet efficiency, one could say—the kind which had become routine between them over months of service and surveillance disguised as one's ordinary employment. 

The clock was ticking towards 3 PM. Soon, Irina would be there and walk through the heavy mahogany door. Victor checked his reflection, but only briefly, in a polished silver frame on the wall: He stood, tall, and one hand ran over his sharp jawline, then through his immaculate hair, combed back with precision one only found in the military. The perfect groom material, indeed. As he observed himself, no smile touched his lips—and, as far as Walentyn could tell, there was not a hint of anticipation or warmth at seeing his fiancée again, either. 

Although the younger man genuinely did not care, he could not help himself but wonder: Was Victor not the least bit happy to see such a pretty woman like Irina again? But then, again, happiness did not seem to be an emotion Victor showed often—or ever. However, Irina and him made the perfect couple, undoubtedly so, with their looks—and, most definitely, they would make even more perfect children. 

Whatever, thought Walentyn as his thoughts were digging too deep into something that did not directly concern him. He should stop thinking about those things and, instead, focus on what actually mattered the most: The mission. 

At precisely 3 PM, the door to Victor's office swung open. A soft click of heels on the marble floor echoed in the ears, and a faint cloud of expensive perfume—bergamot, jasmine, something more delicate and refined—followed and drifted into the room before the woman had even appeared before their eyes. But she'd already announced herself.

And then, Irina Ivanova stepped inside. Tall, for a woman, yet still shorter than Victor. Her long chestnut hair was curled perfectly over her shoulder; and her green eyes looked like emeralds. The make up she wore was light, not too heavy, not too flashy—just perfectly complementing her naturally gorgeous features. She wasn't showing it off, no. Irina Ivanova was, indeed, elegant by nature. Given Moscow's weather and icy temperatures, she wore a tailored cream-coloured coat, made out of fur trim—the kind of clothing only the wealthiest could afford in Moscow's merciless winter. When she saw Victor, her lips turned upwards, into a smile—not overly enthusiastic, not exaggerating. No, just warm, polite and proper. »Victor.«

Smooth, graceful—like a man who'd practiced that moment a thousand times inside his head, planned and calculated it, Victor stood. He rounded his desk and closed the distance to Irina with long strides. For someone of so utter cold, someone so emotionally detached from most people, Victor kissed her on both cheeks; a surprisingly affectionate gesture for him. Those pecks weren't romantic, nor passionate—they were just respectful, formal intimacy the man had reserved for only family—or someone as close as her. »Irina,« he spoke as they parted. He was not smiling, his eyes weren't wide in delight, either; however, there was something softer in his expression, beyond his eyes, something unusual: Was it polite interest? Duty? Perhaps, faint appreciation? Walentyn thought that, maybe, that was the face one wore when they met their fiancée-to-be who society expected them to marry. 

Looking at Irina, she did not appear to expect romance, either, for she knew Victor well. She was familiar with his nature: Reserved, composed, a man of power. Still, she did not seem to be disappointed. They exchanged brief pleasantries in Russian; How are you? The weather is cold today, and so on—mere small talk which meant nothing, its sole purpose was to fill the silence as they stood together: The Volkov heir and his soon-to-be wife. Then, slightly, Irina turned towards Walentyn—for the very first time since entering. Her eyes flicked over him, not unkindly, just assessing him. A stranger in Victor's office—an associate? Or assistant? She gave Walentyn a small polite nod—a silent Hello. 

»Walentyn,« introduced Victor the younger man vaguely. »My assistant.«

Irina offered the younger man a polite but distant smile; it was the kind of smile which was reserved to staff members who weren't really part of their world of wealth. »Pleasure,« she said to him in smooth Russian, her voice sounding melodic and refined. There was no warmth beyond courtesy, for she had no reason to care for Victor's assistant. 

Professionally and with respect, Walentyn bowed his head as a response—without overdoing it. And then, quite quickly, Irina glanced back at her fiancé, as if to ask: Are we leaving now? 

Victor nodded once and then, one hand reached for his coat draped over his chair—black wool with silver trim that cost more than most people in Russia earned in a lifetime. He shrugged it on with ease while Irina slipped her fur tighter around her shoulders, protecting herself from the chill outside on the streets. Without a word, Victor walked towards the door. Irina fell into step beside him with effortless grace—the two of them looked like royalty exiting a palace: Tall, impeccably dressed, moving in perfect sync and rhythm despite not saying anything. Walentyn silently trailed behind them as they headed down the grand hallway, and their footsteps were echoing on the polished marble floors. Employees and associates glanced up, but then, they quickly looked away, because no one stared at Victor Volkov and his future wife for too long. 

The sleek black Mercedes was parked in front of the entrance, surrounded and surveilled by security. A guard opened the door of the vehicle and without hesitation, Victor slid inside, inching further to the side to make space for Irina, who entered gracefully beside him. Walentyn rounded the other side and took his place behind the wheel—the role of the chauffeur was part of his cover as Victor's assistant. He started the engine, and the car purred to live like a beast which had just awoken. 

Throughout the ride, there was no conversation in the back—there was none needed right now. Victor stared out the window at his side, the scenery of Moscow streets passing by: Grey buildings, dusted with snow, people bundled up against cold wind, rushing...

Irina adjusted her gloves slightly and then turned towards him: »Where are we going?«

As Victor answered, he did not look at her. »Zoloto.«

Zoloto, a high-end restaurant: Extremely exclusive, with velvet drapes, antique chandeliers and tables reserved for Moscow's elite only. Exactly the kind of place one imagined; there, politicians dined under high security and surveillance, and the oligarchs made backroom deals over caviar. That place was not romantic, not in the traditional sense—however, it was luxurious, and public enough to be seen by the own inner circle, the socialites inside who were watching Victor Volkov with hungry eyes—hungry for idle talk. 

Irina nodded, a quiet sign she approved of the choice. After that, no more words were exchanged between them—and in utter silence, Walentyn merged into the city traffic. 

The drive through Moscow was smooth, a traffic light then and there, snow falling gently, street lights flickering as the sun was going down. With practiced ease, Walentyn navigated through the streets. He had studied routes for months: Which alleys were blind spots, which intersections had heavy police presence—he knew all that, and it was all part of his investigation. The Mercedes glided past Red Square, the Kremlin a distant silhouette in the winter haze, and then onward the upscale district where Zoloto Restaurant stood like a jewel among concrete buildings. 

Walentyn parked the car. Like a gentleman, Victor held out his hand to help Irina out of the vehicle. Then, he turned to his assistant and instructed: »You wait here.«

»Yes, sir,« replied Walentyn and gave a small, respectful nod. He stayed there, in the driver's seat, as Victor and Irina walked towards the grand entrance of Zoloto. The restaurant looked even more elegant in real life: Marble columns, a red carpet leading the way to the inside, valet attendants standing at attention. 

Victor guided Irina forward with that same composed politeness he'd shown since she had arrived. No handholding or affectionate touches, purely his presence beside her was enough; a large protective prince who escorted his intended wife into one of Moscow's most prestigious dinings spots. Walentyn watched them, and when they were out of sight, he sighed. The car was quiet, as it had already been before. He leaned back, his hands resting on the steering wheel. Finally, and for the first moment he was alone, Walentyn breathed. Now, there wasn't Victor's cold stare, scrutinising him down to every inch—and neither was he under Irina's assessing gaze, who had flicked her eyes at him from time to time (he'd seen it through the rearview mirror). It wasn't relief which washed over him, not exactly; rather, a tiny release of tension that came from being out of their orbit for at least an hour now. Discreetly, Walentyn checked his phone: No messages from Warsaw yet, nothing urgent from Kasprzyk. Then, his fingers tapped his earpiece—still in place, inconspicuously and inactive. He made a mental note to report back to his supervisor about Victor's lunch with Irina.

To pass time, Walentyn practiced his Russian. He connected his earpiece to his phone—the sounds of the city were now muffled. He used a Russian language app, one designed for advanced learners, focusing on business and political vocabulary. Words like »merger«, »investment«, »alliance«—terms Victor used daily—and phrases such as: »We need to renegotiate the contract«, or »They expect commitment«. Softly, under his breath, Walentyn whispered those words, repeated them after the recorded speaker; and his accent was actually improving with each practice session. He'd been doing that since he had arrived in Moscow: Refining his Russian so he could understand and follow conversations to their core. 

A man sitting behind a car wheel, quietly studying something? Not suspicious at all, not when half of Moscow's elite had bodyguards or assistants waiting outside restaurants, too. No one paid any mind to Walentyn, nobody noticed. As he studied, he still kept a close eye on his surroundings. To let his guard down? That would be suicide. 

Suddenly, his eye caught the frame of a familiar man: Kotov. In an instant, Walentyn paused the video, and the voice of the speaker died. What was Nikolai Kotov doing here? And what were the odds that he would have lunch at Zoloto at exactly the same time Victor and Irina did? Whatever it was, it was bad. Walentyn had cancelled Kotov's meeting with the reason that Victor was too busy with workload. So, if Kotov saw him now at the restaurant, with Irina, too...

As Walentyn had predicted previously, that would mean trouble. 

Kotov stood a few metres away, tall and well-dressed in a beige overcoat—and his features were easily recognisable, even from afar. Of course, he wasn't alone: Two other men were with him, his bodyguards, by the look of it; broad-shouldered, scanning the area for any threat. Kotov himself, though? Calm, smug. He carried that air of entitlement around, the kind that came from being born with a silver spoon, rich and used to getting his way. He hadn't seen Irina and Victor, not yet, at least. However, if he entered that restaurant, he soon would. Walentyn was aware he had to do something: Under absolutely no circumstances could Nikolai catch Irina and Victor, together. So, Walentyn turned off his phone, plugged out his earpieces and opened the door of the car. He stepped quickly, long strides, and moved with purpose—he was not rushing, though, for that would raise suspicion. He had to keep a low profile. 

Kotov and his bodyguards were still approaching the entrance of that restaurant, chatting casually. 

No time for hesitation. 

Walentyn walked towards Kotov, not directly confronting him, but positioning himself in his path, blocking the way a bit. As Kotov neared, he finally saw the younger man, and his face lit up with light curiosity. They were not close, not friends—or, perhaps, Kotov thought they were? Whatever, Walentyn would rather have Kotov regard him as the new assistant, always quiet and efficient—and nothing more than that. »Ah, Walenytn!« Said Kotov warmly and welcoming, extending a hand to shake while a simple smile shaped his lips. It was his charm which made people like him instinctively. One of the bodyguards eyed Walentyn cautiously, however, neither of the two interfered; Nikolai seemed friendly towards Walentyn, no threat. He took Kotov's hand, and the man shook it firmly. »What are you doing here?« As he asked that, he glanced around—most definitely, he was searching for Victor. If the assistant stood before him, then Victor must be near. 

Quickly, Walentyn caught onto that thought process. He was observant and knew how to reply fast. »Taking a walk,« he responded. 

Kotov nodded, still smiling—yet, his eyes darted past Walentyn as he scanned the area. Taking a walk? Right outside Zoloto, at lunchtime? That excuse was not extraordinarily suspicious, and nonetheless, it also did not make much sense. During their breaks, assistants usually waited in cars or lounges—they did not stroll around fancy restaurants unless they had business there, too. 

One of Kotov's bodyguards muttered something under his breath, likely something skeptical. 

Kotov himself, though, kept his friendly demeanour. »Alone?« He inquired, casually so, tilting his head to the side as if he was genuinely curious about Walentyn. 

The assistant nodded, he was aware of Kotov's slight suspicion. For a moment, Kotov didn't say anything. Then: »Why don't you join me for lunch?« The invitation came with a charming grin, Kotov's speciality. He was not suspicious suspicious; he simply seized an opportunity. If Victor's assistant had lunch with him, perhaps, he could get information, learn about Victor's schedule, habits, all disguised as small talk. It was subtle manipulation, just as one expected from the son of a family with great political influence. Let me treat you to lunch, Walentyn knew what it truly meant—it was tactic disguised as companionship. Refusing outright, though, would be considered rude; and if Victor later found out his assistant had rejected Kotov like that, gotten on his bad side? 

Walentyn had to weigh the risks. If he said no, Kotov might push, press, ask for a reason. If he said yes, joined him, then that would mean sitting through lunch, making small talk and, potentially, revealing and leaking important information—unintentionally so. Again, refusing directly from a powerful man would raise eyebrows. So, Walentyn gave a polite smile, the kind he'd been taught to show when dealing with associates: Respectful, yet not overly friendly. »I appreciate the offer,« he said, »but I am actually on duty. Mr. Volkov expects me back soon.« Not an outright rejection, purely professionalism. 

Kotov's smile did not fade, however, it shifted, slightly so. The warmth dimmed. On duty? Ah, thought Nikolai, of course. Victor's assistant was loyal, a lapdog. No surprise there, for he knew Victor Volkov did not hire men who wandered off, spread around what is of significance and secrecy. A light laugh escaped Kotov's lips. »Ah, of course! Duty comes first.« He reached out one gloved hand and patted Walentyn's shoulder, a friendly gesture which felt more forced and performative than genuine. Then, he raised his other arm and glanced down at his wristwatch. »Well, I don't think I am hungry anymore.« And suddenly, there was something strange radiating off Kotov. »We will see each other again, Walentyn.« He signalled his bodyguards they would return back. 

The way Kotov had said that, we will see each other again, sent a chill down Walentyn's spine. That was not a friendly promise, that was a threat. That golden hair of his, those perfect dimples, they made Kotov look so harmless on the outside, boyish, almost. But his eyes? Beyond them glinted something cold, something calculating. Without another word, he started walking back, and his bodyguards fell into step behind him. At last, there had been no anger on his face, no outburst, either; yet, that quiet dismissal was wore, somehow. An unspoken vow of I'll find you later. Walentyn watched them go until their vehicle had disappeared into the traffic. 

Despite the danger, Walentyn had, successfully, prevented an encounter between Victor and Nikolai. If the latter had found out, had caught Victor and Irina together? That would be the worst case scenario, for Nikolai would be jealous. Yes—jealousy. That was Kotov's worst flaw, hidden deeply beneath his polished exterior, but it was very real and there. He considered Victor a friend, even if those feelings were not mutual, and thus, he thought he had the right to be treated like one. If he now saw Victor publicly with Irina, despite having scheduled a meeting with Victor himself that had been cancelled? That would sting Kotov's pride—no one just cancelled a meeting with Nikolai Kotov. He'd feel betrayed, ignored, sidelined by Victor's cold indifference. And men like Niklai? They did not handle rejection quietly, they lashed out, schemed, manipulated situations to get what they wanted—or, they punished those who wronged them. 

So, in conclusion: Yes, Walentyn had absolutely just dodged a disaster. 

Chapter Text

By 5:30 PM, Walentyn had safely brought Irina back to the Ivanov Family's estate. The Ivanov mansion was surrounded by tall iron gates and security cameras on a quiet hillside.

Then, it was only Victor and him inside the vehicle—and the right back was in utter silence. Victor sat behind, in the backseat, and when Walentyn glanced at him through the rearview mirror from time to time, he saw that the man's face was unreadable, as it always was. He was starring out the window, watching the passing city lights; and if Walentyn had to take a guess, he would say that man was bored, even when he did not let it show on his blank expression. The lunch with Irina had gone smoothly: Polite conversations, expensive wine—no public display of affection. Merely the two future heirs of two powerful families together in civilised aristocracy. 

Now, they were heading back to the Volkov Tower where Victor lived alone—although, not completely. Walentyn was staying there with him, too, as a part of the contract; the agent, however, very much wished he wouldn't have to do that. It was hard to report back to Warsaw when Victor's eyes and ears were everywhere: It was sheer torture for espionage. That man did not comprehend the concept of boundaries—and on top of that, as the name of the tower allowed one to guess, the Volkov family owned the entire tower—and Victor owned his own penthouse. Modern, minimalistic and all black and white decor. Pretty dull, so Walentyn found. And there were cameras everywhere, in every single godforsaken corner! Not just the security ones, no—Victor had motion sensors installed in all hallways, and microphones hidden underneath art pieces. How Walentyn knew that? After all, he was a trained agent, thus, he knew all the secret spots.

So, there was absolutely zero privacy—and no quiet moments to call or contact Warsaw without the risk of being overheard or monitored. The worst part? Victor moved through the space like a shadow at night; sometimes, he was awake at 3 AM, drinking vodka in silence while reviewing classified documents on his laptop. His irregular sleeping schedule made reporting back, at the penthouse at least, impossible. 

The car pulled into the private underground garage beneath Volkov Tower. An automated system—meaning only Victor's fingerprints could open the gate. The engine shut off as Walentyn parked the car in Victor's reserved spot: V.V. etched on a plaque on the wall beside. The first to step out was Victor, he didn't say »thank you« or anything, he was just being the business man he usually was, cold and detached. Without a word or looking back, he walked towards the elevator, expecting Walentyn to follow. Him and Victor usually dined together—and even then, there was no exchange of words, which wasn't that surprising, to be honest. Victor did not talk much about personal matters, which made Walentyn's investigation even more difficult. 

They entered the elevator and stood side by side. Walentyn reached out one hand, his finger pressing the button to the top floor—penthouse floor. With the proximity, Walentyn was acutely aware of their height difference: Victor stood tall, imposing, over 6'6". Every move carried weight, the way he exhaled through his nose, how his hands rested inside the pockets of his oh-so expensive overcoat. And then, there was Walentyn: Smaller, in comparison, though over the average height for a Polish man. He was not weak, physically, for he trained for his job. However, Victor? That man was an entirely different level when it came to strength. If he wanted to, he could pin down Walentyn with one arm. 

No words between them, again, throughout the ride up. The floors climbed, 40... 45...

Then, the elevator slowed; ding, and the doors slid open with a soft mechanical whir, revealing the vast living area: All marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Moscow's glittering skyline in the evening, and modern art on the walls, worth a fortune in total. Victor stepped out first and walked straight to his private study—hidden behind a heavy oak door with biometric look. He unlocked it effortlessly, the system authorising entry. Then, he disappeared inside the room, shutting the door behind him, a sound that signalled: Do not disturb. 

That room was off-limits, always had been. Even housekeeping was not allowed in there unless Victor personally permitted it. So, Walentyn now stood alone in the sprawling penthouse, the silence deafening. The lights above his head hung low, part of an automated system which had switched to evening mode: A dim warm glow casted across the rooms like candlelight, though without actual flames. Slowly, Walentyn exhaled—and then, he walked towards his assigned bedroom. Inside, he collapsed right onto his bed—extremely exhausted. Under his weight, the mattress dipped. For the first time in hours, Walentyn was alone. No Victor, no Kotov, either, and no Irina watching him with their slight suspicion. Finally, it was quiet—despite the bed that did not feel like home at all, never would, but it was his, and tonight, he'd be alone. He even kept his clothes on, too tired to change into something else, and he solely kicked off his shoes before sinking deeper into the pillows. The stress, the pressure, of pretending all day, of dodging Kotov's little ambush, playing the perfect assistant... It all crashed over Walentyn now like a huge wave. In an instant, his eyes closed, the exhaustion making his eyelids feel to heavy to keep them open a moment longer. It was tough, living two lives at the same time: One as Volkov's obedient little assistant, and one as Poland's secret spy. 

He had to be so careful: Even in his guest room, there was one camera—small, barely noticeable. A black dome tucked into one ceiling corner, its leans facing downwards. It recorded everything, every move, every sigh that surpassed Walentyn's lips—or how he'd just collapsed onto his bed. Yet, he did not react; not visibly, at least. No anger, no frustration on his face. Inside, however: Rage. And it was shimmering beneath his skin. Victor could be watching me right this moment, he thought—and that thought made him stiffen slightly under the covers. He never knew for sure when Victor was watching him, but what he knew was that he could watch 24/7, for he had full access to all cameras at any time. 

It violated Walentyn's privacy and made him lose control over the situation. Kasprzyk had trained that into him: Always assume you are being watched when infiltrating hostile territory.

Walentyn forced his breathing to steady, avoided sudden movements that would appear odd—if Victor was watching him right now. He did not want to give the camera, nor Victor, a reason to be suspicious. Then, slowly, he sat up and reached into his nightstand drawer; it was the one and only spot inside the entire room which was not directly covered by surveillance (Walentyn had checked it). Inside the drawer was a small notebook, a pen—nothing extraordinary. But beneath it, tapped to the bottom, lay a tiny encrypted device Kasprzyk had handed him before deployment. 

Emergency comms unit, one-way messages only—if absolute necessary. 

Walentyn did not use it too often, for it was too risky; there was a tiny chance he could get caught. Though, tonight... Perhaps, a quick check-in? A coded line—or two? There was no option for an audio-call, only text through satellite relay. Walentyn peeled the device from under the drawer; small, flat, and fitting into a billfold. On its side, it had a button, and Walentyn pressed it. A tiny blue light blinked once—it was active now. With careful fingers but efficiency, Walentyn typed into it, using short codes Kasprzyk had taught him. 

STATUS UPDATE. KOTOV APPROACHED RESTAURANT TODAY. VICTOR HAD LUCNH WITH IRINA. AVOIDED CONFRONTATION. LUNCH—NO ISSUES REPORTED. 

After quick contemplation, he added one line:

PENTHOUSE SURVEILLANCE ACTIVE 24/7. NO BREACHES YET. 

The message sent silently through encrypted satellite frequency to Warsaw—delivered directly to Kasprzyk. 

Afterwards, Walentyn put back the device—in its place, where it belonged before he would get caught. Then, he sunk back into the mattress, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. Just when he thought he had some peace, some time to relax, his phone vibrated on the nightstand. He groaned, reached out one hand and picked up the device. The display lit up, and a message showed up on the screen, sent by Victor. »Get me the blue files from the archive,« it read in Cyrillic. It took Walentyn a second or two to read, understand and process the phrase. Blue files, archive. 

The archive was a restricted wing of the penthouse, locked behind another biometric door: Voice recognition. Solely Victor could access it, and only he decided who else got entry, if anyone at all. Walentyn, he had never been inside before. What he knew, though, was that the blue files were not labeled as such, not publicly. Actually, it was just an internal code word Victor used for classified documents related to Volkov Holdings: Financial secrets, blackmail material on politicians or competitors—perhaps, there was intel about rival families, too. 

And now, all of a sudden, Walentyn was ordered to retrieve exactly those documents. By a mere message from Victor. Didn't that sound suspicious? 

No explanation, only a cold command: Get me the documents. 

Walentyn thought. He didn't question the order—couldn't. An assistants obeyed without hesitation, especially Victor Volkov's assistant. And Walentyn had already made the fatal mistake to defy that supreme rule. So, he swung his legs off the bed and stood. The archive was down the hallway to the right of Victor's study—the farthest part of the living space. It was a separate corridor with thick carpeting and dim lighting. Everything about it screamed: DO NOT ENTER UNLESS GIVEN PERMISSION.

Walentyn walked slowly. He did not want to seem rushed, nor did he want to raise suspicion. The hallway was silent, there were no background noises, not even the hum of something, anything. Only the soft carpet underfoot and the faint glow of recessed lighting above the head. At the end stood a heavy wooden door; sleek black surface. Next to it: A voice activation prompt—and an embedded camera for double security. Walentyn stopped before it and starred. He couldn't access that room on his own, the system would reject him immediately if he tried to speak aloud. 

It wasn't just about retrieving files. It was about getting permission from Victor at first. 

He turned around and walked towards Victor's study. The door was closed and no sound came from inside. As Walentyn tried to picture it—why, he did not know—he imagined Victor reviewing important files, with his sharp eyes that would not miss a single thing written on those papers—or, he was working on his laptop. For half a second, Walentyn hesitated; then, he raised his hand and knocked—twice—with his knuckles—firmly but respectfully so. 

No immediate answer, silence stretched. Then: »Enter.« Victor's voice sounded calm, but not warm nor welcoming. 

Walentyn entered. The study was massive: The walls were lined with shelves of leather-bound books, and there hung a huge family portrait in a golden frame. In the centre stood a mahogany desk, stacked with papers, neatly so. A lamp casted warm light over them. Victor himself wore a black sweater now instead of his suit jacket; he looked relaxed, yet still impeccable. When his assistant entered, he did not look up, his eyes kept reading a document in front of him. Then, finally, he took his gaze off it and glanced at Walentyn. His silver eyes locked onto the younger man. At first, he did not speak, only waited with patience. To Walentyn, that silence was worse than yelling. Victor always demanded something from him—however, Walentyn wouldn't allow that to intimidate him, so he stood straight, his hands at his sides. Back in Warsaw, he had trained to remain calm under pressure; the problem was that Victor had the ability to make even the easiest request feel like an interrogation instead of duty. After two more seconds of tense quiet, Walentyn spoke: »Sir.« His Russian did not sound too bad. »You requested the blue files.« No question mark at the end. 

»An excuse to have you come here,« responded Victor casually, as though that made any sense. What, thought Walentyn, he could have just ordered him into his study directly! An excuse, only to have him come here? No, that made zero sense—unless Victor was testing him. Or, perhaps, he was just bored. Whatever it was, Walentyn did not react outwardly; no confusion on his face. Internally, though, he his mind was racing: What did that guy want now? 

Victor leaned back in his chair, one hand resting at the edge of the desk as he regarded Walentyn. Not with anger, not even with suspicion—something else. »I thought about it,« he began, and Walentny braced himself, for whatever Victor would tell him, his gut was warning him already: Danger. »It doesn't make much sense,« Victor proceeded, utterly calm—too calm—as if he was solely introducing an argument which lacked logic. »Your background, I mean. Or, rather, the background you claim to have.«

The air around them turned into ice. Walentyn's pulse jumped, once, but he controlled his face: Neutral, unreadable at best. A background check? Victor had been looking into him? That was not part of the original plan for the mission—Kasprzyk had told him Victor rarely dug deeper into employees unless something had triggered his suspicion. However, it was happening. Remain calm, Walentyn told himself. He knew he had to—he had been trained for that. Even if things did not go as planned, keeping his composure was of utter priority. His mind raced as his eyes locked on Victor, not blinking too much, not shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He was standing there, calmly so, while an invisible bomb ticked between them. 

Victor went on, his voice still sounded eerily calm, and he did not raise his tone, nor did he sound angry. »You claim you worked for a logistics company in Kyiv. But I had my people check the records.« A pause. Let the words sink in, settle. »There is no record of any employee named Walentyn Wójcik at TransLogistics between 20XX to 20XX.« Again, a pause—longer that time. The weight pressed down on Walentyn, pressure. Meanwhile, Victor leaned forward, his elbows on the desk, his eyes narrowing—solely a fraction. 

Now, the room felt narrower. Walentyn's mind was racing, however, he did not panic. Panic was the death penalty in those situations. He had a cover story, of course. Kasprzyk had crafted it, carefully so; a fictional employment at a legitimate company, forged documents and alibis if questioned. But Victor Volkov? A man with power and access to private intelligence networks and black-market data brokers? Obviously, he'd find discrepancies—all along, it had only been a matter of time. Now, the lie was unraveling.

Therfore, Walentyn chose his next words with the precisions of a surgeon: »There was a mistake.« His voice sounded steady, as it usually did—nothing unusual at all. Thus far, he had solely acknowledged the inconsistency. He lowered his gaze—not in fear, no, but respect. A subordinate who acknowledged his error without showing defiance. »I worked for them as a freelancer contractor, not on payroll.« That would vaguely explain why there was no official employment record; freelancers were not listed like full-time employees unless they were taxed under certain conditions. 

Victor did not blink, didn't take his eyes off Walentyn. His brain absorbed the information he'd received, whether true or false, and his sharp mind was dissecting each and every word. Freelancer contractor? That was possible, common in logistics. Still, the timing was suspicious: Arriving in Moscow just when Victor hired a new assistant after the security breach six months ago. »No paperwork?« Asked Victor, almost conversational, causally even—yet, it was laced with underlying accusation. No invoices? No contract under Walentyn's name with the company? Most freelancers had at least something to prove they worked for someone—they were not invisible. 

»I didn't work there for long,« reasoned Walentyn. »Documentation was not their priority.« A sloppy excuse, he was aware of that—but there wasn't much else he could come up with. Victor's expression remained the same, something in his eyes, though, shifted. A flicker: Not anger, but a spark of dissatisfaction. That excuse was utterly weak; even for a low-tier, that kind of loophole did not exist unless one was underground—and a ghost was almost always suspicious. Walentyn had been hired through official channels. Background checks (fake), references (fake), onboarding documents (all forged). Kasprzyk had made Walentyn appear legitimate enough to pass initial vetting—not Volkov's personal scrutiny, though. 

Victor exhaled through his nose, slowly and controlled. Then, he rose—the movement was smooth and deliberate. He rounded the desk and stopped a few feet in front of Walentyn; not close enough to threaten physically, but his presence dominated the room entirely. He crossed his arms over his chest and studied Walentyn. »Who are you?« No pretence anymore, no polite questioning about logistics or his former (fake) job. 

That was it. The question had ended everything—it was over for Walentyn now. His mind flashed to Kasprzyk: Mission compromised, abort protocol if detected. But fleeing now? An impossible idea. There was security on every floor, in every corner. There was no backdoor, either, not one Walentyn could use. Outside of the tower stood guards, too. There was absolutely no exit without being seen. Walentyn could lie again, though, at that point, Victor could see right through him. Then, he could act. He calculated: Fight? No chance against Victor, physically. Run? No escape route, only dead ends. Lie harder? That was a suicide mission; that man had such a huge network—and he was already digging deeply as it'd turned out. 

Whatever Walentyn would choose, he had to decide fast.

Chapter Text

Walentyn said the first thing that came to his mind:

»...I like you!« 

He clenched his eyes shut, his hands curling into fists at his side—as though he expected a brutal impact, from Victor's fist, perhaps. 

I like you? 

Seriously?!

Of all things, he'd chosen that, to go down that route, a fucking fake confession?!

However, it was too late to turn back now—and, perhaps, it would work. 

Victor froze, and for the tiniest fraction of a second, his expression flickered; not with anger, not with disgust, as one might expected. Rather, he looked... 

...confused. 

»You like me?« He repeated, and his voice had dropped an octave like Walentyn had just told him a secret he refused to believe. He wasn't mocking his assistant, no—to be honest, it seemed as if Victor Volkov had been thrown off-guard by the sudden and unexpected declaration from a quiet man who had never showed anything beyond professionalism up until now. The room went dead silent, again—although, it was for a different reason now, for the tension was not about suspicion anymore. It was about something else, something heavier. 

Victor did not move, didn't blink—he didn't take his eyes off Walentyn. He stared, really stared, as though he saw his assistant for the very first time, and actually saw him as the man he was, and not a pawn who had to fulfil his duty as his personal servant. In that moment, Walentyn was not solely an employee, or a potential security risk—in that very moment, Victor regarded him as a man who claimed to have developed romantic feelings for his supervisor. And the idea was absolutely absurd. Victor Volkov was, beyond a doubt, not the kind of man who people liked in that manner; not genuinely, and those who said they did, they were only after his money, his wealth and his influence. By most, he was respected—or, rather feared, therefore the respected was forced. Socialites and business partners admired him, his success at such young age. However, no one would dear to play a fool and confess their feelings so bluntly—and, beyond that, certainly not with such intensity. So, Victor took a step forward and closed the gap and what little was left of distance between him and his assistant—or, he better called him secret admirer now. His silver eyes searched Walentyn's face, watching for a sign of deception: A nervous twitch, a guilty glance to the side—anything that would suggest what he tried to pull was a trick or cover-up. Nothing obvious jumped out. The sincerity in Walentyn's face was an incredible acting performance—and, frankly, Victor could not rule it out, either.

Then, Victor did something unexpected: 

He reached up one hand and gently touched Walentyn's chin with two fingers. The touch was light—testing and tender. His fingers tilted Walentny's head, studying his expression, sharply so. Those fingers felt cool against Walentyn's warm skin—though, the gesture itself wasn't romantic, neither was it hostile. Only curious. »Interesting,« muttered Victor, not taking his eyes off the face he was scrutinising. That one word, interesting, hung in the air like a cloud of smoke. It wasn't approval, and not rejection, either. He was merely observing his assistant—and somehow, Victor Volkov found the situation interesting, intriguing. Which was, for a man like him, who always showed zero interest in anything, of absolute danger. 

Victor did not pull his hand away, not yet. Instead, he let it linger on Walentyn's jawline for another heartbeat—and then, slowly so, he traced his thumb along the curve of it, a test:

Was that real, or are you lying to me to save your skin? 

And the air between them was now charged with a different tension—and entirely different one. Walentyn's breath hitched, for he felt so different now, too; and that tiny hitch gave him away. It was a micro-reaction, but Victor had noticed it—he noticed everything about a person he studied with such intensity: Their pulse, their breathing patterns, the movement of their eyes. And just now? Walentyn's body had betrayed him, it had only been a matter of time until his professional mask slipped. That tiny inhale? It meant surprise, nervousness, and, perhaps, even fear. Though, it could also be something far more complicated and complex than either of those things. For a split second, Victor's thumb stopped moving—then, he continued, slower that time, like he was experimenting what effect it had on Walentyn. His hand slid lower, over Walentyn's chest, further down...

...until it was Walentyn who couldn't endure it anymore; his hand curled around Victor's wrist, stopping him from crossing a line—right now, it was becoming dangerous, close to escalating. Victor did not resist when Walentyn grabbed his wrist—he just paused. For a moment, the two men stood frozen, close enough to feel each other's breath, and their eyes were locked. Again, Victor's expression was unreadable to Walentny, however, he looked a little challenged. Between them hung a silent question: »Why did you stop me?« No words, solely electrifying tension which crackled in the air. 

»...This is inappropriate,« mumbled Walentyn, the first to break the silence. 

Victor narrowed his eyes, inappropriate? What a bold thing to say, coming right out of his assistant's mouth. Walentyn had the nerve to reject him, the man who could own the world if he tried to. A muscle twitched in Victor's jaw; had Walenytn dared to wound his pride? That was unforgivable. Slowly, Victor pulled back his hand, not yanking it away, but his movement was deliberate, as though he was withdrawing a weapon he no longer intended to use. »Boring.«

Boring, that word was harsh. Victor turned away, dismissing Walentyn entirely. He walked back to his desk and there, he picked up a document, then sat down as if nothing had happened, returning back to his work, pretending that charging moment between them hadn't happened at all—like it was meaningless to him now that Walentyn hadn't let him have his way. In that sense, to Victor, at least, it was boring, utterly so. He did not show it through anger, nor through yelling; just cold indifference. He didn't look at Walentyn again, only flipped through the files. 

That dismissal stung, not because Walentyn cared whether Victor found him boring or not. But now, things were weird. Walentyn stood there, frozen in place, in the centre of the study, still reeling from Victor's sudden shift in mood. One second, they were merely inches apart, the tension thick enough to block oxygen from their lungs—and then, boring. As if Walentyn, the assistant, wasn't more than a dull distraction. 

When Victor reached for a pen beside his laptop, the still didn't glance up, so the message was clear as day to Walentyn: You are dismissed. 

Victor did not state it explicitly, but the younger man understood. 

»Kurwa!«

Frustrated, with Victor and himself, Walentyn exclaimed the cure into his quiet room. Again, he collapsed onto his bed—but now, he was even more exhausted than before. He was aware that, what he'd done, his »confession«, was solely for the sake of the mission; however, how was he supposed to go on with how things were from now on? Did he actually have to play and pretend to be Victor's little loverboy?! God, what had he just done? To get off the heaviness inside his chest, Walentyn groaned into the pillow. He'd confessed false feelings to Victor Volkov, the most dangerous and feared men among the socialites and elite in Moscow. All of that under the guise of a cover story. And now? To continue the mission, more or less, safely, more lying was required; from that day onwards, being the perfect assistant was not enough anymore—Walentyn had to pretend he liked that cold, manipulative man with zero empathy and who regarded others as solely tools or obstacles! Walentyn turned and dragged one hand over his face; it was extremely exhausting, really, mentally draining and emotionally messy. The bed creaked under his weight; kurwa, fuck. What was asked of him wasn't just espionage anymore, it was his personal nightmare. Kasprzyk had surely not briefed him on romantic deception. Not to forget one aspect: Soon, Victor would surely get married to Irina—they were engaged and it was only a matter of time. Therefore, Walentyn had not only confessed his »feelings« to another man, no. He had done that to a man who was already taken! 

The reality crashed down as if it were the ceiling above his head coming down. Their wedding date hadn't been announced thus far, but Walentyn would be the first one to know, anyway. However, he had seriously confessed, out of the blue; what sort of insane lie was that supposed to be?! As they said, one had to bear the burden of consequences and actions one committed, but what, in God's name, was Walentyn going to do now? There were two possibilities: Double down the fake romance, which was risky as hell—or, backtrack and act as though it never happened, which was so suspicious. 

Yes, Walentyn knew one thing for sure and with absolute certainty: His night, tonight, would be long. 

And morning came too soon. The penthouse was dipped in silence, sunlight was filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting golden streaks across the marble floor. The housekeeper had already been in and out, and they'd cleaned without disturbing neither Victor nor Walentyn. The latter woke up stiffly, his mind tangled with thoughts of, as he called it, the disaster of last night. He walked into the kitchen, only to find that Victor was already there: He sat at the breakfast nook, immaculate in his black tailored sweater and slacks, sipping coffee from a fine porcelain cup. Beside him lay the morning newspaper, but in the moment Walentyn appeared around the corner, he was not reading it. No, the second he saw the younger man, Victor looked up. Not a smile, no warmth in the morning—just the same cold stare of silver eyes, studying Walentyn. And then, the unforeseen happened: His lips curled into a smirk, a cruel one. 

It was not teasing, wasn't playful. With deliberate calm, Victor set down the coffee, and then, he leaned back in his chair—his long legs stretching out under the table. »Good morning,« he spoke smoothly, his voice laced with mockery. To him, the confession last night had been the funniest thing he'd ever heard, probably—so Walentyn thought, accepting that he'd turned into Victor's personal punchline. 

»...Good morning,« grumbled Walentyn back—not because he was polite first thing in the morning, no. Rather, he did not want to show just how pissed he really was. 

Victor did not respond. Instead, he kept staring, that smirk still playing around his lips, solely to infuriate Walentyn further. Then: »So,« a single word, drawn out too long. Again, he picked up his cup and took another slow sip, his eyes never leaving Walentyn's face for a second—God, that man was maddening, he was savouring the tension he was creating, shamelessly so! The silence stretched on and on, and Victor set down his cup with a soft clink. Then, finally: »Did you mean it?« A simple question, not shouted out. Nevertheless, the weight of it? Crushing mercilessly. Now, Victor was not making inquiries about Walentyn's background, no, he was asking about last night; the confession which had spiralled into something awkward and impossible to ignore. 

At the direct question, which sounded more like an accusation to him, Walentyn's stomach twisted. Had he meant it? That was a trap: Answering with yes would make him seem pathetic, a lovesick fool pining for a man who was already engaged (though that option would, by far, still be better than being caught). Answering with no, on the other hand, would expose his lie instantly, he would admit to it—and he'd have to reveal everything to Victor, which he absolutely wouldn't do, never. That was the worst option.

With patience, Victor watched his assistant, enjoying the visible discomfort he'd created.

After a while, Walentyn bit down on his bottom lip, then he muttered: »...I did.« 

Victor's smirk widened; ah, so his assistant did mean it. The lie held on—or, perhaps, in Victor's mind, it wasn't a lie at all. Perhaps, he genuinely believed Walentyn had feelings for him, and that made it all the more intriguing to him. He leaned forward, slightly so, his elbow resting on the table. In his eyes glinted something cold—amusement. »Come closer.«

Walentyn hesitated, his hands twitching at his sides. The command sent a chill down his spine—come closer. It did not sound hostile, no. Victor was not disgusted at Walentyn, wasn't yelling, accusing—he was playing with him, treating him like a toy to pass time. And that, so Walentyn found, was worse. Slowly, and stiffly, Walentyn stepped forward until he stood right before the chair where Victor sat. »On your knees.«

On... on his what? 

Obviously, that wasn't a request—it was a command. Victor's voice sounded low, an authority that left no room for argument and expected instant obedience. It had turned into a power play, pure dominance demanded from a man who saw submission as something natural and inevitable from the people beneath him. But Walentyn, he did not move an inch—he stared at Victor, wide-eyed and with a frown that tugged his brows. He—on his knees? Suddenly, Walentyn was acutely aware of the fact that he was still dressed in his pyjamas, which made the entire situation more awkward. 

As his assistant made no attempt to move, Victor's gaze narrowed: The frown, the hesitation—disrespect? In Victor Volkov's world, refusal to comply with his order was unacceptable—especially when that person lived with him, in his household. He was not a man who'd repeat himself nor say things twice. He waited, his eyes regarding Walentyn and daring him to defy. As the silence went on, it became clear that Victor's patience wasn't infinite. When Walentyn still refused to move, he exhaled sharply through his nose—a sigh of utter disappointment, definitely. He reached out one hand and curled it around Walentyn's wrist; not rough but firm, a grip that spoke words for itself: You will obey me. And then, in one swift motion, he yanked his assistant to the floor. 

As his bare knees hit the floor, a yelp escaped Walentyn's mouth. The impact stung, the marble floor felt ice cold against his skin. But barely did he have time to register the pain, for Victor was already looming over him, still seated in that chair. At first, he did not say a word, solely studied Walentyn's face: Wide eyes, a flush of humiliation on his pale cheeks—signs of the submission he'd forced out of the younger man. A slow, satisfied smirk shaped Victor's lips. »Looks good,« he said. 

Oh, that was not a praise. It dripped with condescension, like Victor was complementing his well-trained lapdog. He lifted his cup, took a sip, then set it down and rested his chin one one hand, looking down on Walentyn who kneeled there, on the floor; humiliated, confused and, in a way, trapped. 

What bothered Walentny, aside from the entire situation he found himself in, was that he crouched right between that bastard's legs, which meant that he was on eye-level with a man's crotch—and that, to be honest, scratched more on his dignity than anything else. A humiliating proximity. Walentyn's face burned, he could see the exact line of Victor's slacks: Dark fabric, perfectly pressed. What a degrading joke, he thought. All of that was not about espionage or suspicion any longer—Victor was asserting control over Walentyn! And then, suddenly, one hand flew forward and curled around the back of Walentyn's head. With ease, Victor pulled the younger man closer to his crotch—and cock.

Absolutely not, thought Walentyn, who surely would not allow that to happen. Instantly, his hands came up, too, and rested on Victor's knees, preventing himself from being pulled closer. Victor's grip inside Walentyn's hair tightened, and for a split second, something dangerous flashed across his face: Anger. Not rage, but quiet fury of a man who expected absolute obedience and was now being rejected by one of his petty pawns. His fingernails dug into Walentyn's scalp, hard and with the purpose of pain. He sent a clear message: I am in control here. You don't push me away. 

The struggle was silent but intense. Walentyn's hands remained on Victor's knees, refusing to budge; his muscles were tense and he held his breath. He knew Victor disliked to be defied—he despised it. Without breaking eye contact, Victor shifted his weight, slightly so, and then, using the strength from his upper body, he yanked Walentyn forward, disregarding the younger man's defiance. The sudden force and use of strength overpowered Walentyn and his hands slipped off Victor's knees. In an instant, his face was pressed against Victor's crotch and buried in everything below the belt. 

Still, Victor did not let go. His fingers stayed tangled in Walentyn's dark hair, holding him there—in place, trapped. He was now in absolute control of the situation. 

And then, for Walentny's final straw, Victor spoke one cold but cruel word: »Suck.« 

Chapter Text

One single word, spoken so shamelessly: Suck. 

The temperature inside the room dropped; the demand was cold, not a request. Victor Volkov ordered his own assistant to suck him off, as though that was the most normal and natural thing in the world. His eyes were hard as he kept on starring down at Walentyn, and there was no shame, solely the expectation that the younger man would obey without hesitation. Of course, he did not—he clenched his teeth, tightly so, and did not move, not even an inch. However, before he could form an insult on his tongue, Victor laughed right into his face—wholeheartedly. It sounded sharp, mocking and coldly cruel; and it was real, loud and filled with absolute amusement, echoing off the walls. It was not that he found Walentyn's resistance funny, not exactly. Rather, it was the absurdity of the entire situation: His quiet assistant kneeling between his legs, that angry and defiant, but also horrified expression plastered on his face while he still refused the command. It tickled Victor's dark sense of humour just right, if one could even call it that. 

And then, suddenly, his hands released Walentyn, sending the younger man stumbling back, losing his balance and falling down right onto his butt. He hit the floor—hard. »I thought you would like it,« said Victor, his voice dipped in cruelty and mockery as he regarded the younger man on the floor, all drowned in anger, »to suck off the man you like.«

That fall had stung, but those words? The mocking tone in Victor's voice tore Walentyn's dignity into thousand pieces. That laugh, his sick sarcasm... it was humiliating. Victor played him, dirty so, and he knew damn well what he was doing. He did not simply reject Walentyn's confession, no. He twisted it into a joke, tormenting Walentyn just for his own fun. Now, he sat there, seeing Walentyn as something that had him entertained the most in, most likely, years. 

With his face burning, Walentyn scrambled back to his feet, saving what was left of his Polish pride. He couldn't say anything, no comeback—and the fury kept boiling beneath his skin. Victor watched his rise with that smug smirk, finding it amusing how Walentyn's hands trembled at his sides as he straightened out himself. God, it was impossible, infuriating! He hated how quick Victor switched from one moment to the next: Now, he, again, picked up his coffee cup, causally so, as if nothing had happened! 

A muscle in Walentyn's jaw jumped, he refused to meet Victor's eyes and had turned his head to the side, slightly so. The walls were pressing on him—worse, they'd seen everything and were mocking him, too. In a rush, Walentyn turned on his heel and stormed back to his room with quick but stiff strides. He swung open his door and closed it behind him, then he pressed his back against it, slowly sliding down all the way to the floor, cold wood against his spine. His heart pounded, not from exertion but from fury. He covered his face with both hands and rubbed it, and then, he exhaled through his nose, a long sigh. That bastard. Victor was torturing him, toying with Walentyn's fake confession and mocked him, laughed into his face—and then, he kicked him away like garbage, a worthless pieces of trash. 

With what was left of his will-power, Walentyn regained his composure and got back onto his feet. His own cold focus was steadying his shaky hands. 

Walentyn walked over to the nightstand, and his hand grabbed the encrypted device from under the drawer. His finger pressed down on the button to activate it, and the blue light blinked once. Quick and efficient, he typed a coded message: »MISSION COMPROMISED EMOTIONALLY. VICTOR AWARE OF POSSIBLE DECEPTION BUT NOT CONFIRMING YET. DIRECT CONFRONTATION TODAY, NEGATIVE OUTCOME. REQUESTING GUIDANCE.«

No further details about what had happened between Victor and him, only enough for Kasprzyk to understand that something had gone wrong and that Walentyn was in need of direction now. Without a sound, the device sent the message over to Warsaw. Meanwhile, Walentny sat on the edge of his bed and stared at nothing, his mind racing with a thousand thoughts: What would Kasprzyk do? Pull him out, now that his disguise was under a threat to be uncovered? Or, would he adjust orders? 

Of more importance was, to Walentyn: How long could he keep that up? 

The car ride to the company was in torturing silence. Victor sat in the backseat, scrolling through emails on his tablet, seeming rather disinterested. He was ignoring Walentyn, completely, almost as if the vehicle was driving itself and no one was sitting behind the steering wheel. No smug smirk, no cruelty, not even mockery. And Walentyn, he kept his eyes glued on the road ahead. 

Moscow's streets passed by in a blur: Grey buildings, morning traffic, dust of snow. Walentyn was really concentrating—not because he was nervous and wanted to distract himself, no. It was safer than constantly watching Victor through the rearview mirror, so he found; no eye contact, no unnecessary movements. He just had to drive that car, that was all required of him in that moment. He knew damn well avoidance was not professional, however, it kept his face neutral and his emotions from boiling over—which would be a far greater threat to him. 

They reached Volkov Industries, and the sleek black Mercedes pulled into the private underground parking. Walentny parked the vehicle on Victor's reserved spot. The latter was the first to exit, without a word. He straightened his suit jacket as he marched towards the elevator, expecting his assistant to follow as he always did. Walentyn did; and while he fell into steps behind Victor, he held the small device in his hands, already scrolling through all of the appointments of today. 

9 AM: Meeting with board members. 

11:30 AM: Lunch with Irina at Le Ciel restaurant. 

3 PM: Security briefing with head guards.

»Cancel lunch,« ordered Victor when they stood side by side inside the elevator. The command came out of nowhere. Walentyn glanced up at Victor, who did not return the look but solely stared ahead while the elevator ascended. Cancel lunch with Irina. That was rather unexpected, thought Walentyn. All the time, Victor had been so firm and focused about maintaining his public image with her, especially since their engagement announcement was creeping closer. The assistant did not question it aloud, although he did wonder: Why? Instead of a visible reaction, he tapped a message on the device to cancel the reservation—he'd learned his lesson and wouldn't make the same mistake twice: To interfere with Victor's decisions. 

Victor did not very much acknowledge his assistant afterwards. The elevator continued its away upwards in quiet, both men silently standing shoulder-to-shoulder. Something distant and detached hung in the air, as if last night and the morning hadn't happened—it had simply been erased, easy as that. Then, the elevator dinged; penthouse floor. Obviously, Victor stepped out first, it was always the same order. His long strides carried him down the hallway towards his personal office. The executive assistant's desk—Walentyn's spot—sat outside, a sleek glass partition separating it from Victor's domain. Quietly, Walentyn followed and took his seat behind his desk. He didn't greet other employees passing by, though he bobbed his head, for he'd learned to do at least that much to show the bare minimum of politeness towards other people. He wasn't allowed to have small talk, but he did not have any time for that, anyway; only business: Assistant mode activated.

As Walentyn sat at his desk, he opened the digital planer on his computer and confirmed the lunch cancellation which had gone through. A notification popped up: Reservation for Mr. Volkov & Ms. Ivanova—cancelled. He closed it without a reaction, just another task he'd completed. The office was quiet now, only the hum of his own computer and the distance shuffle of footsteps from other floors filled the air around him with something. 

The minutes ticked by. Victor's door remained shut, not a single sound could be heard from the inside. Surely, he was reviewing documents. Walentyn preferred to work in silence, too: Organising emails, sorting paperwork for the finance meeting later, double-checking security protocols for the 3 PM briefing. Routine tasks, though, his mind wasn't on them entirely. 

Finally, when Walentyn had almost forgotten, came a reply: From Warsaw. A single message from Kasprzyk. Discreetly, Walentyn checked it under the desk, his eyes scanning the coded text fast and efficient: »DO NOT DISENGAGE EMOTIONALLY. VICTOR IS VOLATILE, YOUR COVER MAY BE TESTED. CONTINUE PROXIMITY, AVOID INTIMACY IF POSSIBLE. REPORT DAILY, DO NOT ESCALATE CONFLICT UNTIL MISSION-CRITICAL.«

Not a mention of pulling out Walentyn or changing tactics—nor directions. Quietly, the agent exhaled; continue proximity. That meant to endure Victor's moods, his spontaneous and torturous attacks, more acts of humiliation and degradation—all of that without breaking character. Walentyn had to suck it up, which was easily said; not allowed to exit, and he had to avoid confrontations unless it was absolutely necessary for the sake of the mission. He deleted the message and powered off the device before returning to his work, duty, whatever. He showed no visible reaction on his face, his features remained neutral, professional; an assistant who was going about his day. 

9 AM. The finance team had gathered all together in the conference room; elegant, glass-walled, with a long polished wooden table in the centre, surrounded by high-backed chairs in a circle. Victor entered first, and Walentyn followed quietly behind him—he was carrying a sleek folder in his hands, containing today's financial reports. He took his usual seat: At the end of the table—the spot reserved for the executive assistant. From there, he could observe the meeting without intruding unless he was called upon—which was never the case, not usually. 

There was some time left and all associates arranged themselves; and while Walentyn was going through and over a few documents, his ears caught some of the Russian words the men across the room spoke—and they were talking about him, that much he comprehended. Those murmurs, they reached Walentyn, even though they were quiet. 

»Polish?« One of the executives mumbled under his breath that reeked of booze. 

Another replied: »Didn't know Volkov hired foreigner for close roles.«

With a chuckle, the third one added: »Wonder how he got in.«

They were not overly hostile, Walentyn had had to listen to worse than that, but the suspicion was there; even among associates, the talk was making its round. There was that unspoken disbelief—how could Victor do that, hire a foreigner, a Pole at that, for such intimate position? The comments about him were not loud, however, they carried. Walentyn kept his face neutral, his eyes were glued to the document before him; act natural, remain calm. He understood those words well enough, and he did not miss their glances, either, which spoke words on their own: What was a Pole doing so close to Victor Volkov? 

Then, Victor rose—and the moment he did? All chatter died in an instant. Heads turned towards him, respectful silence setting among the associates and executives. As his eyes roamed over the room, Victor did not acknowledge anyone specifically. He solely studied their faces for a second, and then, they landed on Walentyn—of course. 

The meeting began. With a firm »Let's start,« Victor opened the session. Reports were handed out; one of the executives stood and summarised quarterly earnings—numbers filled the air and ears, it was all about profit, investments and costs. All the while, Walentyn remained still, taking mental notes in case Victor demanded details later. Afterwards, another associate—an older man with sharp and stern features—cleared his throat. »There's an issue regarding Zygmunt Industries in Warsaw.«

Hearing Warsaw, Walentyn's pen stilled mid-air. Zygmunt, he'd heard of that before, it was the name of a company tied to Wywiad's network—they had ties to Polish intelligence operations, and even espionage work. 

Victor's expression shifted—subtly but noticeably so. He leaned forward, slightly, his elbows resting on the table. »What kind of issue?« His tone sounded calm, but beneath that, intrigue was hiding. Real intrigue. 

The man flipped open a dossier. »They've been expanding into our Eastern European markets—aggressively.« A pause. Then: »We suspect they are using underhanded tactics to undermine Volkov Industries in the region.«

Though he kept his face completely blank, Walentyn's pulse jumped. Fuck. 

An even older associate, round-faced and greying at the temples, slammed his palm on the table—with full force. »Those Polish bastards are always meddling!« He was grumbling, shouting. »First, smuggling routes. And now, they are targeting our supply chains?!«

Walentyn clenched his jaw, a tiny muscle twitched. He loved his country, fought for it—and hearing those old Russian men talk badly about his beloved people made anger simmer beneath his skin. The insult stung like a slap right into his face—Polish bastards. Yet, he said nothing, he couldn't. 

As it went on, as the associates kept on complaining, Victor listened, attentively so—however, he did not react. Finally, after it was becoming too much, he lifted his hand. That gesture was enough to shut up everyone in a second. He himself, he did not defend Poland, why would he? Instead: »What do you propose?« The question was directed at the oldest associate, the one who'd also complained the loudest of all. 

The man who Victor had addressed straightened, pleased that Victor took his input so seriously. »We cut their supply routes first,« he said firmly, finally. »Block their logistics in Belarus. Starve them of access to our markets.«

Another associate added: »Perhaps, put pressure on Polish government through diplomatic channels?«

Those men were discussing economic warfare—brutally so. And Victor, he absorbed their reactions and suggestions without immediate reaction. He tapped his fingers on the table—once, twice—thinking. Then, finally, he spoke again. »I will handle it.« Two words, spoken in a calm manner, decisive, too. The room quieted down, for Victor Volkov had made a decision. There were no further discussion needed, they all knew better than to interfere.

The meeting had ended, and everyone left—one after one. Victor stood by the window, engaged in a conversation with the older associates; what they were talking about, Walentyn couldn't hear, not from afar. He closed the folder in front of him and rose from his seat. From his periphery, he saw someone approaching him slowly: A man around his age. »Excuse me,« asked the colleague, hesitantly so. He was tall, appeared to be slightly nervous, and his messy brown hair and glasses, which he pushed up the bridge of his nose with one finger, made him look the opposite of dangerous. He spoke slowly, too, for he was not sure how fluent the Polish assistant was. »Do you, ah, speak English?« Probably the preferred language for a proper conversation.

Walentyn turned his head and studied the subordinate from head to toe—not unkindly, just carefully. »Yes,« he responded, the words rolling off his tongue much smoother—he was fluent in English. The guy's face relaxed, visibly so, and his shoulders slumped back slightly. »Ah, well. I am Oleg,« he introduced himself and held out his hand for a handshake. After a short moment of not moving, Walentny reached out and shook it. Oleg's grip was firm, but not overbearing—only the hold of a man who wanted to exchange a friendly handshake. 

A smile formed on his lips, he was obviously relieved Walentyn comprehended and spoke English. »I didn't know you were Polish,« admitted Oleg openly, and his tone wasn't mocking—he was solely stating what he thought. Then, he lowered his voice and leaned in, but only a little. »I know it's not easy, but ignore the older associates. They are much conservative.« 

Walentyn gave a small nod, genuinely appreciating Oleg's honesty, a rare good. It wasn't often someone acknowledged his nationality without hostility—at least in Russia. Most of the men he'd encountered thus far, and it had been six months since he'd arrived in Moscow, ignored him or muttered something behind his back he could not comprehend. »Thanks.« 

Oleg glanced at Victor who was still talking by the windows, then, he quickly looked back at Walentyn. »You've been here for a few months, correct?« He was speaking more casually but also more quietly now, as if he was afraid someone might overhear. »How do you like working for Mr. Volkov?« It was a question born out of genuine curiosity, not the nosy gossip or idle talk. Oleg actually wondered, wanted to know, what it was like to be so close to Victor Volkov. 

Walentyn hesitated. How did he like working for Victor? Hard to tell, the answer definitely wasn't simple. Victor was a cold man; demanding and unpredictable at many times—yesterday and today had been especially cruel, though that was mostly because of the fake love confession Walentyn had dropped like a bomb, out of the blue. Although, admitting all of that to a colleague, even someone who'd made a friendly and fine first impression on Walentyn, was risky as hell. What if Oleg reported back? »It can be demanding, but I like it.« He smiled—not forced but polite, in a way, although it was not entirely sincere, either. The answer he'd given was safe, neutral and professional. 

For a second, it was now Oleg who studied him, as though he could tell the word liking was an exaggeration. Nonetheless, he did not press further, for that would be impolite. Instead, he lowered his voice further and said: »I heard he can be intense.« A pause, a second ticked by. »But you handle him well.«

You handle him well. 

Before Walentyn could respond to that:

»Walentyn.«

The sound of Victor's voice, low and smooth and commanding, made the younger man's spine stiffen and his shoulders straighten back. Boże, he hadn't heard Victor approach, not at all! That man could move like a panther in shadows. Oleg instantly straightened up, too, and his friendly demeanour was gone as soon as his boss showed up before him. Victor stood behind Walentyn, his eyes fixed on him—and then, briefly, they flicked over to Oleg. Under his hawk-like gaze, Oleg had to swallow hard—it made him utterly nervous to be regarded like that. Though, Victor did not speak a word to his subordinate, solely looked at him for what was merely a second. Then, his focus shifted back onto Walentyn. »We are leaving,« he stated. He didn't elaborate further, it was an order without explanation. And without acknowledgement, he turned around and walked towards the door. 

At last, Walentyn flicked an apologetic glance at Oleg. He'd learned to acknowledge all associates, even subordinates—the bare minimum of politeness. Oleg gave Walentyn a small but understanding smile: It's okay. He knew how his boss operated, that man never acknowledged subordinates. A nod? A glance? Too much of social grace for a man like Victor Volkov. 

Walentyn quickly gathered the folder on the desk and followed after Victor. 

Chapter Text

Victor did not slow his pace for Walentyn, he just expected his assistant to somehow keep up with it effortlessly. They strode through the hallway, passing other employees who bowed their heads respectfully as Victor came into view. No one dared to look directly at him, and no one dared to speak unless they were directly spoken to. The hierarchy inside the company was clear; everyone below Victor knew their place. They reached the private elevator, reserved for Victor—and only him. The moment those doors slid open, Walentyn silently followed inside. Victor pressed the button to the penthouse floor where his office was located. The doors slid close, and smoothly, the elevator ascended; the glass walls offered a sweeping view on Moscow's skyline below.

The ride was quiet, only the hum of machinery and the distant sound of the city filled the air with noise. Victor stood straight, staring ahead—and Walentyn stood there, too; not too far and not too close. The tension was... weird, charged. Walentyn hadn't forgotten what had happened between Victor and him that morning, and he was acutely aware it was only a matter of time until the next strike would come, the next attack from Victor, whether verbally or emotionally—therefore, he had to keep up his guard even more than he usually did, for every second with Victor felt as if he was walking on incredibly thin ice. Then, the elevator dinged. Victor stepped out first, followed by his assistant, who already braced himself for what would come next: What would Victor do now? Ignore him, again? Or, perhaps, escalate? 

Instead of going straight to his desk, Victor walked towards the panoramic windows inside his office, his hands shoved inside his pockets, and stared out at Moscow's sprawl; silently, calculating. Minutes passed by and not a word was spoken between those two men—the silence inside the room was eerie. Then, finally, Victor cut through it: »You were talking to Oleg.« It wasn't a question, only a cold observation—nonetheless, Walentyn was surprised that Victor knew the subordinate's name. His tone gave away, well, nothing: No anger, no suspicion. It was as if he was solely stating a fact and just felt the urge to say it aloud. 

Calmly, Walentyn clarified: »He approached me.«

Victor turned his head, enough to glance at his assistant over his shoulder. No visible reaction, only assessing the answer. »What about?« He inquired, turning away again, but not fully forward. 

Walentyn remained professional, despite the unusual amount of questions. »He asked me if I liked working here,« he responded, truthfully but vaguely. No mention of the comment on Victor's intensity. Oleg had been friendly to him, kind even, so there was no reason to report anything to Victor if not required. 

The Russian absorbed the answer. He asked if I liked working here, so simple and harmless; solely small talk colleagues exchanged among each other all the time. For a second, Victor looked as though he was thinking about something—and then, suddenly, he shrugged, as if the entire topic bored him, out of the blue. »Schedule a meeting with Kotov,« he commanded—and the interrogation was over, no interest in pressing further. 

Kotov. Valentyn nodded while he made a mental note—after he'd abruptly cancelled yesterday's meeting, he wanted to reschedule it? Walentyn's brain flagged the inconsistency. He sent a message to Nikolai's secretary, scheduling a meeting for tomorrow at 10 AM. Yesterday—meeting cancelled without explanation. Today—meeting back on the calendar like nothing had happened. Such sudden shifts in priorities are noticeable and significant when it came to reporting back to Warsaw. Perhaps, during the discussion about finances, something related to Kotov had come up? Could Kotov be involved in the Zygmunt situation? Mentally, Walentyn filed the detail away—meeting with Kotov reinstated. Although, he did not react outwardly, his mind was racing with questions, he'd definitely have to report that to Kasprzyk later.

All of that went over Victor's head. He walked to his desk, sat down and opened a folder; Kotov's file. All of the business partners of Volkov Industries had such a file in Victor's archive—however, what Walentyn was wondering about was: Why was Victor reading through Kotov's file? Those papers inside detailed recent business transactions between the two companies, that much Walentyn knew. The shift of focus was so obvious: Victor was digging into something specific—related to Kotov, which would also explain the sudden change in mind about the meeting.

Just then, the office door suddenly swung open and slammed against the wall, almost. Inside stormed a bodyguard, unannounced and urgent. »Boss,« he spoke quickly, »there's a problem at the warehouse district.«

Immediately, Victor looked up—uncharacteristically of him. He appeared to be alerted, also out of the ordinary. However, he wasn't annoyed—rather, his interest had been piqued. 

Something was happening. 

»What kind of problem?« He asked, on his feet in a smooth motion, his face hardening. 

The bodyguard hesitated. Then: »Armed men. They've breached security-7.« He went on. »They're demanding to speak to you, boss. Personally.«

Security-7—Victor's most sensitive warehouse, the place where he kept black-market goods. 

Walentyn looked at Victor, and he saw that his jaw was clenched; demanding to speak to him personally, that was not negotiation—that was a threat, a direct one, displayed. Without hesitation, Victor grabbed his coat from the back of his chair and shrugged it on. »Alert the other guards,« he ordered. »I'm going there.« Then, his eyes flicked to Walentyn, a silent command: You are coming, too. And the assistant did not question it—he followed Victor. The bodyguard had already gone to coordinate with others. Suddenly, the office was emptier, the air electrified with urgency as they headed towards the elevator with quick and efficient steps. All the while, Walenytn's mind was racing: 

Who were the attackers? Who the hell would dare to attack Volkov's warehouse? That wasn't a random robbery—security-7 was heavily guarded, only someone with serious firepower, inside information or a serious death wish would pull something like that. Or, Wywiad. Walenytn's thoughts spun; could it be Kasprzyk? Or, perhaps, rivals from another mafia group in Moscow? What Walentyn found more suspicious was the timing: Six months, that was the exact anniversary of the last major security breach at Volkov Industries, the one that had forced Victor to increase guards, install news systems—and, lastly, schedule today's meeting, which was supposed to begin soon. A coincidence? Walentyn very much doubted that, reasonably so: That was planned retaliation, someone knew patterns and exploited them on purpose. Not spontaneously, no—planned, calculated, strategic. Whoever it was had waited half a year and studied Volkov's security rotations, and then, they had struck right when the heads of the guards and Victor might be distracted with other business matters—such as today's briefing. 

Purley a professional job done, or was that an inside betrayal? 

The car ride to the warehouse was absolute tense. Victor rode in the passenger seat, his face a mask of utter cold focus. The driver, not Walentyn that time, sped through Moscow's streets, ignoring most of the traffic lights turning red. Walentyn, he sat in the back, his eyes sharp, yet also neutral enough not to raise suspicion. He was watching the buildings blur past, his mind still spiralling around all of those questions: Who had done that? Why today? During the entire drive, no one spoke. Ahead loomed the warehouse district: Fenced, dark, and eerily quiet. Black SUV's, belonging to Victor's private security team, were already parked outside. And, as their car screeched to a halt, too, gunfire was already exploding around them. Men were shouting, frantic and overlapping, commands barked around in Russian—which Walentyn did not comprehend. The bullets drowned out speech, shouting guards mixed with the yelling of the unknown attackers—it was chaos in its purest and simplest form. Victor, however, processed it instantly and did not wait nor hesitate a second: He grabbed a rifle from one of his men and began to move forward. 

Walentyn's eyes widened and he stood there, stunned; what the hell was happening?! Quickly, he pulled his earpieces from his pocket and plugged them in, connecting to Warsaw to contact Kasprzyk. With a soft beep, he was informed he could now speak and report, but before he could open his mouth, gunfire erupted closer, too close. He ducked behind the Mercedes and said, in a hushed whisper: »Sir. An attack on Victor's warehouse.«

Immediately, Kasprzyk's voice came through. »Where? How serious?« No panic, only tactical focus—how a true agent had to respond to real-time crisis. 

Walentyn peered over the car hood: The guards were returning fire, muzzle flashes were lighting up the dark yard in the industrial region. »Security-7,« reported Walentyn. »Armed men demanding Volkov.«

A pause on the other end as Kasprzyk processed those words. Then: »Where is Volkov?«

Walentyn's eyes found Victor, who was moving through the chaos with the rifle in his hand while barking orders at his guards. »He's on-site,« whispered Walentyn. »Leading defence.«

No hesitation from Kasprzyk: »Understood. Stay out of direct combat unless necessary. Observe and report.« Then, he added: »...And be careful.«

The line did not disconnect. Unarmed and with no gear, Walentyn stayed crouched behind the vehicle, his eyes following Victor. That man moved like a soldier, fast and precise. He did not panic, just took charge and control: He was directing his guards, shouting over fire while bullets whizzed over their heads. A guard collapsed with a huff—hit. The entire scene was turning into a full-scale battle. Then: Something cold pressed against the back of Walentyn's head, and the agent froze. The barrel of the gun was cold against his skull, and unyielding. A voice, rough, said: »Don't move.«

That wasn't once of Victor's guards, that much Walentyn recognised. He thought it had to be one of the attackers—he had snuck up behind Walentyn and held him at gunpoint now. Walentyn swallowed, and then, slowly, he raised his hands into the air—he had been outgunned, had no weapon to himself. The attacker did not say anything else, only kept the gun pressed firmly against Walentyn's head as he got back to his feet. Around them, the chaos continued; shouts, explosions. It was loud and violent and brutal. And now, Walentyn couldn't move nor call out, not without risking a bullet inside his head. 

»Turn around.«

Walentyn did. Then, as he stood face-to-face with the attacker, the man yanked him up by his collar, roughly so, and shoved him towards a shadowy corridor between two other warehouses. A second man appeared around the corner, also armed. They dragged Walentyn away from the main battle zone, somewhere quieter and more abandoned—while Victor and his guards were still engaged in the fight. The two men were not shooting, not yet. Clearly, though, they had orders. 

The corridor was narrow: Concrete walls, flickering and buzzing overhead lights. From the main yard, in the distant, gunfire kept on echoing, muffled by metal structures. Explosions rumbled and the floor shook—flash bangs, grenades? Old rusty pipes lined the ceiling and a rotten smell hung in the air. Abandoned crates and debris littered on the ground from previous operations. In that area, there were no guards—it was a blind spot in Volkov's security grid. The man pushed Walentyn forward, and the shove sent him stumble ahead, his shoes scuffing against the cool and cracked concrete. Now, one attacker stood in the front, the other behind Walentyn—he was trapped. The one before him lead the way, navigating quick and efficiently through the maze of corridors and storage areas: Whoever these men were, they had studied the routes. The men did not speak to each other, or Walentyn. They were just moving—towards something, or someone. 

A cold sweat broke out on the back of Walentyn's neck, although he remained calm and composed outwardly: Where the hell were they taking him? His mind was racing faster than his heartbeat; distract, disarm, escape. The moment the corridor turned darker, subtly so—a blind spot between lights—Walentny made his move. In one fluid motion, he ducked, low and fast, under the attackers gun arm. Before the man had time to process and operate, Walentyn slammed his elbow into his solar plexus—hard. The attacker inhaled sharply, doubling over the sharp pain. For a split second, the gun in his hand wavered. 

»Poczekaj!« The other man in the front exclaimed; »Wait!«

Upon hearing those words spoken in his native tongue, Walentyn froze mid-action, about to strike the man on the ground again. The word had rolled off the front man's tongue in perfect Polish. Walentyn's eyes snapped to the attackers face, and for the first time, he really looked at the man: Young, late 20s, roughly his age. Not a foreign mercenary, no—someone who sounded like a native Pole. The realisation hit Walentyn: Those attackers were not random thugs, or from a rival mafia, they were most likely from Warsaw, Wywiad.The whole thing was targeted—and those men knew exactly who Walentyn was. They probably didn't come directly from Kasprzyk, the supervisor would have informed Walentyn about that, surely—however, they were most likely operatives who had been sent from Poland, possibly under Wywiad's command. Not a coincidence, indeed not—it was a part of the mission. 

The injured attacker on the ground, still clutching his stomach, glared at Walentyn—though, he did not raise his gun again. Instead, the other man stepped forward, and his hands were slightly raised before his body in a non-threatening gesture. »We are not here to kill you!« He spoke rapidly in Polish. »We need to talk.« A tense silence fell among them, only the gunfire in the distance cut through it. Despite the familiarity of the language, Walentyn did not lower his guard, not even for a second. His body stayed coiled, ready to fight or flight if that whole thing turned out to be a trick. Yet, the man's words, »We need to talk,« that implied something far from capture or execution. 

Who exactly were they? Who had sent them? Or, was this an independent operation from Warsaw? 

»Who are you?« Walentyn demanded to know, he wouldn't trust them until he had identified at least that. 

The man held Walentyn's gaze, and then, he replied: »We're from Warsaw. Sent to extract you.«

Warsaw. Not Wywiad. 

The injured man groaned. »Kasprzyk authorised the op,« he added. »He confirmed it's time to pull you out.«

Extraction, not assassination. Still, Walentyn's gut screamed no. He had just reported back to Kasprzyk, that man wouldn't just send a team to extract him without a word about that. Too messy for a man like him, too reckless for a man who valued secrecy and control. Thus, Walentyn's eyes narrowed. »Prove it,« he said to the man before him. »Prove that Kasprzyk sent you.« No room for negotiation; Walentyn refused to move an inch until those man verified themselves. 

Under Walentyn's cold regard, the man did not flinch. Slowly, his hand slid inside the pocket of his jacket—not to suddenly pull out a weapon, no. What came to the surface was a small device, and with careful fingers, the man unlocked it and turned the screen to Walentyn, showing him a secure message from Kasprzyk, sent right after the call with Walentyn had disconnected. »ASSET EXTRACTION AUTHORISED.« And underneath, encrypted: A coded phrase only Kasprzyk would use.

Walentyn stared at the message, the coded phrase. It was a specific sequence solely Kasprzyk and his most trusted operatives would know. Walentyn's suspicion wavered, although, it did not vanish entirely, not yet. The message was real, but still: Why now? Why so suddenly, like that? Walentyn's eyes moved from the screen to the man's face and he asked exactly that: »Why?«

The man exhaled. »Because Volkov is about to be exposed,« he explained. »A leak—someone sold intel to Russian security.« Then, his face hardened. »They are coming for you next. And Kasprzyk wants you out before they get here.« 

It wasn't a rescue mission from the bottom of Wywiad's heart, Walentyn was aware. Rather, it was about damage control—if Russian authorities found out Poland had sent a spy into the country...

Walentyn understood. If Victor was close to being exposed—all those black-market deals, his connections to the mafia—that meant everyone around him, including his Polish assistant, was in danger, too. Kasprzyk was not extracting Walentyn out of empathy or because of any emotions he held—it was to protect Poland. A cold logic, though, it made much sense. 

The man checked his watch, urgently so. »Five minutes before the extraction team arrives.« He looked up at Walentyn. »They're breaching the outer fence now.«

That meant there was neither time for a long debate nor to question Kasprzyk's methods. Walentyn had to make a choice: Stay, and thereof risk being caught in Victor's downfall—or, leave with them. 

»Dawaj!« Urged the other man, who was back on his feet, still wincing but functioning. He was waving them forward, down a narrow side corridor. The clock was ticking, time wouldn't stop for Walentyn so he could calculate all the risks and decide; the extraction team was en route, and Walentyn merely had half a second left to make his final decision. 

Follow or stay. 

Chapter Text

Fuck it. 

Walentyn sprinted after the two men. No hesitation anymore, no second-guessing Kasprzyk's order. If the Russian's were coming and Volkov's empire was about to collapse? Staying would be the stupidest decision to could ever make. 

The men led the way through winding back passages of the warehouse district. Those were routes they, evidently so, knew in advance. They moved—fast, silent and trained. Behind them, the gunfire and shouting faded into backgrounded noises as the distance between them and the battle increased along the escape route. Ahead was a rusted service door that led to the outer permitter fence. Beyond that, a black van parked—no plates, the engine already alive. The extraction team was ready to rescue. Walentyn climbed into the vehicle and the doors slammed shut behind him. Inside, two more operatives sat; their faces were masked and they were dressed in tactical gear. No words were exchanged, they did not waste time on that. The two other Poles jumped in, too, and joined Walentyn on the backseat. The tires screeched as they pulled away from Volkov's warehouse, security-7, leaving the gunfire, chaos and all of that far, far behind. 

The van sped through narrow alleyways, avoiding main roads where police could linger. Walentyn pressed his back against the seat, his heart hammering as the situation settled down to his bones: It was fucking over. His cover as Victor's assistant? Gone. Now—extraction back to Warsaw, Poland—home. 

Poland, Warsaw. 

Hours later, Walentyn stood inside Kasprzyk's office: Dimly lit with maps of Europe and huge surveillance screens lining the walls. Behind a desk sat Kasprzyk himself, calm as ever. Although, so Walentyn noticed, he'd gained more grey strands in his hair since the last time he'd seen him. »You're out,« informed Kasprzyk the young agent. 

Walentyn nodded, absorbing the confirmation—now, it was official: The mission was over. Nonetheless, his eyes narrowed, for he wanted to know what really happened. »Who were the attackers?«

Kasprzyk leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. »Russian Federal Security,« he said, his tone sounding flat. »They had intel on Volkov's operations—and you. They were sent to arrest him and detain anyone who is connected to his networks.« Then, his expression turned into a more solemn one. »Your name was flagged as possible spy.«

Walentyn did not react, though he swallowed. That had been close. Nearly, the Russian's would've caught a Polish spy inside their county. Another question still lingered on his tongue: »I assume Volkov won't be a threat from now on?« Positive news, finally. 

Kasprzyk confirmed. »Not for long.« One hand rubbed his chin. »Russian security has gathered enough evidence to dismantle his entire operation—financial records, black-market deals, even ties to political corruption.« Then, a slow smirk curled on Kasprzyk's lips—speaking of satisfaction. Victor Volkov was finished. His power, his connections and control over Easter European trade and politics had been a direct threat to Poland's security—for decades, even when his grandfather had been the head of the Volkov Family, meaning before Victor had been born. 

And now? Russian authorities were dismantling him—permanently so. There would be no more of Volkov's black-market deals, no more political influence that stretched to Warsaw. 

With how things had turned out, Kasprzyk looked pleased. »Mission success,« he declared. Then: »You can return home.« His tone had shifted—his voice did not sound soft nor warm, but, perhaps, a little more personal than solely a supervisor speaking to his subordinate. Home. Not a safe house, not an alias—no, home. Walentyn was back in Poland, his real life—everything he had, secretly, missed for all of those months he had spent in Moscow. It was over—he was not undercover anymore. Deeply, as if shrugging off the weight he'd been holding, Walentyn exhaled, deeply. For the very first time in months, he felt relieved. No more acting, no more pretending to be Victor's obedient assistant. 

There was gratitude in Walentyn's eyes; he nodded his head at Kasprzyk and, without a dramatic farewell, he turned towards the door—back to freedom. 

Walentyn did not reside in Warsaw but in Łódź, a city in the centre of Poland, known for a history of textile production. There, he lived with his mother—Karolina. 

The train ride home took an hour and a half. Walentyn, he had decided not to sent his mother a text message, for surprising her with his return was way better. In months, he hadn't been home; it was always like that, his missions always kept him away from home for far too long. Karolina did not know what her son truly did—family members were not allowed to know about an agent's real occupation. So, his mother thought he worked abroad for a logistics company—nothing dangerous—but it explained his frequent travels without raising suspicion. 

Finally, the train pulled into Łódź Station. Walentyn grabbed his duffle bag—no weapons, no spy gear, only his belongings and civilian clothes he'd left at HQ before departure. Now, he looked like any other tired traveler who was on his way to return back home. He headed into the familiar street towards their small apartment building, his heart pounding a little as he entered the familiar neighbourhood. And his mother had no idea he was coming. 

When he'd climbed up the stairs to the second floor, he saw that the door to their tiny apartment was slightly ajar—meaning that Karolina had gone out briefly, most likely to go grocery shopping. Quietly, Walentyn stepped inside—but before, he took off his shoes. By the entryway, his nose immediately inhaled the smell of pierogi and the scent of laundry detergent. He made his way to the kitchen and his eyes found a note on the fridge, reading: »Gone to buy bread. Back soon.«

That note, he thought, she'd definitely left it for their neighbour and closest friend—Iwonka Wieczorek. His mother had been friends with her ever since they'd moved in—and often, Iwonka would come over and visit for tea or coffee, or vice versa. 

Without his mother, the apartment was quiet—too quiet after months of spy work, tension and Victor's merciless oppression. Walentyn glanced around: The furniture was the same, cozy and all, and on the shelf, there were family photos of him as a child, with his mother. On the counter in the kitchen dried dishes on a rag. A faint smile formed on his lips; nothing had changed, not even a tiny bit. He sat down on the couch, sinking into the soft cushions with a sigh. The reality, that it was really over, crashed down on him; after the torture, he'd found peace again. 

Then, his ears caught the sound of a the front door creaking open, followed by light footsteps and the rustling of a paper bag. Walentyn turned his head—and there she was: His mother, a small woman with silver-streaked hair, dressed in a simple coat, holding a bag with fresh bag in her arms. When she saw her son, she froze instantly, her eyes widening in shock. And then, what came were pure tears of joy. »Tynek!«

Tynek. His childhood nickname. She dropped the bag of bread to the floor with a thud and ran towards him, her arms outstretched. Just in time, Walentyn stood to catch her in a crushing hug. He inhaled her scent: Laundry soap and vanilla, the same as always. »Oh my God,« she sobbed into his shoulder, gripping his back as though he might disappear again—or, to check if he was real. »You're home.«

Walentyn held her tightly, like he hadn't hugged anyone in years. And, to be honest? He hadn't. Tears stung his eyes, too, though, he did not shed one. He just rested his chin on the top of her head, breathing in the familiarity of home. No missions, no lies—only his mother, seeing her son after months of being apart. She kept hugging him, her small hands patting his back as if he still was a little boy—her little synek (son). »Why didn't you call?« She finally asked him—no anger. »I didn't know you were coming!« Then, she pulled back, slightly so, to look at him, studying his face for any sign of stress or visible weight loss. 

Walentyn smiled. »It was sudden.« Which was, well, the truth—in a way he would not elaborate further. 

Karolina touched his cheek, her thumb brushing over it—her eyes scanning for scars, dark circles, anything. But her son looked healthy, only a little tired. Like someone who'd been working too hard—not like an agent who had spent six months in utter danger. Then, she stood on her toes and kissed both his cheeks before taking his hand and pulling him into the kitchen. »Sit! I will make you lunch.«

As he let her shove him to the tiny kitchen table, he couldn't help himself but chuckle a little—a genuine chuckle. The table sufficed for two people, it was the same they'd eaten at when Walenytn had still been a little boy. While he took his seat in the chair, his mother immediately began to unpack the groceries: Fresh bread, onions and potatoes—she was surely planning to make pierogi, his favourite. Though, he would have been overly happy with Żurek or Kopytka, too. 

»Tell me, how have you been?« She started as she heated the stove. »Everyone was treating you kindly, tak?« 

Walentyn hesitated. How had he been? He'd been lying to his mother, had been humiliated and tormented by the infamous Victor Volkov for the past six months—also, he was a spy and had secretly gone undercover, and on top of all of that, as if it wasn't enough already, he'd nearly been shot by Russian men. All of that had occurred only hours ago—unbelievable. »It was fine, Mam,« he replied, his tone gentle. He watched his mother as she cracked eggs into a bowl with practiced ease. The lie rolled off his tongue with ease, too—too easily. 

Karolina nodded, stirring the batter. »Very good,« she said simply, her voice sounding soft—she trusted her son, for there was no reason for her to doubt he was safe and treated well abroad. Soon, the smell of sizzling onions filled the air inside the kitchen—warm and comforting. The temperature inside the room was rising, so Walentyn stood up and opened the small window, then returned to his seat. His eyes briefly hushed over the pharmacy across the street—Walentyn vaguely remembered that the pharmacist's son was taking it over, he'd read it in their local newspaper months ago. When he was seated back in his chair, his mother turned to face him, her lips pressed tightly together in a thin line. Immediately, Walentyn could tell there was something she wanted to tell him. »You see,« she began, her head dropping a little as she hesitated, »the other day, I met Marja when I went grocery shopping.«

At the mention of Marja, Walentyn's stomach dropped a little; Marja, his ex-girlfriend. They'd broken up quietly a year ago—no drama, a mutual agreement. He knew it was better that way, she deserved someone who truly loved her and stayed by her side—and not someone like Walentyn, who could drop dead any second while gone on a mission. He couldn't endure it, watching Marja break apart because he was always abroad—therefore, ending things had been the right decision. Marja still lived nearby, and sometimes, Karolina and her would have a chat—she was still very dear to his mother. Now, Walentyn braced himself: What did they talk about? What did Marja say? 

His mother inhaled deeply, clearly nervous to bring it up. »She is getting married.«

Marriage—Marja was getting married.

Oh. 

Hearing that did not hurt Walentyn, no—it solely surprised him because it was so out of the blue, so unexpected. He didn't feel a heartbreak, they had been over for long. »To whom?« He asked, very calmly—no jealousy or bitterness, only genuine curiosity. 

Karolina wiped her hands on her apron, then, she said: »To Piotr Nowak. The son of the pharmacist across the street.«

Ah. Piotr was the son who took over—Walentyn knew him, not well, but he was a decent guy; polite, so he'd heard. The kind of husband every mother would approve of. 

Carefully, his mother watched his face for a reaction, a shift—but she found nothing, only quiet acceptance. »I'm glad,« Walentyn said after a while, his gaze glued to the window. »Marja is a great woman. She deserves a decent husband by her side.«

Karolina's shoulders relaxed, visibly, and relief spread across her face. She hadn't expected anger from her son and didn't get any, just sincerity—he genuinely wished Marja well. Smiling softly, she returned to her cooking—and the previous tension had vanished into thin air. »They're having a small wedding next month,« she added, filling and forming the pierogi. »I thought, maybe, you would want to go..?«

He considered it. Going to the wedding would be awkward, for obvious reasons—but also a polite gesture. After all, Marja and him really hadn't ended things badly, and Marja (and Piotr, too) deserved some respect. »Yeah,« he said after a moment of silent contemplation. »I would like to go.« The maturity of a man who'd moved on. 

The pierogi melted on Walentyn's tongue—Boże, how much he'd missed his mama's homemade food! 

Karolina did not interrupt her son, she solely watched him devour the food with a soft smile on her lips—and she noticed how hungry he was. The pierogi were perfect: Fluffy, buttery, filled with farsz: farmer's cheese, potatoes and onions. Just how she used to make them when he was a child. Without a word, she kept serving more for him, a silent way of saying: Eat as much as you want, you are home. 

In the evening, her and Walentyn had planted themselves on their little cozy couch in the living room. Walentyn had grabbed the remote control and turned on the TV—now, the news channel was playing quietly in the background. Then: BREAKING NEWS. A serious-faced reporter appeared on the screen. »Russian authorities have arrested Victor Volkov, a powerful business man suspected of running extensive black-market operations and political corruption.« Footage showed Victor being escorted by security officers—handcuffed, face unrecognisable. 

Karolina glanced at the screen, she had heard the name Volkov from business news she occasionally watched while cleaning or doing the laundry. A slight frown tugged her brows, »Another rich guy in trouble,« was most likely what went through her head upon seeing the image. She had absolutely zero idea how deeply Walentyn had been tangled in that man's life only hours ago. And Walentyn himself? He stared at the screen, as though it was glaring back at him, and satisfaction spread inside of his chest. 

The news continued: »Volkov's arrest comes after months of investigation—with evidence linking him to illegal deals, money laundering, and influence over several Eastern European governments, tied to blackmail.« And then, a photo of the infamous Victor Volkov flashed on the screen—his silver eyes starring right back at the viewers of the news channel. But no, thought Walentyn, now he was powerless and caught and cuffed in the hands of Russian security. 

»Boże,« mumbled Karolina, turning the page of the magazine she was flipping through. She did not dwell on it and turned back to the article she was reading. To her, Volkov was just another corrupt tycoon, not someone who'd nearly gotten her son killed just hours ago. The TV kept playing: Analysts discussing the fallout and consequences of Volkov's empire collapsing. Soon, the news moved on, now covering other stories, politics, and, lastly, sports. 

Walentyn leaned back in the couch cushions, exhaling slowly. It was officially over, now that Victor had been arrested. He was in custody—the collapse was inevitable. No more pretending, no more pressure of living in fear of discovery and exposure—only peace. 

At night, Walentyn lay in his bed—not a guest room given to him by Victor for contract reasons, not gratitude. Tonight, so Walentyn thought, he'd sleep securely. His childhood bedroom hadn't changed: The same blue walls, the same desk cluttered with notebooks and pens, the same comfy blanket his mother had stitched a patch on many years ago. No paranoia of cameras watching him sleep or change. Walentyn pulled up the covers and closed his eyes, expecting sleep to come easily. 

It did. But, then again, not really. Walentyn found himself, vividly so, back in Victor's penthouse: Kneeling before him like a little obedient lapdog. That smug smirk was plastered on that bastard's face, and his cold fingers pressed into Walentyn's neck while regarding the younger man from above. Again, no escape out of the situation. »Suck,« demanded Victor in the same low voice. Walentyn clenched his teeth and tried to push himself back by curling his hands around Victor's knees. At that, the defiance, Victor's eyes narrowed and his fingers dug into Walentyn's hair, pulling and yanking him upwards. And then, much to Walenytn's utter surprise, Victor's lips came down, crushing right onto the younger man's. The kiss was violent, not romantic, but brutal. Victor forced Walentyn's lips to part, leaving no room for resistance as his tongue invaded Walentyn's mouth. It was forced, full of dominance and mockery. 

Walentyn whimpered helplessly, trapped in the strong hold. Victor's teeth grazed his lower lip—then, without a warning, he bit down—hard. Pain shot through Walentyn's nerves, it was enough to make him jolt, even in his sleep, and a choked gaps escaped his throat. Blood bloomed on his lip, a metallic taste on his tongue. Victor was making an attack out of the kiss, just to hurt Walentyn. Victor's tongue licked over the wound—and it burned so badly that it made Walentyn's eyes sting. Victor wasn't done, he didn't let go and kept on biting, his teeth pressing deeper into the soft and sensitive flesh. 

Pain and humiliation in the purest form. 

Then, with a gasp that tore from his throat, Walentyn jolted awake. He sat in his bed, upright, his heart hammering and sweat damping his shirt. Darkness surrounded him—he was in his bedroom, at home. The nightmare was over, however, the phantom of the pain still lingered on his lips. Instinctively, his fingers came up to touch his mouth—no blood. »...What the fuck?!«

The quiet of his room pressed down on him, too much silence for a nightmare of such brutality and violence. Shakily, Walentyn exhaled and ran a hand through his tangled hair. Just a dream, he told himself like a mantra, Victor wasn't there. Wasn't tormenting him—he wasn't anything to him anymore, and his identity hadn't even been real. Walentyn Wójcik, that man did not even exist. 

And yet, goddamn it, that kiss had felt so real. Walentyn glanced at the clock on his nightstand: 3:47 AM. Pull yourself together, kurwa, he thought and rubbed a hand over his face to get his mind back to reality. But—why would he even dream about that?! Of Victor kissing him, that was absurd! 

Absurd, yes. That was the word. After all those days of degradation, humiliation and oppression? It made no sense—though, there hadn't even been anything remotely romantic about that brutal claim in Walentyn's nightmare. Perhaps, it was the stress—it could be that his mind twisted trauma into something strange. Either way, it was ridiculous. Walentyn shook his head, and then, he proceeded to swung his legs out of the bed. Barefoot, he padded into the kitchen, turning on the small light above the stove. He fetched a glass and filled it with cool water—he needed something to ground himself back to reality. The apartment was silent, his mother was asleep inside her own room down the hall. 

No nightmares could follow him home—not into her safe world, or so he had thought. 

Chapter Text

On the next morning, Walentyn woke up to the sound of his mother shuffling in the kitchen while humming a lovely melody of a Polish folk song. Tired, for he was deprived of proper sleep because of his nightmare, he pushed off his blanket and swung his feet out of the bed. For a moment, Walentyn solely sat at the edge of it, one hand rubbing over his face. Then, he stared at the wall across from him, trying to reconnect with reality. Fucking hell. 

In the next moment, he was on his feet, sauntering towards the kitchen where the smell of coffee and bread greeted him. Karolina stood at the stove and flipped scrambled eggs in a pan. Through a tiny creak in the curtains, sunlight streamed inside through the window—normalcy, peace. When Walentyn entered, his mother turned; and that soft smile spread on her lips—the morning smile solely mother showed. »Tynek!« She exclaimed with euphoria. »You could have slept a little longer, I would have woken you up when breakfast is ready.« Her eyes were wide, shining brightly with love and joy. Then, they dropped, down to her son's feet—and her expression shifted, a frown tugging at her brows, one hand on her hip. »Where are your kapciuszki?« 

Ah. Walentyn titled his head towards the floor, starring at his bare feet. Right—no slippers. His mother had always been strict about that; feet were supposed to be covered, especially in winter (even indoors) otherwise, so she said, he would catch a cold. »I forgot,« he admitted sheepishly, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. 

She sighed, dramatically so, and waved the cooking spoon in her hand at him—through, there was no real anger behind it. Go put them on, was what that gesture were telling him. Walentyn chuckled and obediently shuffled to the hallway closet, his feet slipping inside his warm kapciuszki, thick wool slippers he'd had since his feet had stopped growing. They were slightly worn-out, but still as comfy as the day he'd received them. He returned back to the kitchen and pressed a kiss to his mother's cheek as she loaded the eggs onto a plate. »Dziekuję za śniadanie,« he said (»Thanks for the breakfast«). 

At the sweet gesture, the soft kiss, Karolina beamed. She turned her head to give him a proper mama peck on the cheek. »Sit,« she urged him, gesturing to the table that had already been set: Always a tablecloth—very important. A mug with coffee had already been served on it, strong and black—just how Walentyn liked it. He slid into his chair and wrapped his hands around the warm mug. Soon, his mother served him a plate with breakfast: Sausage, scrambled eggs and bread. Afterwards, she joined him at the table with her own mug in her hands. »Did they not feed my Tynek properly?« She asked as she watched Walentyn dig in and savour every single bite. The food was simple—but, it was made with love. Nothing fancy like Victor's chef had served back in Moscow. 

Mid-bite, Walentyn froze, the fork hanging in the air. His mother had noticed, the way he was practically inhaling the food. He hesitated, and then, he shrugged. »They fed me,« he replied vaguely, not lying, yet not explaining, either. For a fraction, Karolina's eyes narrowed—she knew something was off. She studied him, like a mother who could always tell when something was out of the ordinary. However, she did not press—instead, she pushed the breadbasket closer to him and said: »Eat more if you're hungry.« Her tone was gentle, it always was, but concern lay underneath. 

Walentyn reached out one hand and took a slice of bread out of the basket, then buttered it—he took his time with it, avoiding eye contact at any cost. Unasked question hung between them—his mother wanted to know more, for he barely spoke about his work, Walentyn could tell that she did. Nevertheless, she respected he would talk when he felt ready to. Quietly, she sipped her coffee, watching him. Again, Walentyn could tell there was something on her mind, something she wanted to get off her chest. However, as she respected him, he did the same—and so, he would wait until she was ready to speak, too. An unspoken mutual agreement between mother and son. Walentyn took a sip from his mug, slowly, then he set it down. 

»When are you going to leave me again?«

There it was, the question his mother had been holding back since he'd walked in yesterday. Walentyn chewed on his bread, gulped it down with another sip of his strong coffee. Then: 

»I don't know.«

Karolina's face fell. She was not upset—she was hurt. Her Tynek had been gone for so long—and now, he told her that he would disappear on her again. Her head hung a little lower now as she starred at her coffee, one hand absently stirring the spoon, although there wasn't even any sugar left to stir. After a long pause, she was brave enough to ask him: »For how long?«

Walentyn sighed, he did not know the answer to that. Kasprzyk hadn't assigned him a new mission, not yet, he'd barely been home. It could be weeks, months. »I don't have a date, mam,« he told her honestly. 

She exhaled, a tiny defeated sound. Abruptly, she stood, collecting the empty plates. Her way of hiding her disappointment—by busying herself with dishes. The clatter of porcelain was familiar, but in that moment, it filled a silence born out of his mother's pain. She wouldn't yell at her son nor beg him to stay with her—she'd suffer in silence, endure the sadness inside her heart quietly. Walentyn rose to his feet, too, and grabbed his own plate to help her. In practiced harmony, they moved around the kitchen; years of routine even after months apart. 

A normal morning—although, Karolina's unspoken grief hung between them, separating them slightly from each other. 

The call from Kasprzyk came sooner than anticipated—if anticipated at all. In the afternoon, Walentyn's phone rang; Kasprzyk's caller ID flashed on the screen under the name BOSS. Walentyn froze, his mother sat right beside him on the couch—they had been watching TV together, Ojciec Mateusz, her favourite show, quietly enjoying each other's company. She glanced at the phone, then at him. Her expression tightened—she knew who it was. The man who called to pull her Tynek away again. She didn't comment on it, only looked down at her knitting, pretending not to hear the phone. But her hands, they had stilled completely. 

Walentyn was quick to answer, stepping into the hallway for privacy. »Sir.«

Silence on the other end—then: »New assignment. Briefing in two hours at HQ.« No hello, no small talk, solely business. 

Walentyn closed his eyes—two hours. Not even enough time to say goodbye properly. »Understood,« he said, his voice steady and devoid of emotion despite the lump in his throat. He hung up, then turned back to the living room where his mother was still sitting, waiting. She hadn't looked up yet, she was still pretending to focus on her knitting. But, the visible tension in her shoulders blew her cover. The second Walentyn was back? Her head shot up—and, instantly, she knew. No words were needed, not from him. His face told her everything, and her eyes carried so many emotions: Disappointment, resignation, sadness. »...You are leaving.« And then, her lips started to quiver. 

Seeing his mother liked that, Walentyn had to swallow. He hated to see her lips tremble—however, what he hated even more was that he was the one who broke her heart by leaving her. In solely two steps, he crossed the room and hugged her, tightly so, pressing her head against his chest. He was not making up excuses, wasn't telling her he would be back soon, nothing of that sort. He was just holding her as long as he could. And Karolina, she clung to her son, her arms wrapping around and about him, even more tightly, as if a strong grip could stop him from physically going if she held on hard enough. A tear rolled down her cheek, soaking his shirt—no sobbing, her cries were silent. For a long moment, they stayed like that; no words. 

Finally, she pulled back, wiping her face with the back of her hand. Not a dramatic goodbye, only quiet acceptance. She reached up, straightened his collar, smoothed a wrinkle on his shirt—mama things. Then, she stood on her toes to kiss both his cheeks—a blessing. »Be safe,« she whispered. 

»I will,« he told her. One last time, he squeezed her hands. Then, Walentyn grabbed his duffle bag and slung it over his shoulder—he had already packed it, for he'd expected Kasprzyk's call, eventually. He walked to the door, then paused with his hand hovering over the doorknob. Over his shoulder, he glanced back at his mother. She stood there, in the hallway, watching him leave. She was strong—always had been, for his sake, too. She nodded, slightly so. »Go.«

He stepped out, and the door clicked shut behind him with a soft click. The hallway was colder than usual—emptier. No more of his mother's cooking, no more of her voice. Just the sound of his footsteps, headed to Kasprzyk; HQ and another mission. 

The train ride to Warsaw passed in silence. Walentny stared out of the window, watching the city blur past him. He did not read, wouldn't listen to music—he was thinking. About his mother's sad face—but also about Victor, his appearance on TV: How his smug smile had vanished when they'd arrested him; and lastly, he thought about whatever new mission lay ahead of him. The train pulled into Warsaw's main station. Walentyn walked through the familiar streets with long strides. Another mission would mean another cover—another false identity and fake life he would have to live for God knew how long. 

HQ was quiet, most agents were out on missions or home. Kasprzyk sat behind his desk, a file in front of him open already. He glanced up as Walentyn entered. »I'll get straight to the point,« he began, waisting no time on pleasantries. »Volkov vanished.«

What. »...Vanished?« Repeated Walentyn, his brows furrowing as his brain processed the words—had he caught that right? For, that was impossible, or so he'd thought. Victor was supposed to be in Russian custody—they had escorted him, handcuffed; he'd seen it live, on the news!

Kasprzyk leaned forward, his voice dropping an octave. »The vehicle was ambushed two hours ago. Volkov is gone.« He shoved a small device towards Walentyn across the desk—security footage. It showed Victor being dragged out by armed men, and then... nothing. The screen went black. »We don't know what happened,« said Kasprzyk grimly. »But we know he is not in Russian custody anymore.« His jaw tightened. »We assume he is regrouping, which also means you might still be in his sight.«

Nearly, Walentyn chocked on air. »Wait—are you saying he will come after me?«

Kasprzyk's expression hardened. »Yes.« Then: »He knows you betrayed him, by now. If he finds out you are an agent who was sent by Wywiad...« He left the sentence unfinished, but it was obvious:

Victor would kill him. 

»There was a leak of information,« proceeded Kasprzyk. »Personal information, including yours. Your real name, your residence.«

Kurwa. Walentyn's blood ran cold. If Victor had access to his real name—and worse: His home address... then, that made him more than merely a target: Victor was after Walentyn's vulnerabilities. 

Kasprzyk looked deadly serious now. »We're putting you and your mother under 24/7 protection from now on.«

But Walentny could only scoff. He'd worked for Victor for the past six months as his assistant—that was probably the closest he would ever get to that man. There was more than only one thing he'd learned about Victor during that time, though there was one which was the most dangerous trait that man had: If he wanted something, let's say to get revenge on Walentyn and kill him, then he would get just that—and not even security could protect Walentyn from his fate and stop that psychopath. 

Inside Walentyn's head, a stupid idea had been sowed, and now, it was growing into the only possible option which guaranteed him survival—he was convinced of that. »Let me find him.«

For the first time, it seemed as though someone had succeeded to take Kasprzyk off-guard, for he blinked at Walentyn—utterly befuddled. »You?«

What Walentyn suggested was insane, crazy. Could Kasprzyk allow that, to let one of Wywiad's agents walk right into the fire Victor had ignited?

On the other hand, Walentyn had spent six months as that man's assistant—therefore, he might have a clue where Victor was hiding; or, he could find clues via contacts. 

A reckless plan—but one that could work. 

Kasprzyk exhaled, weighing the risks. Then: »Fine.« There was no time for further contemplation. He slid a pistol across the desk—unloaded. »But you're not alone on this one.«

Two agents would tail Walentyn from a distance, ready to intervene if things went south. 

Walentyn took the gun, checking the empty chamber. No bullets—Kasprzyk wasn't responsible for arming the agents. But Walentyn knew where to find them. »I'll contact you when I have a lead.«

Kasprzyk just nodded—that was the new mission now. 

Warsaw, hotel.

Walentyn approached the front desk and checked in as Walentyn Wójcik, showing a fake ID. The clerk barely glanced at it before handing him the keycard to his room. Walentyn took the elevator, room 314; a temporary safe house. Not that Victor couldn't track him down here if he genuinely tried to. The room was small but clean: Bed, desk, TV—standard. Walentyn dropped down his duffle onto the bed and immediately locked the door. Then, he pulled out his burner phone—one he'd received at HQ before departure—and he started to call contacts. People who knew about Victor's underground network—or were connected to it. Anyone who might have intel on his whereabouts. 

Most of those conversations were frustrating. Almost all of those people spoke in rapid Russian—throwing in slang and regional dialects that even Walentyn's basic training couldn't parse. He scribbled down notes—keywords: Moscow, safe house, black SUV. Vague—but it might be a beginning. One caller, a gruff voice, suddenly switched to broken English. »He is not in Russia anymore.« 

In an instant, Walentyn was on high alert. »Where is he?«

The Russian paused on the other end. Then: »Ukraine. Odessa.«

A port city—lots of underground networks, smugglers... the ideal place for a man on the run to regroup. Before Walentyn could ask more, the line went dead—the caller had hung up. 

Didn't matter, he had his lead. Victor was in Ukraine, likely holed up with loyalists, planning the next move. Immediately, Walentyn texted Kasprzyk: »Got a location—Ukraine, Odessa.«

Then, with his false passport, he booked a flight for the next morning. The hunt had begun. 

Ukraine, Odessa Airport. 

The plane had landed; the airport was bustling with tourists, business travellers and locals. That made blending in all the more easier for Walentyn: A European visitor with a duffle bag and sunnies. 

No one paid him any extra or unwanted attention, everyone went on with their lives and the business they had.

Walentyn took a taxi to the city centre. The taxi driver—a middle-aged Ukrainian with a moustache—chatted freely, on and on. He mentioned the city's history, the port economy—and he complained about rich Russian tourists acting entitled. Walentyn nodded along, learning little tidbits: »Rich Russians come to Odessa for luxury,« the man said—which confirmed that Victor might have gone there, too. The taxi pulled up to a sleek high-rise district, a place where Victor was, most likely, staying—or hiding. Walentyn tipped the driver, thanked him and stepped out, scanning the area. He was surrounded by luxury hotels, private security and discreetly armed men lingering near entrances—definitely Russian bodyguards. Walentyn walked towards the fanciest hotel: The Grand Odessa. A perfect hideout for a wanted man like Victor Volkov. 

The lobby of The Grand Odessa was pure opulence: All marbles and crystal chandeliers. With a neutral face, Walentyn approached the front desk. He cleared his throat. »I'm looking for Dmitri Kuznetsov.« That was one of the false names Victor used—yes, he used fake ID's, too, just like Walentyn did. The clerk hesitated, then, he typed something into the computer, his eyes darting up, nervously so. After a tense pause, he nodded. 

»Mr. Kuznetsov is staying in Suite 407,« he informed Walentyn. Bingo, Victor was at The Grand Odessa—under a false identity, but very much present. 

Like any other guest, Walentyn walked to the elevator. It was filled with other hotel patrons: A couple with a child and a business man on a call. Walentyn stood silently, inconspicuously, even, and pressed the button for the fourth floor. The chatter around him was in Russian and Ukrainian—nothing suspicious. Then, the doors slid open, and Walentyn was the first to step out. He walked down the long hallway, heading towards Suite 407—were Victor was presumably staying. Before he proceeded, he plugged in his earpieces and reported to Kasprzyk: »Location found. Asking for assistance.«

Kasprzyk's voice crackled through the earpiece: »Understood. We're tracking your signal. Stand-by.« And a few seconds later, a quiet beep inside Walentyn's ear confirmed that the security was en route. Now, it was a waiting game—Walentyn could not just knock on Victor's door, not when he hadn't confirmed it was truly him who was in there. He glanced around: There, at the end of the hallway, he spotted a staff member who was delivering food to another suite. Bingo. 

The man pushed open the door and pushed a cart with plates and bottles inside. Walentyn waited, and when the guy exited, he approached him, carefully so. »Hey. Can you do me a favour?«

He looked at Walentyn with a tired face. »Yes?«

Walentyn reached one hand inside his pocket and pulled out a folded 100-hryvnia note—bribe. »Can you lend me your uniform?«

The guy's eyes flicked to the money, then back up—he was considering it. After a second, he shrugged and took the money, then handed over his uniform jacket to Walentyn, who slipped into it immediately. It was slightly too big, but not much noticeably so. Now, he had the appearance of a hotel staff member. »Thanks,« he said to the actual staff member and turned to walk to Suite 407. 

From now on, only two things could happen: Either, Victor was not inside that suite and whoever opened the door for Walentyn would be greeted by his polite smile; he would pretend to work at the hotel and come up with a friendly excuse. Or, Victor did hide in there and then... 

...well, he would recognise his former assistant, that was for sure. 

Chapter Text

No turning back now. 

Walentyn knocked on the door to Suite 407—his knocks were firm but not too loud or aggressive, just like a real staff member would knock. For a heartbeat: Silence. Then, the door creaked open, and on the threshold stood a large, broad-shouldered man in a black suit. He stared out, and as his eyes fell on Walentyn, his gaze narrowing. »Who?« That man's glare was piercing—the Russian words he spoke sounded harsh. 

In an Instant, Walentyn's brain switched to the foreign language—his tone lowering a little. »Maintenance check, sir. Water pressure issue in the hall.« He waited, and, perhaps, he also held his breath for a moment. Either, that man would buy it—or...

Without a warning, he grabbed Walentyn by his collar and yanked him forward, inside the suite. Walentyn stumbled—however, he quickly recovered, for over there, sitting on the sofa? 

Victor Volkov, the man himself. His silver eyes locked onto Walentyn with cold recognition. He did not move, didn't blink. 

Dead silence.

Then, a slow and terrifying smirk curled onto his lips. Amusement, Walentyn knew that one. »Well,« began Victor. »Look who came to me.«

The man behind Walentyn shoved him forward, sending him stumbling again. That time, he hit the floor—knees first. Now, Victor stood over him, towering with his large frame. His bodyguard took a step back, behind Walentyn, waiting for further orders. Like a shark, Victor started to circle Walentyn, his eyes glinting with something sinister. »You betrayed me.« And before the younger man had a chance to react, Victor reached down and curled his fist inside his hair. Pain shot through the latter's scalp, for Victor yanked his hair, hard, forcing him to his feet. »You,« whispered Victor, and their faces were merely inches apart, »thought you could just walk away?«

In the background, the bodyguard stood still—but a smirk formed on his lips, anyway. Things were about to get ugly, for sure. 

Walentyn clenched his teeth—because of the pain, but also to show defiance. »You bastard.« He did not hesitate to throw those insults around, to spit them into Victor's face—help was en route, anyway. Soon, they would arrive; and also, there was no reason for Walentyn to play the little obedient assistant any longer. He could just be himself and reveal Victor Volkov his true colours. 

At that, Victor's smirk widened—oh, he loved that. »Ah,« he purred into Walentyn's face. »There it is. The real you.« And then, he slammed his fist into Walentyn's face. A brutal punch, straight to his jaw. Blood began to bloom on Walentyn's lower lip, and Victor raised his hand for another hit. But, before it came down again, he glanced over at the bodyguard beyond and muttered something in Russian. The guard nodded, then turned around—and gone he was. 

Victor had dismissed him. Now, it was just the two of them—alone in the suite, no witnesses. Walentyn wiped the blood from his lip; adrenaline was surging through his veins. Victor cracked his knuckles—then, he lunged, but not to punch, no. He grappled Walentyn into a chokehold, an unexpected, yet extremely efficient move, evidently so. His strong arm was wrapped around Walentyn's throat, tightly and with a crushing and breathtaking pressure. In a gasp, air escaped the younger man's lungs. He clawed at Victor's forearm, digging his nails into the flesh—but that man was stronger, not budging the tiniest bit. The world before Walentyn's eyes began to blur, his vision fading from the lack of oxygen inside his body. Victor did not care—he wanted the traitor passed out or worse. 

»...Fuck—!« Cursed Walentyn. No mercy at all—if anything, Victor tightened the hold on him. Black dots danced in his vision and his lungs burned—he had to act now. With one last and desperate surge of strength, Walentyn jabbed his elbow backwards, aiming for Victor's ribs and hoping to break free before unconsciousness took over. 

The elbow connected—hard. Victor grunted and loosened his grip a little, enough to give Walentyn some room to breathe. Then, Walentyn twisted, breaking free with a gasp. Immediately, he swung his fist towards Victor's nose. The latter dodged the punch easily, and instead, he caught Walentyn by his throat, once again, and shoved him back, slamming him into the wall. Now, the Russian man was looming over Walentyn, so large, and his eyes were blazing with fury: No more games, it was violence in its purest form now. Before Walentyn had the chance to recover from the impact, Victor punched into his stomach, knocking the air out of him entirely and sending him crumpling to the floor in pain and agony. That attack absolutely wrecked him. 

Walentyn curled into himself, wheezing, arms clutched tightly around his upper body while his gut was screaming. And yet, Victor would not stop; he grabbed a fistful of Walentyn's hair and hauled him up like a ragdoll—and then, he slammed his face into the coffee table. Crack—Walentyn's nose took the brunt, and blood was gushing instantly. Pain exploded inside his skull and he groaned. Still, Victor didn't care, he dragged the younger man, who was completely limp, up again—ready to slam him into something else. 

Abruptly, he halted, his hands still holding Walentyn by his hair. His grip had loosened, but only slightly. When Walentyn raised his head a little, everything on and inside his body burning from the sheer brutality, he saw a flicker in Victor's eyes; not rage anymore, it was different, as if a twisted thought was forming inside of his head, an idea. He studied Walentyn's bloodied face, those swollen lips and that broken nose. And then—that smug smirk, back on Victor's own lips. »Sweet,« he purred in Russian. Then, he spun Walentyn around and slammed his face into the floor. The younger man's face hit the carpet, hard, and his cheek was pressed deeper into the soft fabric. From behind, Victor loomed over him, his crushing weight pinning him in place. His fingers were still curled inside Walentyn's hair, as though he was holding the younger man by a leash, and he yanked his head back up, then leaned down to bite the side of Walentyn's neck. Another jolt of pain shot through Walentyn as Victor's teeth sank into his flesh, a brutal bite that stung like hell. However, Walentyn clenched his teeth together, tightly so, for he refused to cry out. 

That wasn't the end, though, After releasing the bite, Victor kissed the mark aggressively, sucked on it. »You psychopathic bastard,« cursed Walentyn from underneath, »what the hell are you doing?!«

Victor glared at him. »Shut up,« he growled—and then, he crushed their mouths together into a brutal punishment. No romance, hell, no tenderness—pure dominance, a clash of teeth and fury. For a moment, Walentyn's eyes were wide in shock; then, he fought back. He tried to turn his head to the side and escape the claim, however, Victor held him in place with a grip around his jaw. Next, Walentyn bit down on Victor's lip, too, but even that did not suffice to make the man budge. Finally, Victor pulled back himself, his tongue licking off the blood where Walentyn had wounded him. 

Walentyn's head slumped forward, exhausted from the fight. Then—the sound of Victor's belt coming undone sent an ice cold shiver down his spine. Victor grabbed the back of Walentyn's collar in a fist and spun him around to face him. The expression on Victor's face was a mixture of half-rage, and half something else that seemed even more dangerous and dark. His other hand roughly took a hold of Walentyn's chin, and then, he kissed him again—deeper and rougher. The hand on Walentyn's shirt slid lower and tore off the fabric from the younger man's body; and Victor just threw it to the side. Meanwhile, Walentyn did not stop squirming. »I am going to kill you!«

At that, the threat, Victor laughed, a loud and mocking sound. »You are in no position to kill me.« He pinned Walentyn's wrists above his head, and then, his fingers trailed down the bare skin, over Walentyn's chest. With brutal efficiency, he reached below the belt and yanked down the younger man's pants. Walentyn gasped, choked on air as he inhaled. The burn inside his lungs mixed with terror—this was happening. Victor had him trapped completely, and all the struggling and squirming was of no use, for he was overpowering Walentyn with his strength. 

Helplessly, Walentyn's heart hammered inside his chest; rescue was en route, but would they arrive in time—before Victor would violate him? 

Without any acknowledgment or care in the world about the thoughts racing inside Walentyn's head, Victor tore the younger man's legs apart. 

No. Walentyn kicked, his survival instincts taking over. »No!« Yet, Victor was stronger, faster. Easily, he shoved Walentny's legs down and spread them further. Then, he leaned down, his lips brushing Walentyn’s ear as he whispered some dark and filthy words in Russian. The threats sent a chill through Walentyn's body that reached down to his core. Victor’s breath was hot against the younger man's neck as he left a trail of kisses on his skin, sucking—biting and bruising. 

Then, without a warning, he thrusted his length into Walentyn with brutal force. Agony made Walentyn's back arch off the carpet—no lube, no preparation, pure pain. Walentyn's whole body locked up as a choked gasp tore from his throat; tears burned in his eyes. God, thought Walentyn, that bastard's cock was tearing him apart! Victor gripped Walentyn's hips and began to move; hard and rough thrusts. Walentyn's fingers curled into the carpet and his eyes stared at the ceiling—fuck, was that seriously happening to him?! The ceiling stared right back at him, blurry and unfocused; he was dissociating, it just couldn't be real. The pain, the violation—it must be another nightmare he couldn't wake up from! 

Though, it was not. Victor kept pounding into him, no consideration nor consent, only brutality. Each thrust was a torment, and it jolted Walentyn's body across the carpet as though he was nothing but a toy. The seconds stretched, endless torture. As the assault went on, Walentyn's mind detached further from reality; he was floating somewhere above his head. The pain, the tearing, the blood which streamed down from Walentyn's wounded asshole—it was all there, although, it felt much more distant now. As if, in that moment, he wasn't really there. 

Above him, Victor grunted, huffed as he came closer to climaxing. He did not slow down, didn't ease up; he just took what he wanted. 

And Walentyn despised his own body for the way it reacted. It was a traitor—a traitorous body that betrayed him. A rush of heat, just below the belt. It disgusted Walentyn—how his nerves were responding to Victor's violence. And that man noticed, of course he did. A cruel smile curled on his lips as he leaned down and bit Walentyn's earlobe, whispering: »You like it.«

Walentyn clenched his jaw. »I am going to kill you, psychopath—!«

»Keep talking,« growled Victor, his thrusts growing harder and rougher, purely to punish Walentyn, who had fuelled his aggression. 

Then: Victor came, spilling his semen inside the younger man. Warmth spread inside Walentyn's abdomen, a disgusting sensation that made him want to barf. On top of him, he had Victor collapse, breathing heavily—however, he was far from over. His hold on Walentyn remained, no intention of releasing him any time soon. And Walentyn, he lay there; numb. He couldn't move, it burned so badly, and Victor had successfully immobilised him. Then—Victor flipped the younger man on his stomach. Oh God, no, thought Walentyn as the realisation—that Victor was not done—settled. He felt the thick piece of meat at his entrance again, the monster which had just violated him—and then, it started all over again. Walentyn was too weak now, his arms couldn't carry the weight anymore and his wrists bended over. Victor spared him no mercy, he held him by his hips and hauled him up, still thrusting, relentlessly so. Bile burned in the back of Walentyn's throat, though he refused to throw up—not in front of Victor. 

The assault continued, and Walentyn's body ached. His mind began to black out, the world was narrowing down to pain. At some point, he passed out—the pain, the humiliation and exhaustion, all of it overwhelmed him at once and unconsciousness dragged him down into darkness. The last thing he felt was how Victor slowed his movements, slightly, but he did not fully stop—he still used Walentyn's body, even as he lay there all limp and unmoving. 

Beep. Beep. Beep. 

The annoying and repetitive sound of a heart monitor was the first noise Walentyn registered. His eyes fluttered open: White ceiling, sterile fluorescent lights above his head, too bright. He was in a hospital room, that was the conclusion he came to after his brain began to focus and function. And then—the pain hit him; his body was aching everywhere, especially his lower back and a specific area which made his stomach twist with dread. 

Nearby, next to the window, stood a nurse with a clipboard in her hand, writing down something. But then, as she heard Walentyn groan, she raised her head and saw he had woken up. Automatically, she smiled, gently so—not pitying him, purely professional. »You're awake,« she said to him in Ukrainian. »How are you feeling?« She didn't ask him what he remembered, not yet. First, she checked his IV drip and then, she adjusted the pillow behind his head. 

Walentyn tried to speak, but his throat was dry. In an instant, she was by his side with a cup of water in her hand. »Small sips,« she instructed softly. Once he drank, the nurse went on and checked his vitals: His pulse, blood pressure... Then, finally, she asked: »Do you remember anything?« Her tone was utterly careful, for she didn't know how Walentyn would react—it was hard to tell. 

His throat tightened. Did he remember? 

Those memories came back in flashes: The hotel, Victor—the morbid reality of the assault. Walentyn's stomach churned, and then, he threw up into a nearby basin. 

The nurse sighed—now, she couldn't help herself but feel deeply sorry for him—and she handed him a tissue. She waited until he'd emptied out the content of his stomach. Then, she took away the basin. »I'll get the doctor,« she told him, her voice sounding quieter now, and stepped out. 

Walentyn was left alone with his thoughts; and also the crushing and dreading weight of what had happened to him. 

Rape. 

That was what it was called—no sugarcoating.

Chapter Text

As soon as the nurse had left the room, Walentyn exploded with pure rage. 

»Kurwa jego mać,« he cursed, »I am going to kill that psychopathic bastard for real!« His hands shook, not from weakness, or because he was wounded, no—it was because his body was filled with fury. That Russian psychopath, he had ruined him. And now? Walentyn lay in a fucking hospital bed, injured from head to toe, clenching the sheets and his teeth, too. He did not care about protocol or police anymore—he was going to find Victor and end him. It wasn't some half-assed spy mission he was on any longer; Walentyn would kill that son of a bitch; coldly and brutally, like he'd assaulted Walentyn. Whatever the consequences were, Walentyn could not care less. It was Victor's fault, he had crossed a line—and now, he'd have it coming; it was war.

The nurse returned with a doctor, a man in his forties with very tired eyes. Walentyn wanted to know: Who had brought him to the hospital? For, it surely hadn't been Victor himself. 

»A security team brought you in,« told the doctor him, his voice sounding calm. »They said they found you unconscious in a hotel suite at.« No mention of Victor's name, no mention of Wywiad—but hearing the word security team, Walentyn instantly and with certainty knew Kasprzyk's men had interfered and rescued him. The doctor went on: »They didn't give details, refused to. They solely said you were in need of medical attention.« He checked Walentyn's bruises—he had a few in his face, and there were many on his upper body, as well as signs of trauma. Then, the doctor sighed. »We treated your physical injuries. But, I suggest you talk to someone about the rest.« A gentle suggestion to seek help from a psychologist. 

Therapy? Bullshit, thought Walentyn. What he needed wasn't a session with a therapist and talk; what he actually needed was action. The doctor did not push the matter further, he only nodded. »Alright. But the police might want a statement.« A pause. »Do you remember who did this to you?« The question came out carefully. 

Hell—of course Walentyn did! He would never forget that bastard, not even if someone smashed his brain to mush. However, he couldn't tell the doctor Victor's name—after all, Wywiad had sent him on a secret mission, meaning Walentyn was not allowed to share trusted information about the target to anyone—not even the doctor who treated him. And, also, to be honest, to let the police become involved would only be a hassle. To Walentyn's luck, the doctor did not press on that, either—if Walentyn refused to talk, there wasn't much he could do about that. »Fine. I won't report it,« said the doctor simply, surprising Walentyn with how easily he accepted that. »But you must rest.« So, a compromise: No police—but in that case, Walentyn was forced to recover before revenge. The doctor adjusted his clipboard. »I'll discharge you in a day or two. But: No physical activity yet, understood?« His voice sounded more strict now, still not unkind, though. It was a medical advice (or order): Don't go running after your attacker, not while you're injured. 

Walentyn gritted his teeth, though, he nodded. He had no choice, he had to play along, for now. The second he was discharged from hospital? Victor wouldn't see it coming.

With a tight smile, the doctor left; the nurse returned with painkillers, and while she handed those to Walentyn, she was completely oblivious to the storm brewing inside his head. As soon as he was alone, he contacted Kasprzyk, who picked up immediately—he'd been waiting for Walentyn's call. »Status?« He asked, his voice sounding low and solemn. 

Walentyn exhaled, sharply so. »I need Volkov's location. Now.« Not a question, a direct demand. 

And Kasprzyk let him. »He is still in Odessa,« he said after a brief pause. »Security team is tailing him. He's at a private villa by the Black Sea.« Another pause, then he asked: »...Are you good?«

There was no explanation needed, Walentyn could hear it in Kasprzyk's voice: His supervisor already knew the details, and the security team had surely given him a full debrief of how they'd found Walentyn in the hotel suite—unconscious. »I'm sorry,« said Kasprzyk, his voice sounding quieter and less gruff than it usually did. »But Volkov's on the move. He's going to leave Odessa in 48 hours.« A limited window of time that had been set. 

»I'm not letting him leave.« Walentyn's voice was low, as if there was no other option—and there wasn't. 

Kasprzyk did not argue; in all those years, he'd learned his lesson and knew better than to stop a man whose heart was hammering with rage inside the chest. »Coordinates are sent,« he replied. Then, he added: »Be careful.« And the line went dead. Walentyn stared at the display, the location flashing on the screen: Black Sea coast. It was luxurious, secluded; the perfect hideout for Victor. For a moment, Walentyn glared at the address—and then, in the next moment, he was on his feet, grabbing his clothes and ignoring the agreement with the doctor. He was leaving, now. 

Although, every movement hurt like hell. His ribs protested, demanding rest, and his body ached with bruises and soreness—everywhere. Still, Walentyn ignored the warning signs. Pain did not matter to him now, not when he had to get Victor before the man vanished from the surface, again. Slowly, he dressed into casual clothes, wincing when the fabric brushed his raw, bruised skin. Then, through a side exit, he slipped out of the hospital, hopefully unnoticed. But, either way, no one could stop him anymore. 

He paid the taxi driver in cash to take him straight to Odessa's coastal district. The drive was long, and each bump on the uneven road sent a jolt of sharp pain through Walentyn's body, but he gritted his teeth and endured in silence. He'd be there, soon. The driver glanced at Walentyn through the rearview mirror, noticing the grimaces of pain on the younger man's face. »You okay back there, brother?« He asked in heavily accented English. »You look pale.«

Walentyn forced a tight smile on his lips. »Just tired.« A short response. The driver eyed him skeptically, yet, he decided not to push further—none of his business, he thought. 

»Many rich Russian men have come a long way,« he started, throwing the statement into the room of the vehicle as if to initiate casual small talk. However, Walentyn's ears locked onto the words. The driver continued: »Buying villas here. They think Ukraine is safe for ugly business.« Then, he added, almost as an afterthought: »One guy, dangerous looking, he moved into a very big villa.«

Victor Volkov. 

The driver kept on talking, oblivious to the shift and tension in Walentyn's shoulders. »Black car, bodyguards. Everywhere. Even locals avoid the street.« He shrugged. »Always rich people. They and their security—crazy.« It was the perfect description of Victor; the villa was definitely his. 

Minutes passed by, then, the car finally pulled up to a quiet upscale coastal road; lined with villas made out of luxury and gold. There, a little farther away from the others, it stood: A massive, modern mansion with a black SUV parked outside. Walentyn recognised the vehicle—he had played Victor's chauffeur and used to sit behind the steering wheel of a similar car, not too long ago. The entrance was loitered with bodyguards in black suits—high security. At Walentyn's request, the driver stopped the taxi. »This is your place?« He eyed Walentyn through the mirror. 

Yes. But Walentyn did not respond, no—instead, he handed the driver a generous tip on top of the money he'd already paid. The driver blinked at the extra cash, befuddled, for it was way more than his usual tips—though, he did not complain nor question it. »Thanks, brother,« he said and pocketed the bills. 

Without another word, Walentyn opened the door and stepped out onto the road. In an instant, he hunched low, his body moving towards the dense bushes to remain unseen. Those broad-shouldered men in suits were everywhere—that was tricky. The villa stood imposing, right against the cliffside; the huge panorama windows were reflecting the Black Sea. At the front gate guarded two bodyguards, another one was pacing by the pool area, visible from behind the hedges. Inside, through half-open curtains, stood a silhouette; Victor? It looked like him, as much as Walentyn could make out from that distance. The lawn was manicured, decorated with expensive outdoor furniture; and there was no easy entry point, not without gear and gunfire. The villa was gated, high fence and high-tech security cameras were swivelled on poles. Beyond the fence, there were trimmed hedges and flowery bushes, but none of those were safe enough to cover and sneak inside. The only blindspot Walentyn could find was a narrow alley between the mansion and a huge brick wall, roughly two feet wide. 

Wind rustled through the trees—otherwise, it was eerily quiet. 

That alley, it was barely wide enough to squeeze through. If Walentyn timed it right, the moment a bodyguard turned his back or got distracted, he could have a chance and slip in. But if caught? He'd trigger immediate gunfire—and he didn't have any bulletproof gear on him, not yet. His hands curled into fists at his sides, he so badly wanted to barge in there, but the rational part inside of him—his brain—knew that would be such a stupid thing to do. He couldn't let his emotions, his anger and fury, take over. His only chance of victory was to return with the right equipment. 

Therefore, logic won. For once, Walentyn did not act on rage or the driving force of revenge. He took a deep breath and retreated back into the bushes. Now wasn't the time; not when he was injured and unprepared—outarmed and outmanned by the guards who circulated the villa. He needed a weapon at first. Slowly, and painfully so, he crawled away from the territory, already planning his return inside of his head. He would kill Victor—revenge had become his new mission. Wywiad had sent him as an agent, but Walentyn? He did not care, for it was not business anymore—it had become something personal. Ending that bastard was now Walentyn's utter most priority. He'd get gear, weapons—and return for Victor's blood. 

»Confirming location at Black Sea,« informed Walentyn back to Warsaw via phone. 

Kasprzyk's voice came through: »Affirmative. We'll have gear ready for you in 24 hours.« Quiet. »Are you sure about this?« He was already aware of the answer, but protocol demanded the question. 

»Absolutely,« replied Walentyn, not a trace of hesitance in the tone of his voice, only cold certainty. 

Kasprzyk exhaled—he'd have no chance to stop his agent, even if he tried to. »Alright. Meet at safehouse 5-A in Odessa tomorrow night.« The call ended. 

Safehouse 5-A, a nondescript apartment in Odessa, owned by Wywiad for extraordinary occasions—such as equipping agents in case of a change in course. Walentyn had the address memorised, and for the night, he'd found a cheap motel. For now, he ignored his injuries as best as he could—but tomorrow? He wouldn't even waste a single thought on a weak body. He'd be armed, and then, Victor's days were numbered, for sure. 

Safehouse 5-A, 11 PM

The next day, at night, Walentyn approached the plain building in a quiet neighbourhood. He headed for the third floor, and the door opened before he even knocked, his hand hovering in the air. Two of Kasprzyk's security men revealed themselves, agents like Walentyn—from a different team, though; Ukrainians. They were dressed in tactical gear, rifles slung over their broad shoulders. One of them, he had a scar on his forehead, nodded at Walentyn. »Kasprzyk has informed us,« he said and stepped aside, allowing Walentyn to enter. 

The interior of the apartment was sparse: Just a couch, a table and weapons laid out on a cloth. The man with the scar introduced himself as Mikhael, the other one, a bit younger and also taller, was Danylo. Both did not speak unless necessary—two trained professionals. Walentyn walked to the table with the weapons and studied each: A compact Glock 19 with suppressor, a combat knife in a sheath—and, not a weapon, a comms earpiece. Mikhael grabbed a duffle bag and zipped it open, then handed it to Walentyn. »Kasprzyk said you know what to do,« spoke Danylo from the side, his voice sounding flat. They didn't ask any questions, solely watched as Walentyn began to fill the bag with the gear. The gun was loaded—ready. The knife: Razor-sharp, ready to be used. Walentyn closed the duffle; that was it, he was ready. 

Mikhael nodded towards the couch. »Sit.« Then, he pulled out a small tablet and showed Walentyn footage from Victor's villa. It showed the property from above: The two guards at the front gate were rotating shifts every thirty minutes, the bodyguard at the pool was doing a poor job, smoking and not paying much attention to his surroundings. Mikhael zoomed in on a weak spot—a weak point. »Hedge by the pool,« he pointed with a gloved finger. »The camera doesn't cover that corner properly—for twelve seconds at time.« 

A narrow window to slip through. The security team had studied, carefully so, and found Victor's vulnerability. With sharp eyes, Walentyn watched the footage again, memorising important details. While he did that, the two other agents waited—and as they did, Danylo shoved Mikhael with his elbow, then nodded towards Walentyn and grinned as if there was something to laugh about. »Shut up,« mumbled Mikhael. 

However, Danylo chuckled, low and mockingly so. »Rich Russian gets his ass kicked by pretty Polish boy,« he whispered to Mikahel, clearly entertained by his lame joke.

Mikhael boxed him—hard. »Shut it,« he hissed. He knew better than to joke about something like that, especially with Walentyn right there, whose eyes were now locked on Danylo; cold and lethal. The laughter died instantly, and what remained was an uncomfortable silence. Danylo shifted, suddenly realising: It really wasn't funny. The matter was personal and deadly serious. Mikhael cleared his throat, trying to break through the tension by replaying the footage and pretending nothing had happened. However, Walentyn was not having it. 

»You think this is funny?« 

Danylo froze. Walentyn's voice wasn't loud, he did not raise it at the other agent, but it carried something ice cold with it. The kind of tone that made even a hard-trained spy uneasy. 

»...No,« Danylo said, raising his hands in silent surrender. »I—«

Mikhael shot him a look from the side: Idiot. He'd pissed off the guy with weapons in a bag and revenge on his mind. Before Danylo could finish the sentence he'd started, Walentyn's hand flew forward and curled around his collar. »Perhaps,« he spoke in a low voice, »you should go and experience it yourself, to have some psycho's cock shoved up your ass until you bleed and can't walk.«

Danylo's face paled. Walentyn had yanked him closer with each syllable—and now, their noses were merely inches apart, almost touching. Rage was burning beyond his eyes.

Meanwhile, Mikhael did not interfere—because to be honest? He was on Walentyn's side and agreed with his sentiment. Danylo definitely deserved a lesson on humility. »I... didn't mean it like that,« stammered Danylo, and his breath hitched, all sarcasm gone. His hands were hovering in the air, although, he did not dare to push Walentyn back. 

Finally, Mikhael stepped in and put his hand on Walentyn's shoulder. »Enough.« He wasn't defending Danylo; he was just preventing a fight which would delay the mission. For a long, tense moment, Walentyn held Danylo's gaze—and then, he shoved him back, hard. Danyol stumbled, nearly falling to the floor. Mikhale didn't say anything, just threw another side glare at him that said: Stupid idiot. The room fell silent, again, awkwardly so. It was Mikhael who, once again, cleared his throat and shifted the focus back to business. »We will be on stand-by,« he informed Walentyn and ignored Danylo's embarrassed scowl from almost tripping over his own feet. »If you need extraction: Call.« He handed Walentyn a burner phone, already programmed with one contact: Wywiad's Emergency. Then, he grabbed a tactical vest and threw it over to Walentyn who caught it; lightweight but bulletproof. It had been designed for close-range protection, with pockets for extra magazines—and it shielded his torso. Danylo spoke up, his voice much quieter now and not mocking at all: »...Don't get shot.«

Walentyn strapped on the vest over his shirt, and Mikhael checked the straps, adjusting them and tightening one buckle. »Very good,« he said. »Now, you won't bleed out in case a bullet hits.«

Danylo remained quiet—that time, he made no remark whatsoever, only watched. Walentyn looked ready to kill. 

Then, Mikhael nodded towards the door. »We will stay right here,« he told Walentyn. »In an emergency case, call immediately.«

Walentyn slung the duffle bag over his shoulder, adjusted his vest—and then, with a curt nod, he walked out into Odessa's cold night air. The city was quiet at that hour, streetlights casted long shadows along the sidewalk. Walentyn took another taxi to the coastal district; not directly to Victor's villa, though. He would walk the rest of the way. In the distance, the villa loomed; and the guards were still on patrol. Walentyn recalled the footage Mikhael had showed him: Twelve seconds blindspot near the poolside hedges. Walentyn stayed low as he crept through bushes. The guard by the pool was still there, still smoking and sitting in a chair—distracted. 

Now was his chance. 

Walentyn timed it—the camera swivelled away, and there came his window. 

Three seconds in. 

The camera rotated, and Walentyn moved silent and fast, slipping behind the hedge like a shadow. The guard did not notice anything, he was too busy flicking ash into a tray. 

Five seconds. 

The camera kept turning—and Walentyn was clear. He'd entered the backyard—unseen. Up ahead was a glass door, leading inside. Walentyn crept towards it, as quiet as the night itself. The knife inside his belt was ready, he'd taken all the weapons out of the bag and thrown it into a bush on his way. He approached the glass—through the windows, he could watch Victor, sitting at the dining table, eating dinner. A man stood by his side; a man who appeared more like hired muscles than an associate—one of Victor's bodyguards. They moved their mouths, though, Walentyn could not make out what they were talking about. Victor seemed to be relaxed, sipping on his glass—completely unaware of the intruder outside. 

The glass door was slightly ajar, merely two inches—not enough to slip through, but a gap. Walentyn pressed closer: Listening. Then, the bodyguard abruptly turned around and walked towards the door. He was coming outside, right were Walentyn was hiding. He stepped outside onto the patio and pulled out a cigarette from his pocket. Too close. Walentyn was hiding around the corner, pressing his body flat against the wall, his heart hammering inside his chest. Then, the bodyguard walked right past him, heading towards a different part of the yard to smoke.

Jesus Christ. That was a narrow escape. But, Boże, he had to pull himself together! He shut his eyes for a brief second—breathe, focus. No time to panic, not when Victor was right there; and vulnerable because he was unguarded. The bodyguard wandered farther away—and the glass door remained ajar. 

Now or never. 

Walentyn moved—in one fluid motion, he slid open the door and slipped inside through the gap. Victor sat right ahead of him—with his back turned. A gunshot was too loud and would alert all the guards in an instant, Walentyn thought. But the knife, it was calling to be used. With his hand curled around the handle, he crept closer—barely breathing. One step, another one, then, close enough to reach out one hand and touch Victor. Walentyn raised his hand, aiming for the throat. Just as he swung...

...Victor's hand shot up and caught his wrist in an iron grip. He spun Walentyn around with ease, while his other hand already had a pistol pressed against Walentyn's stomach. He did not shoot, not yet, he solely showed cool and hard control. »Ah,« Victor spoke calmly, the word rolling over his tongue. »The little spy came back.«

Chapter Text

Walentyn froze. He was still holding the knife in his hand, tightly so—but Victor trapped him with his own grip. The Russian man's expression was unreadable, as it always was; although, Walentyn could tell that he was not angry. Rather, he appeared to be amused by the failed attack. »I thought you would come,« he said. »But, a knife? Seriously? How primitive.«

The mockery made Walentyn clench his jaw in anger. His hand was trembling, his muscles were tense from trying to yank free from Victor's grip. There was no use, the grip only grew tighter, almost bone-crushing. »Don't,« warned Victor, threatening to actually brake the bone in Walentyn's wrist. He yanked Walentyn forward, using the opportunity to slam the younger man into the dining table, sending plates and silverware crushing down onto the marble floor. Everything shattered from the impact and food flew around. Victor did not care, he pinned Walentyn down with his full weight and pressed the gun harder into his stomach. »Did you seriously think you alone could kill me?« 

Instead of an actual answer, Walentyn kicked his legs, and Victor grunted when the agent's knee came into contact with his ribs—however, that did not suffice to make the Russian man let go completely. With his elbow, he punched Walentyn in the jaw, a brutal counterattack that did more damage. Pain erupted inside Walentyn, exploding. His vision blurred from the brutal strike and blood trickled from his lower lip—that time, though, he refused to go limp. Again, he kicked wildly, even when Victor growled in annoyance. He grabbed Walentyn's moving legs and pinned his ankles down on the table—now, he had immobilised Walentyn, making it impossible for him to move. One hand let go, just to backhand Walentyn across the face. The slap made Walentny's head snap to the side, and now, blood spurted from his nose, too. For a second, he was dazed, disoriented, even. The table underneath him did not feel real, and the noises around him were muffled. 

Victor loomed over him, unfazed by the violence he'd inflicted on the younger man. He had a hold of Walentyn's knife now, and as if slicing a cake, he cut open the younger man's pants. The fabric tore and exposed the skin of his legs—and in an instant, Walentyn's bare skin was hit by the cold. Although, that wasn't what made a chill run through his body; the real horror came from what Victor's hand reached for next: His own belt buckle. 

Seeing that, Walentyn's blood froze to ice. Victor was going to repeat what he'd done to Walentyn at the hotel. Fear, yet also rage, ran through him—he couldn't let that happen again! Walentyn's instincts kicked in, and he thrashed violently, kicked his legs, twisted—he did anything to break free. But Victor, he did not budge; he possessed much more strength, and the ability to surprise. He laughed, the embodiment of cruelty, and it mixed with the metallic echo of his belt being unbuckled. »If you do this again, you're dead!« Shrieked Walentyn.

However, Victor simply ignored the threat. His hand yanked the belt free, the leather slicing out with a sharp snap. The sound of that alone was enough to make Walentyn's stomach twist—his chest tightened and nausea crawled up his throat. Then, Victor wrapped the leather around Walentyn's wrists, cuffing his hands together above his head, trapping him—effectively so. Walentyn struggled, yanking against the belt restraints, but they were so tight, it was useless. As a response to the desperate struggle, Victor smirked: »You will learn to like it.« He leaned down, his face was close to Walentyn's now—and then, suddenly, he crushed their lips together, forcing his tongue inside Walentyn's mouth. It wasn't a form of intimacy—Victor exerted dominance, the power and control he held over the situation; and Walentyn as well. Victor broke off the kiss, enough to growl against Walentyn's lips: »You won't escape me.« Then, he kissed him again, harder that time. His teeth grazed Walentyn's bottom lip, and the younger man grimaced. Then—the sound of Victor's zipper cut through the silence and occasional huff that tore from either man's throat. 

All Walentyn could do was lay there, helplessly. »Go to hell,« he spat, his voice filled with fury and disgust. Again, he tried anything to hurt Victor, to fight back—but the belt cuffs limited his movements. A bead of sweat ran down his temple—all those injuries were making his body weaker with each minute. He could feel and see that the bastard was aroused; it was the control and power that turned him on. He found a sick sort of satisfaction in seeing Walentyn lay beneath him, all bound and vulnerable. More disgust coiled in Walentyn's stomach—Victor enjoyed to assault him, and his arousal appeared to grow more and more. He grabbed a fistful of Walentyn's hair and yanked his head back to expose his throat—then, his teeth bit down, hard, leaving a bruising and bleeding mark. 

»Ugh—!« It hurt, a sharp and sudden sort of pain. Walentyn gritted his teeth, grinding them—solely so he was able to hold back a cry, for he would not sob in front of that asshole. Victor's tongue trailed the wet spot, and then, he proceeded to leave kisses along Walentyn's jaw—just to mock intimacy. His hard cock pressed against Walentyn's thigh, huge and unmistakable—and Victor did not even put any effort in trying to hide it, no. Rather, he ground down slightly to let the younger man feel it, to make sure he would understand: That was about to happen to him. Then, he grabbed Walentyn's legs and yanked him closer, positioning himself in between. That bastard wasted no time, did not bother with patience. A moment of impending violence passed—then:

Victor pushed inside, no preparation nor lube—just like the last time. 

»Agh—!« Agony flared through Walentyn's body, his breath hitched and all his muscles tensed agains the brutal entry. He chocked, gasped for air—but Victor spared him no sympathy. He smirked, and satisfaction shined inside his silver eyes as he saw how the younger man's body stiffened, and how the rhythm of his breath became unsteady and uneven. Then, he moved; in an utterly brutal pace, purely for his own pleasure. Every thrust was sadistic. Victor watched Walentyn's face, studying and savouring the pain and humiliation that was plastered on his features. He was getting off on it, the power trip of having someone at his mercy, having them endure the violation without a chance to fight back. 

Minutes passed, and each of it was more and more agonising. Walentyn clenched his jaw tight, refusing to let another sound tore of his throat to Victor's utter satisfaction. But—his own body betrayed him, a traitorous biological reaction. Against his own will, Walentyn's pulse was racing and his skin was flushing from heat. His hormones were kicking in, despite the horror; although, he refused to call that arousal at all—for it wasn't. Still, Victor noticed, and his smirk grew crueler. »You're enjoying it,« he whispered into the younger man's ear, his tongue tracing over the skin on his earlobe. That was not true, Victor was solely twisting reality into his own truth—as if Walentyn would ever want this. The idea made him sick to his stomach. 

Then, with the precision of an expert—perhaps, someone who'd done torture on a handful of people before—Victor's hand wrapped around Walentyn's length, tightly so, and he began to stroke; rhythmic, to force arousal and trigger a response. The sensation that ran through Walentyn's body, pain and pleasure all at once, was even more nauseating; a way of Victor proving that Walentyn no longer had any control over his own body. »See? You really like it.«

No, Walentyn hated it. Every stroke was a violation, every thrust threatened to tear him apart. Tears stung his eyes, for he was so overwhelmed, though, he refused to shed a single one. Victor leaned down again, purring into Walentyn's ear: »Your body knows what it wants.«

A lie, the most cruel one Walentyn had ever heard—even crueler than the lies he had to tell his mother before he departed for another (deadly) mission. »I hate you,« hissed Walentyn, his voice shaking from the rage inside of him. He turned his face to the side, disgusted by the face above him. However, Victor grinned—as if that only proved his victory. He placed kisses along Walentyn's jaw, ignoring the hatred and venom in his voice. »Hate me all you want,« he murmured. »But your body doesn't.«

Then, his tongue was inside Walentyn's mouth again—complete control, swallowing any protest or curse Walentyn could have tried to spit out. And while he did all that, his hips never stopped moving; a perverse performance of feigned intimacy. Walentyn's chest heaved, he couldn't speak, and his body grew weaker and weaker; he should've listened to the doctor, he fucking should have allowed himself to recover a bit before jumping into the mess again. If he'd just rested and hadn't rushed back for revenge half-healed, then... perhaps, it wouldn't have happened again. Yet, Walenytn had let his pride and rage blind him—and with that, he'd given Victor an advantage he exploited. 

Walentyn squeezed his eyes shut, a tear slipping out in spite of himself—now, he wished he could just disappear, or die. Fucking finally, Victor reached his peak; a selfish, cold climax. He didn't slow down, neither did he pull out—he let the semen spill inside Walentyn, the familiar and disgusting warmth filling up the younger man's insides. Victor exhaled—and then, he stood up and started to fix his clothes, while Walentyn lay there: On the table, unmoving. The sight of him was messy, a picture of violence; blood spilled out of his wounded hole, mixing with sperm—evidence of the rape. Victor did not spare a glance at him as he zipped up his pants and adjusted his shirt. He grabbed a napkin from the table, right next to Walentyn's head, and began to wipe his own hands with it like he'd just finished a meal. Without another word, he tossed the tissue aside and walked out of the room, leaving Walentyn there, wrecked and shattered on the dining table. Exhaustion, pain and trauma—all of that crashed down on Walentyn as he lay there, all alone. His vision began to blur as the adrenaline in his veins drained away—and what was left was nothing but numbness. His consciousness slipped away through his fingers, and the world before him went black. He had lost his hearing, too, and his senses were gone; no more pain, only nothingness. His body was finally shutting down from all of the horror Victor had inflicted onto him.

Then, Walentyn jolted awake. He was no longer lying on the table, no—he woke up in a bed with soft sheets and a pillow underneath his head. His eyes adjusted to the light: The room was dimly lit, and as much as he could make out from his still unfocused vision, it was extremely expensive-looking as well. An aching pain rushed through his wrists, and it was then that Walentyn realised someone had undone the belt cuffs. He looked at the skin on his arms; it was wounded and sore—but free. He also noticed that he'd been dressed into loose pyjamas—his gear and vest were gone. His body was aching everywhere, especially below. It burned, and Walentyn would not be surprised if that bastard had torn something down there. 

Footsteps approached. The door opened and revealed a stranger: A woman, appearing to be around thirty, dressed in a simple black uniform. She carried fresh towels in her hands and walked inside. However, when she saw that Walentyn was awake, she froze—and then, she bowed her head. She seemed hesitant, unsure whether to speak to Walentyn or not. After a moment, she placed the towels on a chair and gestured towards a glass of water on the nightstand. When she spoke, her voice sounded soft and accented: »Drink, please.« 

Instead of reaching for the glass, Walentyn asked: »Where am I?« As he sat up, his head was spinning. The woman's eyes flicked with something—was it pity or fear? 

»...The master's bedroom,« she answered, lowering her voice. »You... passed out.« Then, she added: »He told me to bring you towels to clean you up.« She did not sound sorry for him, though, the way she spoke was not unkind, either. She glanced towards the door, then back at Walentyn. »He's downstairs, drinking. He said you are to... rest.« Now, she spoke faster, more urgent. And then, she bowed, once again, and headed to leave. Silence returned, Walentyn was all alone again. The bedroom was luxurious: A king sized bed he lay in, heavy curtains that prevented sunlight to shine through. A gilded cage, so Walentyn would describe it. His throat was burning with thirst, though, he refused to take a sip from the water on the nightstand—it could be drugged. 

His mind was racing, he had to think. He'd been deprived of all of his belongings: No phone, no knife, no vest. Only pyjamas, water and painkillers the maid had left behind. That meant Walentyn was trapped, with no chance to escape or to contact Kasprzyk. Victor had stripped Walentyn off everything—even his dignity. 

However, Kasprzyk's team, Mikhael and Danylo, they knew Walentyn was at Victor's villa, and they had the address, too—which meant they would come to his rescue, soon. Right? Hope flickered inside Walentyn's chest, they had to come. They would track him down for sure, for Wywiad did not abandon their agents when things had gone south. But... how long would it take? And, more importantly, how long would Walentyn survive under the current conditions?

The minutes dragged. Walentyn's fingers curled into the sheets—he was not only running out of time, but out of patience as well. He knew he had to wait for the team, though, every second felt like torture. No, he couldn't just lay in bed and do nothing, he'd have to find a way out of the mansion himself! Carefully, he slid out of the bed. His legs wobbled when he stood, still weak from everything. But Walentyn steadied himself against the wall, and then, with all strength left inside his body and bones, he crept towards the door. His hand reached for the knob and he creaked the door open, solely slightly at first. He poke his head out into the hallway, his eyes scanning the surroundings: Empty. A long carpet lead to a staircase. Walentyn opened the door wider and set one foot on it. 

»Stoy.«

In an instant, Walentyn froze. The voice came from behind him. A tall figure stepped into his sight—a man in a black suit, one of Victor's bodyguards. He was younger and had a huge scar across his cheek. He raised one hand, not to attack—only to signalise Walentyn not to take a step further. As the guard approached Walentyn, the latter took in his frame: That man was large, broad-shouldered and around Victor's height. His features were sharp: High cheekbones, a strong and defined jawline—and piercing blue eyes. Brute strength with unexpected attractiveness. 

He studied Walentyn, not speaking. Then, he crossed his arms before his chest and blocked the hallway. No aggression—but he denied Walentyn permission to leave with his body language. 

Walentyn curled his hands into fists at his sides, there was something radiating off that man that made his body refuse to move. »I... have to use the toilet,« he said. 

The man's eyes narrowed, assessing Walentyn. A long pause, his expression remained unreadable. Then: He nodded, once, and stepped a little to the side to allow Walentyn to walk to the bathroom. As Walentyn did that, the man followed him closely behind, like a dark shadow looming over him, making running away too dangerous and also impossible. 

Walentyn entered the spacious bathroom: Marble floors, gold fixtures. The bodyguard lingered outside, and Walentyn wondered; if he locked the door, would that trigger suspicion? He dared to try it. It was risky, yet, he wanted a moment for himself, to think, breathe and plan. Walentyn walked over to the basin and turned on the faucet. He splashed cold water on his face and stared at his reflection in the mirror: Bruises, a split-lip and sheer exhaustion were drawn on his features. Seconds passed and Walentyn solely stood there, observing himself while his palms curled around the porcelain, his knuckles turning white from the force. Then—a knock on the door. The bodyguard's voice came through, sounding deeper than before. »Time.« Not a reminder, no; an order. 

With a deep breath, Walentyn unlocked the door and stepped outside. The guard didn't say anything, he just turned around and strode back to the bedroom—expecting Walentyn to follow, for he was sure the younger man wasn't stupid and would try to run off. Thus, Walentyn was forced to obey; he would be back to captivity and waiting, trapped inside that room with his own thoughts—while hoping for rescue which might come too late. 

Back at the room, a dreadful surprise awaited Walentyn: Victor was there. He stood by the huge windows, the curtains had been moved aside and light was falling inside. The Russian man regarded the ocean, which was stretching ahead endlessly, with a bored expression on his face, not even turning around when Walentyn entered. With Victor inside, the temperature in the room had dropped. Then, very slowly, he turned to face Walentyn. The expression on his face was unreadable, as always. »Alex. Uchodi.« He spoke to his bodyguard, ordering him to leave. 

Alex threw one last glance at Walentyn, who stood right next to him now. Then, he bowed his head at Victor and left, without a word, closing the door behind him with a soft click. 

It was only Victor and Walentyn now, alone in a closed space. The air grew thinner while the tension thickened. Slowly, each step deliberate, Victor walked towards Walentyn. Instinctively, the younger man recoiled; every muscle in his body locked instantly, and his breath hitched, barely noticeably. The trauma flashed through his mind, triggering memories of the horror: The table, the belt—the rape. 

And even though it was barely there, Victor noticed the flinch, and something flickered in his eyes which are usually so indifferent and deprived of any emotion. It didn't look like guilt, more... like he was reassessing Walentyn's reaction—and, perhaps, he was a bit surprised at how deeply damaged the younger man actually seemed to be. However—it was gone, almost instantly. His hand reached out and fingers brushed over Walentyn's cheekbones, a touch as tender and light as a feather. A strange silence had fallen between them. »Kukolka,« mumbled Victor, calling Walentyn »doll«. The nickname sent a shiver down the younger man's spine—was that another of Victor's ways to mock him? He was regarding Walentyn as though he was delicate, not even a human but solely an object Victor could break for fun; if he chose to. Then, his thumb went lower, tracing Walentyn's wounded lip, his bruised jaw. 

All the while, Walentyn's body remained rigid, although, his breathing slowed, slightly so. The touch wasn't violent, Victor wasn't threatening him, therefore, Walentyn's flight-or-fight response wavered. Instead, confusion crept in: What the hell was Victor doing, being so gentle oh-so suddenly? Walentyn's eyes were wide, guarded, as if he was searching Victor's face for a trick. 

Victor exhaled softly—a sigh. Then, he leaned down, and without a warning, he kissed Walentyn on the lips—not with brutal force like before, no. That kiss was a slow one, still controlled by Victor himself. Though, that time, the kiss felt more real, soft and... strange. 

Intimate. In an odd way. 

Chapter Text

The kiss triggered a flood of pure panic. 

The memories came back: The table, the pain, how Victor had assaulted Walentyn. The younger man's breath turned shallow, and his hands twitched at his sides, he wanted to shove Victor away; but he couldn't bring himself to do that, for he could not move his body. It was the trauma that locked him in place; he was just not reacting anymore. 

Frustrated at the lack of response, Victor pulled back. Walentyn hadn't returned the kiss, almost as if he was mentally gone; empty, even. Annoyance flashed across Victor's face and a muscle in his jaw jumped, he did not know how to handle this and it angered him. Emotional damage, trauma? Those were things he was not familiar with—at least, not when it came to curing those. He stepped back, and one hand ran through his hair. For the very first time, his facial expression really revealed something: Victor Volkov was unsure, thrown-off. He could handle hatred, control defiance—yet, not emptiness, a void. Clearly, he did not know what to do next. 

Meanwhile, Walentyn was slowly regaining his composure. That asshole was acting as if he hadn't assaulted him; and now, he had the audacity and even kissed him on the lips like that?! 

»Go to hell.«

At those words, Victor's eyes narrowed. »Careful,« he warned Walentyn. He had (foolishly so) allowed himself to soften, slightly, at the sight of Walentyn fretting; however, he would not let that happen a second time. The Polish agent had betrayed him, also attempted to kill him—thus, he wouldn't treat the younger man nicely, not oh-so suddenly. Victor straightened his posture, and the brief moment of, what one could call vulnerability, was gone, erased, even. His hand grabbed Walentyn's chin to force eye contact; then, he spoke, in a low voice: »You don't get to say that, not after what you did.« His grip tightened, not enough to hurt, though. Inflicting pain was not on his mind, not now, at least. What was settling inside his head, instead, was the idea that the recent kiss had been a slip—a mere mistake. 

»You raped me!« Walentyn spat back, his voice filled with rage. The trauma hadn't vanished, although, it began to fuel his anger, for Victor was acting so goddamn infuriating! At that moment, he did not even care whether Victor would, again, punish him for his foul mouth—he had to get the frustration off his chest, somehow. Victor did not strike back, at least not yet; although, he tightened his grip around the younger man's jaw more. »You attacked me first,« he growled back, as if that would justify the sexual assault—and inside his head, it probably did. »A knife to the throat. You don't get to play the victim here.«

Walentyn's teeth were grinding, he should spit that absolute asshole into the face. »You raped me even before that!«

Victor pinched the bridge of his nose. »Lies,« he mumbled—definite denial. In his mind, what had happened at the hotel was justified. He was really rationalising sexual assault. His other hand shot out and he shoved Walentyn back against the wall. The impact knocked air out of the younger man's lungs, and when he opened his eyes again, he saw that the Russian man was looming over him, fury written all over his face. Something inside of him had been triggered—and now, he was exploding with defensive rage. His hands were holding Walentyn's shoulders. »And you betrayed me before that, when you played the role of my obedient assistant—when, all along, you were a spy!«

That was the undeniable truth, and Walentyn knew he had no defence for that—yes, he had lied to Victor; pretended to be a loyal lapdog, spied on him and reported back to Wywiad for half a year. But, that was just his job! Victor's voice dropped to a whisper: »You used me, played the quiet, petty assistant by my side—and then, you stabbed me in the back.« Every syllable shed light on the betrayal—the hatred Victor felt towards Walentyn. Both had their reasons, and neither regarded the other one as innocent—two enemies who had destroyed each other in different ways. 

Suddenly, the rage boiled over, and Victor's fist curled around the collar of Walentyn's shirt, so he slammed him back into the wall. His hand hovered in the air, ready to punch. 

»Sir.«

It was Alex who interrupted. He stood there, on the threshold—neither of the two men had heard the door open. Victor froze, his fist still lifted in the air. The bodyguard seemed unfazed by the scene in front of him; the shameless display of violence towards someone who was, visibly so, in no condition to defend himself. Slowly, Victor lowered his fist. »What?« He was incredibly irritated by the abrupt interruption, it was so obvious. 

However, Alex did not flinch; he solely spoke back, his voice sounding calm and sober: »The car is ready.« A vague answer, at least for a bystander like Walentyn—yet, to Victor, those few words sufficed. And then, after a second, the realisation hit Walentyn: Kasprzyk had said Victor would leave Odessa in 48 hours. That meant he would leave now. Alex's words had confirmed that. »Ah,« said Victor, and then, he turned his head back to Walentyn. »You're coming with us.« No negotiations, never that. 

Walentyn's stomach dropped. Kidnapped, he would no longer be trapped in a villa without access to communicate to the security team or Kasprzyk—they would take him God knew where! Far from any hope of rescue. But, before Walentyn could come up with anything, Victor had already wrapped his hand around the younger man's arm—he did not have enough patience to wait for Walentyn's reaction—and he wouldn't wait for it, anyway. He dragged the him to the door, though, Walentyn yanked his arm back—fighting with the last recourses of strength which had remained in his body. He swung his fist, aiming for Victor's face—it was an act born out of pure panic, the fear of never returning home ever again; not alive, at least. There was no strategy behind it, only the instinct to escape. Walentyn's fist actually came into contact with Victor's jaw, and the Russian man staggered back from the blow, slightly so. He grimaced—then, though, the pain turned into rage. In an instant, he punched Walentyn into the stomach, sending the younger man stumbling. The air was knocked out of him and he thought his ribs had been shattered by the impact. 

With indifference, Victor watched as Walentyn collapsed. »Take care of him,« he ordered Alex, his eyes regarding Walentyn with an expression of distaste, as if the sight of the younger man made him uneasy. Then, he turned on his heel and walked out of the room. Alex stepped forward and bended down to grab Walentyn by his shoulders. The younger man tried to shove him off, even in utter pain, but Alex was massive. With ease, he hauled up Walentyn and threw him over his shoulder, as though he was a sack of potatoes. Then, Alex carried him outside, and Walentyn noticed how eerily quiet the mansion was. The servants avoided eye contact as they moved. Through one window, Walentyn caught a glimpse of the sleek black car outside. Alex did not stop, he continued to walk and carried down Walentyn the grand staircase—the one which could have been Walentyn's escape route if he had tried harder.

Outside, the air was cool. The door of the vehicle was open—wide. Inside, Victor already sat; waiting. Without further instruction, Alex dumped Walentyn into the backseat, beside Victor. The Russian man did not bother to look at him, he solely stared out of the window as if, whatever he was watching, was more entertaining than Walentyn could ever be. Although, as soon as Walentyn had taken his seat next to him, there was a little jump in Victor's jaw. 

Without an exchange of words, the driver started the engine. The tires crunched on the gravel as the car pulled away from the villa—towards an unknown destination and future. 

Silence accompanied them along the journey. Walentyn glanced at Victor; his side profile was sharp, even more so in the passing streetlights. At some point, the younger man felt awkward from all the starring, thus, he tore his eyes of the Russian man and, instead, watched the scenery pass by out of the window. The city lights blurred—and soon, they had left Odessa far beyond. The following hours were filled with fields, forests and a road which stretched ahead endlessly. Nothing familiar surrounded them anymore—solely Walentyn's own reflection which stared back at him through the glass. His face was bruised, hollow—from now on, he was Victor's personal prisoner, on death row. His thoughts were taking him nowhere, they were racing in a circle: Kasprzyk, he would notice the loss of Walentyn's signal, soon, and Wywiad would investigate. However, by then, he might be thousands of miles away already. 

And then, there was his mother—Karolina. She wouldn't hear of him, not for a long time; and it was impossible to estimate how long that would last—or, worse, if she would ever face her son again; alive, not in the form of a corpse. 

The car kept moving forward, faster and further. Every second put more distant between Walentyn and the life he knew. Those seconds turned into more hours—and then, finally, the vehicle slowed, approaching a private airfield. Farther away, a jet awaited them on the runway, the engines already running—it was damn loud. Beside Walentyn, Victor checked his watch; then, his eyes flicked to the younger man for the very first time since they had left Odessa. There was no sympathy, solely calculation. The car came to a stop in front of the stairs. Victor was the first to step out of the vehicle, straightening his coat. Then, he turned back and reached out one hand for Walentyn—not gently; although, not violently, either. He knew there was no chance for the younger man to escape now, and he was also aware that Walentyn was not stupid enough to try and make a run for it. 

Walentyn stood, his limbs stiff from sitting so long. He climbed up the stairs to the jet, utterly slow. The cabin was luxurious: Leather seats, dim lighting. Victor took his seat, buckling his belt like they were on a business trip. Alex was the last to enter, and he closed the door behind him with a soft hiss. Then, the engine roared to life. Through the round windows, Walentyn watched the runway blur as they began to accelerate into the air. 

Victor remained as silent as a statue, scrolling through his phone. All the while, Walentyn's heart was pounding so much that his pulse reached his ears and throat—anxiety. »Where are we going?« He asked when he couldn't take it any longer, still not even knowing where the flight would take him. Victor did not bother to take his eyes off the device. »Astana,« he said after a while, his voice sounding flat, deprived of any emotion. 

Astana. That was in Kazakhstan—far from Poland, fucking far away from anyone Walentyn knew. Oblivious to Walentyn's increasing panic and anxiety—or, he was not oblivious at all and only pretended to be—Victor put away his phone and leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes. That son of a bitch was relaxing, thought Walentyn. He would not leave him alone. »Why?« He demanded to know—why was Victor going that far?! »Just kill me already, bastard!«

At that, Victor's eyes snapped open. Slowly, he sat up again, and then, he leaned over to Walentyn. »I don't want to kill you.« 

Silence. Walentny held his gaze, enduring those piercing eyes. »Then what the hell do you want?!« Was that Victor's idea of revenge? Slowly torturing someone until they were broken? Or, was it worse: Was it complete control? That did sound a lot like Victor, realised Walentyn. »I will use you until I become bored of you,« said Victor suddenly, and then, as if that wasn't an absolute shattering statementt, he leaned back again and crossed his arms across his chest. 

A chill ran down Walentyn's spine—use him, as if he was an object; a toy. Not a person, no, rather something, a tool, Victor could exploit until he was tired of it. That was worse than death, by far. 

The flight continued in silence. Walentyn curled into his seat, physically and emotionally exhausted from everything. The adrenaline from earlier was gone, and what remained was dread. Once again, his eyes watched the world beyond the window: Clouds stretched, but the landscape was beneath—so far out of reach, impossibly so. 

After hours, the jet finally descended. Below, Astana's airport lights were glinting. Walentny had fallen asleep, despite not finding any peace of mind for a single moment. He felt hand on his shoulder, shaking him slightly. »Wake up.« And Walentyn blinked awake, disoriented at first. It was Alex who woke him, and he was surprisingly gentle with it. Through the window, Walentyn saw the private terminal and a car that awaited them. The door of the jet was already open wide, and the cold Kazakh air seeped inside. Alex took a step back, and for a moment, he allowed Walentyn to gather himself. Victor's voice could be heard, already outside: He was talking to someone in a long coat. Immediately, Walentyn was on alert. A local contact? Or, just someone who had arranged their stay? 

When Walentyn tried to sit up, he winced—God, everything hurt! Every godforsaken movement sent pain shooting through his body like little bullets. His ribs were aching, his stomach, too—and then, there was that soreness as well. Without a warning, Walentyn was scooped into the air. »What—«

With no effort, Alex carried him down the stairs—as if the younger man weighed nothing. »Put me down!« Snapped Walentyn at the bodyguard, his cheeks flushed with humiliation. He disliked it, to be carried like a bride; especially by Victor's hulking bodyguard. However, Alex ignored his complaints. He was striding towards the vehicle, unfazed and unbothered. 

And with the same indifference, Victor watched as Walentyn was loaded into the backseat of the vehicle. The car pulled away and rolled through the dark streets of Astana. The city was sleek and modern: Wide avenues lined with glass skyscrapers, their windows reflecting other buildings and neon lights. To Walentyn, the Kazakh capital was completely foreign—as much as he was informed, there were no allies there. A river cut through Astana, and there were beautiful bridges, spanned in elegant arches. Ahead rose a massive monument, a towering steel sculpture with the appearance of a crown. It was beautiful—but, also, sterile. No warmth, just money and power on display; the perfect place for a man like Victor Volkov. Yes, Walentyn thought, that man belonged in such place: Cold and polished, order and control. 

The car drove into an underground garage. Alex carried Walentyn again, straight to what seemed to be a private elevator. Inside, Victor pressed the button to the penthouse floor. As the elevator ascended, no words were exchanged. Although, inside Walentyn's head, it was awfully loud: By now, Kasprzyk's security must have found out that Victor was no longer in Odessa, and they would soon inform Warsaw. And Kasprzyk, he surely already noticed that Walentyn's signal couldn't be tracked down any longer. The tracker was embedded inside Walentyn's vest, which had been confiscated by Victor. Though, the Russian man definitely wasn't stupid; he'd surely destroyed that vest, which meant that the signal had gone dark. And that was something Wywiad would notice immediately, for they were always monitoring their agents. They would track him down differently—however, how long would that take? Days? Weeks? Months—in the worst case? 

Silence. Walentyn's mind clung to the hope. They were coming, they had to! Nonetheless, the reality was harsh: Astana wasn't Odessa. In Kazakhstan, Victor had connections, he definitely did. If things went wrong, if he got suspicious of a possible security team sent by Wywiad to rescue Walentyn, he would make them disappear again—easily so. 

The elevator doors slid open with a ding, and behind them, Victor's penthouse revealed itself; and it was stunning. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a great view on the city's skyline, and the interior was sleek; modern furniture and marble floors. A minimalist luxury that screamed money and wealth—and power, all of which Victor possessed more than enough. Before the fireplace stood a huge couch—and further was the dining table, untouched. Victor walked inside and draped his long coat over a chair. Walentyn was carried away, down the hallway. Alex brought him into what looked to be the master's bedroom: It was a massive room with a king-sized bed, covered in black sheets made out of silk. The decor was not outstanding, solely expensive and... empty. 

Alex set down Walentyn at the edge of the bed. The Polish man stared up at the bodyguard, his cheeks flushed. »I can walk by myself, actually,« he muttered and turned his head to the side. Walentyn disliked to be carried around like a little chihuahua in a purse—he was a grown man, not an accessory. Alex blinked, almost appearing sheepish. For a man of his size, that reaction was uncharacteristically. He raised his hand as though he wanted to say: »Sorry about that.« Then, he took a step back—though, he stayed in the room and did not leave, awaiting further orders from his boss. Absolute loyalty. 

The Russian tyrant entered the bedroom and loosened his tie. He glanced at Walentyn and saw the visible traces of a flush on his face, which appeared to amuse him. It was as though all the things that bothered Walentyn were funny to Victor—the younger man's embarrassment brought him joy and euphoria. Without a word, solely a smirk on his lips, Victor walked to the wardrobe and pulled out a fresh set of clothes: Black pants and a white shirt. It was then that Walentyn gained acute awareness of how he was still dressed in those stupid pyjamas, the same he'd worn when they had left Odessa. Upset about that, the younger man gritted his teeth. Victor was holding out the clothes before his—he looked expectant, not offering them to Walentyn out of gratitude from the bottom of his heart, no. He was silently commanding the younger man to change into something more fresh.

Meanwhile, Alex turned his head towards the wall to allow Walentyn privacy—the only man in the room who had tact and comprehended the concept of human decency. 

»Take it,« said Victor, waving the clothes in front of Walentyn's face as his arms grew tired from hovering in the air. With a frown on his face, the younger man snatched the clothes. The fabric was expensive, high-quality cotton. And Walentyn hated it. Now, he had to change there, before those two men—not even offered the decency to use to bathroom. Fuck—it was awfully awkward; and yet, Victor did not seem to care about it at all. Angry about the entire situation, Walentyn clenched his jaw—that was so goddamn degrading. However, he had not choice—so, slowly, he began to peel off his pyjama shirt, and then, his hands moved to the pants. That underwear would stay on, that was a line Walentyn would not allow Victor to cross—especially not in front of Alex's eyes. It was already dreadful enough that one man had violated his dignity and put him in a very vulnerable position, no need for a second one. Firmly, Alex kept his gaze glued to the wall, away from Walentyn entirely—Victor, however, watched; his silver eyes tracking every single movement, without any shame. His gaze would linger, not with lust or attraction—it wasn't that. He was studying Walentyn's lean and athletic build, his shoulders and arms which were defined from all the training. But his waist, it dipped slightly, and his hips were narrow—a delicate contrast to all those muscles. Then, Victor's eyes traced the scars: Old ones, most likely injuries from other missions—a knife wound near his ribs was the evidence. There was no pity in the Russian man's expression; he was taking in all those details to note every weakness and sign of vulnerability—information about the enemy that could be useful and exploited, eventually. 

Then, Victor took a step forward and reached out his hand. Walentyn froze—the hand was not touching him, not yet. But he was close. The trauma was triggered instantly: The table, the belt, the violation... Walentyn's breath hitched, an involuntary sound of vulnerability. His instincts were screaming at him to flinch away from that man. Yet, his body wouldn't listen. He could only freeze. Victor's finger came into contact, lightly touching a scar on Walentyn's collarbone with intrigue in his eyes. A strange stillness had settled between them. Walentyn's heart was hammering inside his chest, heavy and loud—but not from excitement. His body was locked and Victor noticed that. For a second, he looked almost... aware. He knew Walentyn wasn't reacting in a usual way. Slowly, he pulled back his hand—and a muscle in his jaw jumped.

Victor hated that. Trauma responses—he had no idea how to deal with those, and it angered him that Walentyn was no longer reacting defiant but like that. 

Actually, he wasn't reacting anymore, not at all. And that was so boring. 

With a scoff, Victor turned away from the younger man—and when he left the room, he slammed the door shut behind him. The BANG was so loud, it echoed through the entire penthouse. Walentyn flinched at the sound and it pulled him out of his paralysis, right back into reality. His eyes were wide, and he realised that his body was still on edge, his muscles tense. He casted a careful glance at Alex, who still stood by the door—seeming awkward by his boss's outburst. 

Without a word, Walentyn changed into the new clothes.

Chapter Text

All day long, Alex would follow Walentyn around. He was tailing him, not taking his eyes off the younger man for the fraction of a second. Honestly, Walentyn was utterly surprised that he was allowed to roam around the place freely at all, for he had expected to be tied to the bed or locked up inside a room like a prisoner. But, no—he was free to do what he wanted, except to leave the place. 

Since his sudden outburst, Victor hadn't shown his face in front of Walentyn; which wasn't something the younger man missed. He was d'accord with how it was now, he did not miss the Russian man's violent and unpredictable nature, not at all. Rather, he almost enjoyed exploring the penthouse, as much as that was possible under the current conditions. Better than to be bored all day long. Although, that joy did not last long, for Walentyn was still injured. Every step he took hurt! As boredom began to creep in again, Walentyn decided to document the penthouse and journal his thoughts in a little notebook (which he'd found in Victor's study):

The penthouse was huge: A labyrinth of luxury rooms. There was a living room, a kitchen—and a secret study with bookshelves, all walled around the room. Walentyn's favourite part of the penthouse was the balcony, because it overlooked Astana—and, also, because he could breathe in some fresh air when he thought it was too thick and suffocating inside. Nonetheless, he wasn't that euphoric about it—as soon as he moved, pain shot through his body; his ribs, stomach and... lower back. Alex didn't commend on that, did not mock Walentyn or made fun of him for being a bit weak and wounded. No, he solely trailed behind him, silent; a shadow. 

Hours went by. Eventually, Walentyn collapsed onto the couch in the living room, right before the fire place. He was exhausted, and even sitting was a fucking struggle! Alex lingered nearby—and then, to Walentyn's utter surprise, he grabbed a blanket and draped it over the younger man. A gentle gesture coming from a brutal bodyguard. At first, Walentyn arched a brow, not sure how to react to the abrupt act of politeness. »...Thanks,« he muttered in Russian as his hands wrapped the blanket around his body, for he was freezing, indeed. Then, he asked Alex for water, as his throat felt dry from dehydration. Alex gave him a small nod, and soon, he returned with a glass in his hands. Grateful, Walentyn took it. The water was cold and crisp, a small comfort in a situation that confronted him with tension all the time. Boże, why hadn't he realised how thirsty he'd been?! He gulped down the water. Perhaps, the stress made his body malfunctioning. 

A quiet moment passed. It dawned onto Walentyn that it was the first time someone had shown him basic decency since he'd been captured. He exhaled and tilted his head back: The ceiling was pristine white, no cracks and not a single imperfection up there. That was Victor's world: Flawless and controlled. How the hell was he supposed not to go mad?!

Alex remained standing, his arms crossed before his chest. He never let his guard down, never slipped. The silence between Walentyn and him stretched, though, it wasn't charged, was not hostile; and that made a huge difference, for it was not as uncomfortable as it would have been.

Now, they were waiting.

Waiting. How long would Walentyn have to wait for rescue to come? Weeks? Months? Or, would they never find him? 

Wywiad had to be looking for him, he was a missing agent! Kasprzyk must have been alarmed the second Walentyn's tracker had gone dark. Yet, again, he was no longer in Ukraine—he was in Kazakhstan. Therefore, the real question was: How easily could Wywiad get access? Kazakhstan was... tricky; not a warzone, but not an alley, either. They could send Polish operatives, undercover. But, beyond that? There wasn't much they could do, aside from contacting diplomatic channels, perhaps. However, that would take time—and Walentyn couldn't tell how much time favoured him at the moment; though, if he had to make a guess? Then, he would say Wywiad better operated quickly. Reality began to sink in: Wywiad would try, but they wouldn't risk an international incident for the sake of a sole agent. 

So, for now? Walentyn would have to wait, and that was about as much as he could do. 

Suddenly, his stomach growled—loudly. Another reality check: He hadn't eaten since they'd left the mansion! All calories had been burned—now, his body screamed for new fuel. A little embarrassed at the loud noise, Walentyn wrapped his arms around his stomach. He looked up at Alex, however, the bodyguard did not comment on it—he did not tease Walentyn, didn't make fun of him, either. Instead, he turned around, without a word, and walked into the kitchen. Walentyn could hear the sound of the fridge opening, and then, the cabinets, too. Minutes later, Alex returned with a plate in his hand: Two simple sandwiches with ham and one banana. He held it out towards Walentyn, who eyed the food with suspicion. 

...Was it drugged? Could Victor have ordered Alex to give poison to him? Was that a trick, a trap? 

But Alex had been treating Walentyn with respect, from the very beginning, and something awfully close to kindness as well—at least, one could call it decency. 

The bodyguard seemed to notice the hesitation, for his free hand picked up a sandwich himself—and then, he took a small bite from it, demonstrating that it was safe to eat. He even swallowed it down his throat, not flinching. A silent way of assuring Walentyn: »No drugs, just food.«

Cautiously, Walentyn reached out and took the plate. At first, he only nibbled at the bread, testing it. Then, he tried the ham—it was good! Fresh ingredients, no odd taste—nothing was off. His hunger took over, and Walentyn started to eat properly. Alex watched him eat—not staring rudely—solely observing, making sure Walentyn wouldn't choke on the quick bites he took. The sandwich disappeared fairly fast; then followed the banana. Walentyn peeled it with his hands and ate it within seconds—hell, he had been starving! 

Full, and considerably less miserable compared to the previous days, Walentyn curled onto the side of the couch. After the meal, exhaustion hit him—emotional drainage dragged him down. Within seconds, his eyelids fluttered shut and his breathing slowed down, for all he wanted to do now was to take a nap. Alex noticed, and, again, without a word, he adjusted the pillow and dropped the blanket properly over the sleeping man. Then, he was back at his post by the window. 

Walentyn was woken up by pain that shot through his scalp. His eyes snapped open when a brutal grip yanked him upright by his hair, forcing his head back. Silver eyes starred into his own with cold fury. »Do you think you are allowed to relax here?« Victor's voice sounded angry, really pissed. Walentyn winced, for more pain flared where Victor was pulling him. »You're not on vacation. And you are not my guest, either.«

In desperation, Walentyn's hands flew up and wrapped around Victor's wrist, trying to get that iron grip off him. However, that turned out to be a useless attempt; Victor's grip was unbreakable. His fingers remained tangled in the younger man's hair, yanking even harder when Walentyn struggled. »Let go of me, fucking psycho!« He shrieked and thrashed wildly, kicking at Victor's legs and scratching his nails across his skin. It was messy—but, then again, born out of desperation. Victor growled, and then, he slapped Walentyn across the face with his free hand. A hard blow. Walentyn's cheek burned, and Victor's grip would not loose, not even a little. Like an object, Walentyn was thrown to the floor. Finally, Victor let go of his hair—however, he only did that so he could pin the younger man to the floor. The weight of Victor's leather shoe crushed the bones in Walentyn's shoulder; the pain was sharp, sudden and immobilised him. The pressure was so intense, it threatened to break his bones. Then, Walentyn felt the tip of Victor's shoe on his chin—and when he raised his gaze to glare at the Russian man, he met a deadly calm expression. 

A sound tore from Walentyn's throat, something close to a cry. That did not make Victor soften—rather, he appeared to be amused to have Walentyn at his mercy. A cruel smirk played around his lips, and then, his shoe pressed down harder on Walentyn's shoulder. A punishment. Victor held the pressure longer, watching Walentyn squirm underneath. Then, he lifted his foot—to kick Walentyn into the ribs with full force. A strike of an awfully brutal sort—if that hadn't broken a bone? Well, that was a fucking miracle; and nonetheless, it was enough to hurt like hell! Air was knocked out of Walentyn's lungs and he gasped, grimaced. He curled, clutched his ribs—but the air refused to refill his lungs. Every inhale was a stab of pain—Victor's kick had landed perfectly. He grabbed Walentyn by the collar of his shirt and hauled him up—however, only enough that the younger man was on his knees. Victor's hand curled around the nape of Walentyn's neck and he pressed him right against his crotch.

Walentyn's stomach twisted with disgust. The degrading position he found himself in—it was pure humiliation. He was forced into submission, like a dog! »...Psycho,« he muttered against the fabric of Victor's slacks, his voice sounding weak from the previous pain. The grip around his neck tightened—a warning. The squeeze was sharp and sudden, enough to make Walentyn's vision blur. Then, Victor yanked his head back again, forcing eye contact. »If you speak again,« he said, his eyes narrowing with each word, »I will make you shut up.«

Regardless of the threat, Walentyn snapped. »Go to hell!« He spat. The second those three words had left Walentyn's mouth, Victor moved. His hands were wrenching his jaw open, digging into the corners of the younger man's mouth who began to gag at the violent intrusion. Victor's other hand went down, to unbuckle his belt. Click. The sound of it was defeating, a sickening prelude. Walentyn's heart pounded inside his throat and his ears—and panic took over. The villa, the table... The same sound triggered the same terror. At first, he froze—but then, adrenaline flooded into his veins. His survival instinct kicked in. With a sudden, desperate lunge, Walentny bit into Victor's hand. That bite was deep enough to draw blood. The older man jerked back his hand and he hissed. 

For a second, Victor lost focus. And that second? Enough time for a chance to flight. Walentyn surged forward and shoved past Victor. Without wasting time on any thoughts, he bolted for the front door. Freedom, that was the sole thing on his mind. On his way, Walentyn knocked over a vase with flowers—though, he couldn't care less, even if that thing cost a fortune! He did not look back over his shoulder, and he actually reached the door! The handle was cold under his sweaty palm, and with no hesitation, he flung the door open and sprinted out into the hallway. 

Freedom, escape—away from Victor Volkov! 

Walentyn did not run to the elevator—not enough time for that. The stairs were closer, so he pounded down the steps, taking two at a time. His heart was slamming against his ribs—don't dare to look back, he told himself in his head, repeatedly. Behind him, Victor's voice echoed; Russian curses, filthy and vicious. That man was fast and fuelled by rage. Each step he took made the stairwell shook—he was coming closer. The thud of his shoes on the metal steps sounded like gunfire in Walentyn's ears. By the time the younger man had reached the ground floor, his legs were burning. He looked around the lobby: A concierge desk, a few residents milling about—witnesses of the scene. Yet, Victor was not a man to care who saw him chase down another man. He barrelled through the lobby, ignoring the startled glances. The concierge jumped to his feet, probably planning to intervene, but Victor shouldered past him as though he was just in his way. 

Walentyn was almost at the exit, almost free. And then, he fucking stumbled over his own step. His foot caught onto something, a loose tile, perhaps. It was a mere misstep. That was all Victor needed. He lunged forward and caught Walentyn by the back of his shirt, yanking him backwards. »You are dead.« He spun Walentyn around and slammed him into the nearest wall. Once again, the impact knocked air out of the younger man's lungs. But before he even had the chance to recover from that, Victor's fist cracked across his face. Walentyn's vision blurred and blood trickled from his nose and lip. A metallic taste filled his mouth—by now, a familiar taste. Victor wasn't done, he grabbed the younger man by the throat and lifted him off the ground. »You don't run away from me,« he growled, his face merely inches away from Walentyn's. »And you don't bite me. All you will do is stay with me until I'm tired of you.« He shook Walentyn, whose hands were wrapped around Victor's wrist, his nails digging into the flesh to make that grip around his throat loosen, somehow, for he couldn't breathe! »I will drag you back. And I will make sure you will never try to run away again.« Then, he made the threat come true and dragged Walentyn back towards the elevator, ignoring the terrified gasps and glances from the people inside the lobby. Not even the security was stupid enough to try and intervene—not when it was Victor Volkov, not when he was so full of rage. 

Back upstairs, Walentyn was brutally shoved into the bedroom. He stumbled back and fell onto the bed, but before he could move back to his feet, Victor was already on top of him, holding him down. And he was holding a syringe in his hand. Walentyn's heart almost stopped at the sight—the syringe glinted under the light, sharp and dangerous. With his weight, Victor pinned him in place; there was no way of escape for Walentyn that time. Then, the needle was plunged into his arm—quick and precise. A burning sensation ran through his body as the liquid entered his bloodstream. In an instant, dizziness kicked in, his limbs began to feel heavier and a fog crept around his vision. »...You... bastard..!« Walentyn slurred the words, his tongue suddenly too heavy to talk. His eyelids fluttered, too, and it was impossible to keep them open. Still, his glare? Hateful. Not even a drug could get rid of his defiance, right up until darkness swallowed him whole. 

When Walentyn woke up again? He wished he was dead. His body felt wrong; weak and nauseous, numb limbs. The first thing his brain registered? The handcuffs above his head, the cold metal that tied him to the bedframe. Agonising pain shot through his abdomen—and then, finally, Walentyn realised: Victor's cock was inside him, thrusting in and out. 

Horror. It was written all over Walenytn's face when he realised what that bastard had been doing while he'd been unconscious. Tears burned in his eyes, he'd encountered a handful of evil people on his path as an agent—but Victor? That man wasn't cruel; he wasn't human! How could someone even do that? That son of a bitch had drugged Walentyn with whatever, and now, he raped him, again. That drug was still inside Walentyn's system and he couldn't move, could not even scream in pain and agony he felt. Victor? He did not even acknowledge the tears that streamed down his cheeks. He continued to push his cock into Walentyn with in a fast pace, not slowing down, not at all—there was no emotion or passion behind it, only brutal control. Merciless.

For Walentyn, time blurred. Whether seconds or hours had passed, he couldn't tell—it was all the same to him at one point. When Victor was done, he finally pulled back. Without a word, he zipped up his pants, his face deprived of any emotion or empathy towards Walentyn, who lay there on the bed. Despite all those years of training as an agent, which had taught Walentyn to become emotionally detached from such situations—torture—the violation inflicted on him was unbearable. »...You took it too far this time.«

Victor glanced at him; no remorse beyond those cold eyes, no regret—solely... satisfaction? The Russian man did not reply, he stood up and adjusted the rest of his slightly rumpled clothes, as though he hadn't done anything wrong, ever. Then, without looking back, he walked out of the bedroom and shut the door behind him. Now, Walentyn was all alone; handcuffed and drugged. It felt as if the temperature in the room had dropped—it was colder, emptier. No comfort awaited Walentyn, just the lingering memories of what Victor had done to him. And he did wonder: How much longer would he be able to endure all of that? That question would haunt him, how many times would Victor do it again? It was hard to tell, because Victor was so unpredictable; he could strike at any moment, even when Walentyn was asleep, as it had turned out. That meant he was no longer safe in his sleep, either; although, that had been the only place where he could get some peace of mind. How much longer until his mind would snap, then—Walentyn wondered. There was one thing he knew for sure and with much certainty: He could not keep surviving like that, not for long and most definitely not forever. 

Chapter Text

Days passed—and throughout all that time, Victor would ignore Walentyn's existence. Honestly, the younger man did not see him around at all, it was as though he had vanished entirely. Therefore, Alex took care of him: He brought Walentyn meals and watched him 24/7. Meanwhile, Victor was nowhere to be found—though, if one asked Walentyn? That bastard better stayed far away forever. 

One morning, Walentyn was relaxing on the balcony—he had a great view on Astana's glittering skyline. The skyscrapers shimmered under the sunlight, their windows catching firelight. Below, the city was alive: Cars were moving like tiny ants, and far ahead, bridges were spanning over rivers with beautiful bows. A cold winter breeze mingled with the sounds of life. Walentyn leaned back and exhaled loudly. On his nose, he wore a pair of sunnies (those, he had found in Victor's walk-in closet, among other bougie jewellery). He closed his eyes and enjoyed the air, the wind, the sun tanning his skin—and the peace, the calm. A few feet away stood Alex, his arms crossed over his chest. To him, though, his face remained stoic, the sight was absurd. Walentyn was handcuffed, only on one wrist, and bruised—although, by now, those had faded away and were barely visible anymore. And now, the younger man was lounging on the balcony, like a tourist on vacation. The image was, indeed, ridiculous, and a tiny smile tugged at the bodyguard's lips; but he was skilled enough to suppress that sudden rise of emotions. 

Yet, Walentyn still caught that small smirk. »What?!« He barked. 

Alex couldn't help himself: His smirk widened. It was still subtle, solely an upturn of the corners of his lips; however, for a usually so stone-faced bodyguard like him, it might as well be a full laugh. And Walentyn's glare with those sunglasses? Hilarious. Alex cleared his throat. »You look... comfortable,« he said in a deep voice, sounding almost a little awkward. It was a simple observation, but the amusement beyond the man's eyes was undeniable. 

As a response, Walentyn scowled. »Shut up,« he muttered, one hand adjusting the glasses. Not like they needed to be adjusted, they were already sitting perfectly straight. But the bodyguard's blunt comment, so unexpectedly human, had caught Walentyn off-guard and that, somehow, irritated him more than Victor's cruelty. »Actually,« said Walentyn after a while, now that the ice between Alex and him was broken a bit, »I want ice cream.« A little craving. 

Alex blinked at the younger man. Ice cream. That man had been handcuffed, beaten, drugged and assaulted—and now, he craved a dessert. As though he was spending a day in the park and not as a prisoner in a penthouse. Silence. Then, Alex nodded slowly so. »We have ice cream,« he said. 

Now, it was Walentyn who looked utterly befuddled. »Is that true?« 

The bodyguard shrugged. »Yes. In the freezer.« Victor kept the kitchen fully stocked—so, of course, there would be ice cream there, too. It was probably some expensive imported brand and not those cheap grocery store tubs—which Walentyn preferred, actually. He himself found the moment to be utterly bizarre in such hellish situation—nonetheless, he wanted that dessert. One hand took off his sunnies as he inquired: »...Chocolate, too?«

Again, Alex bobbed his head. »Chocolate, vanilla, pistachio—you name it.« Obviously, pistachio—some rich people shit. Then, he added: »Do you want me to get it?« An offer, and the initiation came from Alex himself. Fetching ice cream for a captive like he was a guest. Walentyn tried to play it cool—he wouldn't reveal how overly excited he truly was. 

»Yeah. Chocolate.« His voice sounded flat, nonchalant—but his eyes betrayed that, for there was a flicker of joy in them. Alex did not comment on the younger man's visible anticipation, he just turned around and walked inside. Minutes later, he returned with a glass bowl of chocolate ice cream—fresh and perfectly scooped with a spoon. Those scoops were so perfect, they looked delicious. Walentyn's mouth watered, but he waited patiently. Alex handed him the bowl and a silver spoon—and then, the he stood there like a statue again. 

When Walentyn was about to dig in, his eyes dropped to his cuffed hand. He raised his head and stared at Alex. »Hey.« 

Alex met his gaze and arched one brow, silently asking him: »What?«

Walentyn did not reply verbally, he just lifted his handcuffed wrist into the air and shook it, as if to say: »See the problem?«

Seeing that, Alex sighed. He reached inside his pocket and pulled out a small key. He walked over and unlocked the cuffs; only for eating, not for freedom. The metal clicked open and Walentyn rubbed his wrist—for the first time in fucking days he wasn't handcuffed! However, Alex's eyes remained watchful, careful; ready to re-cuff Walentyn the second he would try to something funny. 

The younger man noticed that and rolled his eyes. »I'm not stupid,« he said, his voice sounding irritated—because, yes, it absolutely annoyed him! Where would he even run off to?! And in his condition, too. Without another word, he dug the spoon into the ice cream and scooped the sweet chocolate. Alex didn't argue with him, he only nodded once and stepped back into position, his arms crossed again. Walentyn shoved the spoon into his mouth—the chocolate melted on his tongue and it tasted rich, strong. That was the first treat he'd had for... how long? He didn't know, but his misery faded—and a sugar bliss rushed through his blood. He ate fast, like someone might take away the bowl if he did not. Each spoon tasted too good; suddenly, he was not in Victor's penthouse in Astana anymore, and he hadn't been kidnapped to Kazakhstan. Right now, it wasn't even winter—it was a warm morning in summer, and he was eating and enjoying ice cream without worries. Alex stayed silent, but even he noticed: The sunlight fell on Walentyn's face and he looked... better, healthier. That made the bodyguard relax, too. 

Though, then, the balcony door slammed open and the glass nearly shattered into pieces from the impact. Out stepped Victor, dressed in a sharp suit—all business—and Walentyn instantly thought that explained why he had barely been around those days. The Russian man's eyes immediately fell on the scene before him: Walentyn was eating ice cream—and he was uncuffed. His jaw clenched, very tightly, for Alex had dared to disobey his order to never take the cuffs off the hostage. His gaze burned through the bodyguard, one that spoke without words. »You have five seconds to explain that.«

In an instant, Alex straightened his back—not relaxed anymore and ready to accept his punishment.

»Why is he uncuffed?« Spoke Victor, his voice sounding cold and lethal—but calm, too. That was worse than shouting. 

However, Alex did not flinch, he just answered: »He asked for ice cream, sir.« 

Victor's head snapped towards Walentyn. »And what do you think you're doing?«

With the spoon halfway to his mouth, hovering in the air, Walentyn stared at Victor for a second. He did not flinch under the Russian man's glare, either, solely swallowed—and then, ever so defiant, he replied: »I am eating ice cream. Chocolate ice cream.«

Victor's eyes twitched. That tone, the defiance, the attitude—after everything, Walentyn was still stubborn enough to have a comeback? »Enough,« said Victor, and the tone of his voice had dropped an octave lower. He turned back to Alex. »Take him to that room. And bring Aurora, too,« he ordered. At the mention of »Aurora«, Alex's face hardened. Aurora, a sedative—a strong one. The kind of drug that made one drowsy, compliant—and helpless. Alex did not question his boss, he bobbed his head and moved towards Walentyn, reaching out and grabbing the younger man's arm to drag him inside. Immediately, Walentyn resisted; he dropped the bowl and it shattered into pieces on the balcony tiles. He didn't care about the damage and tried to jerk away from Alex's grip despite the mess. »Where the hell are you taking me?!« The question was directed at Victor, who did not bother to answer. Meanwhile, Alex's grip tightened—his efficiency. He yanked Walentyn towards the door. 

The broken bowl had been forgotten already. 

Walentyn's mind screamed, his thoughts were racing: Aurora? What the hell was »Aurora«?! A drug, sedative? Knowing Victor, it was probably worse. They would knock him out, again. And then?! Panic clawed at his chest as Alex hauled him towards a room where he'd never been before—the last room at the end of the hallway. He was shoved inside: A small, clinical space with white walls and tiles—and in the centre stood a lonely chair, next to it a table with a syringe and a small vial labeled »Aurora«. There were no windows. 

Victor followed behind and closed the door with a soft click. The temperature inside was low, ice cold. Above their heads, the harsh fluorescent lights reflected on the walls, making everything so sterile and... disgusting, inhuman—it was the kind of place that gave one a horrible headache and ideas of what would happen behind those walls. The chair looked strapped down, and Victor pointed at it. »Sit.« A command, flat and final. Alex stood behind Walentyn, ready to force him forward if he refused to move. Walentyn's stomach dropped—he didn't want to sit, absolutely not. However, resistance? With both, Victor and Alex in the room? Futile. »What... is that?« Walentyn wanted to know. He was not moving, not yet—not until he knew a little more about »Aurora«.

Victor exhaled, very loud and audibly impatient. »Sit. Down.« 

Alex put his hand on Walentyn's shoulders. The younger man hesitated, his last attempt of defiance. But the pressure of Alex's hands was firm and unyielding—and then, the bodyguard pushed him down into the chair with force. Before Walentyn even had the chance to fight back, leather straps snapped around his wrists and ankles, securing him in place. Victor picked up the syringe. 

Walentyn yanked against the straps with all of his strength—but the leather did not budge, not even slightly. His heart hammered as Victor approached him with the syringe in his hand, the needle glinting under the bright light. »Let me introduce to you: Aurora.« He held up the syringe, the clear liquid swirling inside—it screamed danger. »A little gift,« he went on. »You will like it.«

Yet, Walentyn only snapped at him. »Fuck you! I don't want your shitty drug!« Again, he thrashed against the restraints, but the straps held on. 

»You should feel honoured, you little shit,« said Victor to him with a cruel smile on his lips. »You are the very first one to try our newest invention.«

Hearing that, Walentyn's blood ran cold. First one. That meant... there was no record of what exactly the drug did. The side effects hadn't been tested, so Victor was using him for experimenting purposes—like a fucking lab rat! »Don't you dare!«

But Victor ignored him. With clinical precision—which was creepy, how many times had that mad used other humans for his horrible experiments?!—he pressed the syringe to Walentyn's arm; right into a vein. Then, he pushed the plunger down and cold liquid flooded inside Walentyn's bloodstream, instantly. And the effect was awfully fast, too; within seconds, Walentyn began to feel drowsy and his limbs grew heavier until numbness. His thoughts slowed down—it was as though someone had stuffed his brain with cotton, he couldn't think. Victor watched him, his expression remaining indifferent. As it appeared, the drug was working—that was all he was interested in.

Even as Aurora dragged him under, Walentyn fought it. »You... bastard,« he slurred. »I will make... sure to get back at you... a thousand times worse!« 

Victor laughed, a cold and humourless sound. »Sure you will,« he mocked and watched as the drug finally won the little war. Walentyn's eyelids fluttered shut—and then, blackout. Victor ordered Alex to document everything, and the bodyguard nodded, silently so. He grabbed a clipboard from the table that had already been prepared with forms: Pulse checks, pupil reaction, breathing rate. All the while, Victor watched Walentyn's unconscious face with crossed arms. Alex filled out the paperwork methodically, a detached professional. He noted the exact time Aurora was administered, monitored Walentyn's slow but even breathing and checked his pulse: Steady. »He will wake up—soon,« said Alex. 

At that, Victor's eyes narrowed. »How soon?« 

The bodyguard glanced at his wristwatch—Aurora was not meant to knock out for long. »Fifteen minutes.« 

Victor nodded—approved. He stepped closer and studied Walentyn's face. The drug would wear off soon—however, he wouldn't be done with the younger man. »He will be completely immobilised. Correct?« 

Alex confirmed that. »Yes. He will not be able to fully move for twenty-four hours.« A perfect window—no running, not fighting. But he will be awake, a body that did not function with a mind that was aware enough to process everything. The cruel smirk returned to Victor's lips. »Carry him to the bedroom,« he ordered. Alex lifted Walentyn's limp body and draped him over his shoulder, and then, he carried him down the hallway. Inside the bedroom, he lay the younger man on the king-sized bed. Victor followed. 

The room was dimly lit, creating an almost intimate atmosphere. Victor sat down at the edge of the bed, watching Walentyn's chest rise and fall in a slow rhythm. »Look at his skin,« he mumbled. His hand reached out, his thumb brushing over the younger man's high cheekbone. »So pale. Kukolka. Don't you agree, Alex?«

The bodyguard studied Walentyn's face: Pale, still—porcelain-like. He did not answer his boss verbally, but a slight nod confirmed: Yes. Doll-like. 

Victor proceeded to caress Walentyn's face with his thumb, fascinated by the docile canvas. And then—he leaned down and kissed him, a slow press of lips, nothing romantic. The thoughts in Victor's mind were a storm: He hated the younger man, the Polish spy that had ruined him and his family's business. He also despised his defiance, his pride—and the way he glared at Victor as though the Russian man was filth, trash. And yet... Walentyn's lips were soft, his skin so flawless and soft. Victor hated himself for kissing him, he also hated how Walentyn lay there—unconscious, unmoving, so boring! Victor bit down on Walentyn's bottom lip, hard, and blood bloomed out. He pulled back and licked the blood off his own lips, a metallic taste. His eyes regarded the still sleeping Walentyn, and a twisted thrill exploded inside him. Inflicting pain on something so pretty, so beautiful and defenceless. He watched the younger man's face, waiting for a reaction—of course, there was none. 

»Provalivay!« He barked at Alex. 

The bodyguard did not hesitate. »Da, boss.« He turned on his heel and left the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

Now, Victor was alone with Walentyn—no witnesses. 

Silence.

Victor stared at Walentyn's face, his wounded lip. His chest tightened with something unnamable, something utterly ugly; anger? Then, he was on top of the younger man, one hand curled around the hem of his shirt. Victor yanked it up, and the fabric ripped a bit, revealing Walentyn's bare stomach and chest. Cold air hit his skin, and Victor's hand drew circles on his chest—Walentyn's skin was warm and smooth underneath his fingers. He traced the collarbone, fascinated by the toned body. Then, one finger brushed a nipple—testing. No reaction. 

Abruptly, Victor pulled back his hand—as if the touch had burned him. He realised what he was doing and it irritated him; he wasn't allowed to get weak, let someone like Walentyn distract him. His eyes narrowed, and he backhanded the younger man across the face, hard enough to make it snap to the side. The slap was hard, the pain strong enough to cut through Aurora's haze. Walentyn's eyes fluttered, a throbbing ache pulsed in his cheeks. His limbs, they were heavy and numb. 

Where was he? What had happened? His mind struggled to piece it together—the first thing he saw was Victor looming over him. In an instant, his eyes snapped open: Wide, dazed, disoriented. Aurora had caused fog and confusion inside his head. That was when reality came crashing down on him: He had been drugged—again. 

Walentyn opened his mouth, but no sound came out of it. His throat was too tight to form a comprehensive word, therefore, he could only lay there—unmoving. Victor watched him struggle; Walentyn had woken up, but the drug hadn't worn-off completely yet. He was awake, but trapped inside his own body, paralysed. Walentyn's eyes looked so helpless—deprived of defiance, just raw vulnerability. Beautiful. »Aurora,« said Victor. »Paralysis without unconsciousness.«

It was the perfect and ideal torture tool: No escape, no fight—solely full awareness of each agonising second. 

Victor traced Walentyn's jaw with one finger—and the latter hated it with every fibre in his body. His mind was screaming, however, his body? Nothing. So, he did the only thing he always did: He glared at Victor, a venomous stare that spoke for itself. »I will remember this, and I will destroy you for it.«

But Victor only smirked, sick amusement. »By the way,« he murmured. »Aurora has one interesting side effect that we already tested: Arousal.« He watched as the horror set on Walentyn's face—the realisation that his body would betray him again, and that there was nothing he could do to escape that terrifying situation. 

Walentyn's stomach dropped. God, please, no. The heat was faint but unmistakable, quietly and slowly creeping in. It began to spread below the belt—against his will. His eyes widened, he was ashamed and disgusted with himself. And Victor saw it, too, the flush on his cheeks, the panic in his eyes. He leaned in closer and whispered: »Feel that? It's your body responding to me.« 

Chapter Text

A lie. 

Victor's hand slid lower, and Walentyn could absolutely not stop him. The hand slipped past the fabric of Walentyn's pants, and cold fingers curled around his flesh. The touch was humiliating, not intimate or consensual—only Victor proving the power and dominance he held once again. Worse? Walentyn's body responded to it. »Ugh—!« The sound tore from his throat, involuntarily so, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Victor laughed, loud and mockingly. That was funny to him, to see Walentyn's disgust and closed eyes—a perfect picture of helpless arousal. He curled his fingers, deliberately, testing the reaction. Walentyn gasped, sharp, and every nerve inside his body was screaming for salvation; all of that was so sick, wrong. Sheer torture. But, his body? It responded to the touch like a traitor. Tears burned beyond Walentyn's closed eyelids—neither pleasure nor pain, no. Rage and shame. And yet, he could not help but tilt back his head, arching his hips into Victor's touch. The bastard's grin widened—that was it. Aurora was working perfectly, Walentyn's body was pleading for more. »Hngh—!« More moans tore from Walentyn's throat as Victor started to stroke his cock. Each moan was evidence that he had the absolute control, for Walentyn's body reacted, regardless of how much his mind hated and rejected it. 

»Look at you,« Victor whispered into Walentyn's ear—his voice sounding cruelest it had ever been. »You are so beautiful.« He bit the earlobe, hard enough to sting. 

Walentyn whimpered, the bite sent a jolt of electricity through him; it was pain and pleasure, tangled together. He wanted to scream, wanted to fight—though, all that came out were more of those damn moans. Walentyn's hatred grew; what was worse was that his body ached for something, anything that would help him release the heat and pressure inside his abdomen. Hid body burned, and he was more and more disgusted with himself. That arousal was a prison, and Victor was in possession of the only key that could set it free. It was torture in the worst way: Forcing Walentyn to crave his tormentor's help to relieve himself.

»...More,« mumbled Walentyn—not clear, barely audible. 

Abruptly, Victor froze. Had... Walentyn just begged for more? For a second, Victor was stunned; but then, his smirk returned. It was better than torture—that was absolute surrender. »Say that again,« he demanded, his voice sounding low, daring Walentyn—playing with him. He even stopped stroking and just waited, he let the tension build and Walentyn's body ached for his touch. Would he repeat that needy plea? Or, would he rather not and allow his pride to take over? Victor watched as Walenytn's lips parted, trembling. His pride was screaming at him to stay fucking silent—but the heat coiling in his gut, the tension in his body... 

In a broken whisper, he said: »...More.« And when Victor still wouldn't move his hand, Walentyn's lips quivered even more. His voice was louder: »...Give me more, you bastard!«

Victor grinned, there it was. Finally, he moved again, but slower, savouring the way Walentyn arched into his palm. Every stroke was cruel in its control, and Walentyn's breathing came in ragged gasps, for each taunting and teasing movement of Victor's hand drove him insane and closer to the edge. He was really begging that bastard—the man he hated the most. That humiliation burned hotter than the arousal in his body. Victor yanked down Walentyn's pants and the fabric tore a tiny bit. Now, he lay there, exposed entirely. Cold air hit the sensitive skin and the vulnerability was excruciating. There was no hiding, no control; only Victor, who loomed over him with utterly ugly thoughts behind his silver eyes. And that asshole took his time, too. He did not rush, rather, he admired the sight beneath him, a bare and helpless body shaking with sheer need. His other hand went lower, to the back, and Walentyn's breath stopped for a second. 

No, not there, not again. Panic flared and mixed with awful arousal—Aurora was still taking over his body, while his mind tried to fight the terror. »Breathe,« said Victor, his voice sounding softer than usual—as if that could calm down Walentyn. »I will prepare you properly this time.« That promise was even worse. It did not reassure Walentyn in the slightest, no, it terrified him right down to his bones. For, that was foreshadowing for what was about to come—and there was nothing Walentyn could do to prevent it from happening. The helplessness would kill him, he was sure. 

Victor's hand reached over to the bedside drawer, where a small bottle of lube was waiting. He squeezed some of the sticky stuff onto his fingers; and then, he pressed those against Walentyn's hole, only testing at first. Walentyn flinched, it felt so cold, and he tensed more when the first finger slid inside him. The lube eased the intrusion a little, but the fear did not fade at all. It burned, and his body clenched automatically around Victor's finger, showing first signs of resistance. A quite and pained noise escaped his mouth.

»Relax.« Victor's voice sounded calm.

Yet, Walentyn could absolutely not relax. His muscles stayed tight, his mind made his body lock in fear. Every nerve inside him screamed that it was not okay. Without waiting, Victor began to move his fingers—very slow, at first. Small circles, testing the tightness, not tearing it. The lube helped a lot, though, Walentyn's body was still not relaxing. A quiet sigh escaped Victor's lips—he lacked enough patience for experiments of that sort. So, he added a second finger, stretching Walentyn. The burn worsened and Walentyn's breath was shallow, his chest rising and falling fast. More of those involuntary noises began to tear from his throat; pleasure. It was sick and twisting and gross. Victor's other hand was still stroking his length, while penetrating him from the back—which was a thousand times worse. He watched the contradiction: The pained gasps, Walentyn's arch into his palm; arousal and trauma at the same time. It was messed up, beyond a doubt. However, Victor did not care about that. He picked up the pace, his fingers moving deeper, his strokes growing faster. It overwhelmed Walentyn's senses so much that he could not even cry properly, he was only capable of broken whimpers while his body played the role of the traitor. 

Abruptly, Victor withdrew his fingers and Walentyn whined. The sudden emptiness inside his tight heat felt worse, because his body craved the contact now, even though he himself hated everything about it. Aurora's side effects were so cruel. Victor wiped his fingers on a handkerchief, unfazed by Walentyn's desperation. He unbuckled his belt, and that click was louder than Walentyn's strangled noises. »I will give you more,« he said as he positioned himself between Walentyn's legs. »Your body will feel even better.« One hand reached over to the nightstand again and he took out a condom from the drawer. He ripped the package open with his teeth and rolled it over his cock with practiced ease. Slowly, agonisingly so, he pushed inside. He was so huge that the stretch burned more; for that size, more preparation was necessary. Walentyn's breath hitched and his body tensed up more. A choke gasped tore from his throat. 

»Relax,« growled Victor. Yet, Walentyn really couldn't, even if he tried to. Fear, pain, humiliation—it had completely locked his body, and regardless of what he did, nothing helped. Victor did not wait for him to relax, he sheathed himself fully into Walentyn. No gentleness, no consideration. Walentyn's hands curled around the bedsheets, gripping the fabric until his knuckles turned white. It was the only movement he could do; he couldn't push or shove Victor off him. He was clutching those sheets to anchor himself as his whole body shook with tension. 

Victor noticed that, and he did not give a fuck. He moved, slow at first, making it all the more agonising. Then, his cock thrusted deeper, and the bed began to creak softly beneath them. He found the spot that made Walentyn arch his back of the mattress and smirked; there it was. It was involuntary, but a wave of pleasure washed through Walentyn's body. Victor targeted that spot—Walentyn's prostate—and angled his hips to hit it again. Moans spilled out of Walentyn's mouth, unfiltered and helpless. Every thrust, every time Victor's cock came into contact with his prostate, another sound of pleasure tore from his throat. Victor groaned, that was his victory, and he drowned in it with sick satisfaction. 

Aurora's side effects did more to Walentyn's brain; they made it all mushy, fog clouding in his mind so he could no longer form a proper thought. His arms came up and he hugged Victor's neck, pulling the Russian man down. »More...«

Victor almost stopped. What... was he doing? The drug had entirely erased that guy's resistance! Replacing it with mindless, aching need for more. Without hesitation, Victor crushed their mouths together, muffling the moans with his tongue that intruded Walentyn's mouth, taking everything. His hips snapped faster, and his hands went under Walentyn's back to lift him a little—deepening the angle. The tip of his cock now touched the sweet spot with every thrust. The room filled with the sound of their ragged breathing and skin coming into contact. Walentyn felt all the heat pool inside his abdomen—and Victor could feel it, too. Walentyn's hole clenched around his cock so tightly that it nearly hurt Victor, and his breathing hitched. Aurora had made Walentyn hyper-sensitive, and Victor intended to exploit that and drive him over the edge. He kissed his jaw, then, he bit into his shoulder, hard. The bite sent another jolt of pleasure through Walentyn, colliding with pain; that was it, the pressure made him snap. A shudder ripped through him as he climaxed, spilling his semen all over his stomach. Victor watched as the face beneath him twisted with ecstasy. It was so beautiful, so pathetic and perfect. He did not slow down, still chasing his own release. When he came, he groaned; a guttural sound. His hips stuttered as he orgasmed, filling the condom with his own semen. For a second, he just let it wash over him, pressing his forehead on Walentyn's shoulder. 

Then, too quickly, reality crept back in—and a strange silence settled. Victor pulled out and peeled off the condom. He tied it together with a knot and threw it into a bin. It was... awkward now. Victor did not look at Walentyn as he got dressed—the younger man still lay there, his chest rising and falling, his mind all foggy; however, soon, Aurora's effect would wear off, and his mind would work properly again. He would be disgusted and humiliated with himself, more than ever. His eyes stared at the ceiling—empty, exhausted. 

As Victor buttoned up his shirt, Walentyn caught a glimpse of his back through half-closed eyes: Scars? But, before he could wonder about that, his consciousness began to slip. Victor's back was covered with scars: Old, jagged, some from bullets, others from being attacked with a knife—it was a history of violence etched into his skin. Walentyn had no time to process that before his eyelids fluttered shut and his body collapsed from the physical and emotional overload. Victor turned around and found Walentyn lay on the bed unconsciously. For a moment, he solely studied his face: Pale, still. Then, he grabbed the blanket and draped it over the body. 

At night, Walentyn was burning. The fever spiked and reached its peak, too fast and too hot. Sweat beads rolled down his skin; his throat was dry and his limbs still weak. Then—hallucinations. Shadows moved before his shut eyes, and Victor's voice was there, too. The threats were Russian, English—and gibberish. »Weak. Pathetic. Polish traitor.« Walentyn wasn't sure if Victor was really there or if that was all part of his brain playing tricks on him. The fever worsened and he thrashed in the bed, tossing the blanket off. His skin was on fire. He was trapped between reality and dream—and he dangerously close to death, too. The sweat soaked his hair and the pillow underneath his head. His breathing turned shallow and he thought:

I am going to die here. 

The thought, cold but certain, settled down inside his head, and it scared him down to his core. The fever was too high, the dehydration too severe. Tears mixed with sweat—so, this was how it would end, after all. With the last bit of strength that was left inside his weakened body, Walentyn swung his legs out of the bed and stood to his feet on the cold floor. Immediately, another shiver ran through his body. His legs were wobbly, barely able to carry the weight. His eyes could not see, not much, and his ears couldn't hear, either.

Perhaps, it was with the help of a miracle that Walentyn made it to the door. His hand shook as it hovered over the knob; he wrapped his palm around it and twisted it. The door creaked open and Walentyn stumbled into the hallway, pale and sweating and barely conscious. The penthouse drowned in utter silence, there was no one in sight. Through the darkness, Walentyn did not know where he was going. His vision was swimming; however, he kept moving forward, dragging himself on unsteady steps. The hallway stretched ahead, too long and too dark.

He collided with something solid, a wall of muscles. 

Alex. 

Yet, in his state, Walentyn only saw the frame of a huge shadow: Broad, large and towering—no face. Before he fell, strong hands caught him. Walentyn clung to those arms with the last bit of hope. »...Help me,« he whispered, and his voice sounded so hoarse, it was beyond recognition. Alex's eyes widened; he was no longer the stone-faced bodyguard, for Walentyn was holding onto him like a dying man. His instinct took over and he scooped him up into his arms without hesitation. He carried Walentyn down the hallway, there was no time left to think about what to do. That fever was scary, Walentyn was burning and mumbling nonsense. Without knocking, Alex barged into Victor's study room. »Boss.«

Victor raised his head at the sudden intrusion. There, on the threshold, stood Alex with Walentyn in his arms. At first, Victor solely stared. That was not exactly what was supposed to happen. Aurora was temporary and not life-threatening, at least that was not the idea behind the drug. The two men exchanged words in rapid Russian. »What's wrong with him?« Victor demanded to know as he rose from the armchair. 

Alex answered quickly: »Fever. Very high. He almost passed out in the hallway.« Victor was by his side in two strides, pressing the back of his hand against Walentyn's forehead—too hot. His eyes narrowed, shit. He snatched Walentyn from the Alex's arms and lay him on the couch. Next, he grabbed a cold towel from the bathroom and pressed it on the burning skin. He proceeded to check the pulse: Too fast. His skin was paler and very sweaty. Something was very wrong. 

Victor barked another order at Alex: »Call a doctor. Now.«

Immediately, Alex pulled out his phone and dialled the number of the private physician on standby. Within fifteen minutes, the doctor arrived at the penthouse. She was a calm, professional woman with a medical bag and a serious face. First, she checked Walentyn's temperature: 104˚F. Her face tightened. »Severe fever,« she diagnosed. »Dehydration, too.« 

Victor groaned, frustration flashing in his eyes. Why, that hadn't been part of the plan! The doctor immediately started an IV and hooked it up to Walentyn's arm; she injected fluids and administrated fever reducers. »He needs rest,« she said when she wad done, curling her hand around the handle of her medical bag. Victor nodded. The doctor left quietly and the room fell into absolute silence again. The only sound was the soft drip of the IV and Walentyn's utterly uneven breathing. Victor sat beside him, at the edge of the couch, watching.

That seriously hadn't been supposed to happen. His eyes glanced at his wristwatch: Soon, he'd have a meeting; one of great significance. No rescheduling possible. He stood and casted one last and long glance at Walentyn. Then, he turned to Alex. »Stay with him.« No further elaboration before he left. 

Alex sat in a chair beside the couch, keeping an eye on the sleeping Walentyn. The IV dripped steadily; the fever was still awfully high, but it was lower than it had previously been—thanks to the doctor's medication. He did not touch Walentyn, only made sure he was still... breathing and alive.

Hours passed, and the fever dropped gradually. Walentyn's breathing evened out, the IV bag emptied. Alex swapped it with a new one, quiet and efficient. The whole time, he hadn't moved from that chair. Then, finally: A groan from Walentyn. Alex leaned forward slightly, the groan was small and very weak, but it was the first sign of consciousness. Walentyn's eyelids fluttered open. His vision was blurry, his throat felt dry. Everything hurt, his limbs and skull. For a second, the room spun. He recognised Alex. »...Water.«

Immediately, Alex grabbed a glass of water that waited on the small table—previously prepared—and his other hand lifted Walentyn's head a little to help him drink. The water was cool—a lifesaver. Walentyn gulped it down, his shaky hands gripping the glass weakly. Alex held the glass, making sure Walenytn would not choke on the water. It was easing the burn and dryness inside his throat, and every swallow was a wave of relief. Once finished, Alex lowered him back into the pillow. The fever was fading and the dehydration went away. Walentyn had been saved. 

Alex did not say anything, he solely adjusted the blanket over Walentyn and ensured he would stay warm. When he was about to step away, Walentyn caught his hand. »Mhh,« he murmured, rubbing his cheek against Alex's palm.

Alex froze; that wasn't protocol. Walentyn was nuzzling into his hand like a little cat.

At first, Alex did not move an inch, too stunned. But, then, he stroked Walentyn's hair, carefully so. The touch was awkward, Alex was not used to gentleness. However, his slow and hesitant strokes through Walentyn's hair became soothing. Soon, the younger man sighed and his tense body relaxed back into the pillow. He had fallen asleep. 

Now, Walentyn looked peaceful, right after he'd been through hell. The fever was now gone entirely, the IV had worked wonders. Alex pulled back his hand and adjusted the blanket one last time. He stayed seated in the chair, watching Walentyn. The penthouse was silent, Victor was not around and the sole sounds were the air conditioning and Walentyn's steady breathing. For a moment, Alex closed his eyes shut—not sleeping, solely resting.

Duty came first. 

Chapter Text

More hours passed. 

»How is he doing?« Asked Victor as he walked into the room, loosening the tie around his neck. 

»Fever broke,« reported Alex. »He slept most of the night.« 

Victor glanced at Walentyn, who lay there, still asleep and with a relaxed face. The IV was half-empty, and Alex had changed it a few times.

Quietly, Victor approached the bed, studying the sleeping face: The fever flush was gone—now, Walentyn looked pale again, tired and vulnerable. Victor turned back to Alex. »You can leave.«

For the very first time, Alex hesitated. And Victor noticed the hesitation; he saw that the bodyguard did not move right away, as he usually did, and his eyes lingered on Walentyn. »What,« Victor growled, »are you worried?« He sounded annoyed at the idea of that. However, Alex met his boss's gaze evenly. He wouldn't lie—so, simply, he stated: »He was burning up.« A fact. 

Victor's eyes narrowed. That man wasn't some helpless kid; he was a fucking spy. A traitor, an assassin who had ended other's lives with weapons already—and he had tried to kill Victor as well. His patience snapped. »Get out.« The order was clear, no room for further arguments. And Alex did not argue back. He gave one last glance at Walentyn; then, he walked out without another word. The door clicked shut and now, Victor was alone with his captive again. He stood over Walentyn, his arms crossed before his chest. The Polish agent looked strangely small as he lay there, none of his usual defiance there. Just sleeping—a stark contrast to the man who'd stabbed him in the back. Victor reached out one hand and flicked Walentyn's forehead.

Walentyn's nose scrunched and a soft, drowsy mumble escaped his mouth, still half-asleep. The exhaustion clung to his bones. He groaned and his face twitched. Ugh. That flick had woken him up, for Victor saw that he tried to open his eyes. Slowly, the room came into focus. There stood Victor in his vision, looming over him with an unreadable expression on his face.

What a sight to wake up to. Victor watched as Walentyn's eyes fought against gravity. Did it amuse him, irritate him? Probably both. He leaned down, closer to Walentyn's face, and blocked his view from anything else—no escape from the intense stare of silver eyes. Finally, Walentyn to open his eyes fully. Ugh, Victor. And he was so close, too close. Why did that cold and calculating look have to be the first thing he saw when he woke up? Why did it have to be the man who'd beaten him up, drugged him and... worse.

»How annoying,« mumbled Walentyn—but the words came out in his native tongue. 

Victor did not comprehend Polish—but the tone, the tired and grumpy mumble? He understood it. A smirk tugged at his lips; cute. Even half-dead, Walentyn hadn't lost his attitude. Victor straightened up and tilted his head. »Aha. Sleeping Beauty wakes.« A pause. Then: »Did you miss me?« He was being annoying, deliberately so, and impossibly irritating, too. Also, he was only mocking Walentyn to find out if the fever had dulled his temper—absolutely not. 

Walentyn glared at him with full on hatred: No, I did not miss you. You infuriating bastard. However, his throat was dry as hell, so, instead of having a comeback, he lifted a weak middle finger from underneath the blanket—a defiant gesture. 

At that, Victor laughed, a short and sharp sound. He was genuinely amused; and that tiny middle finger? Almost adorable. He wrapped his hand around Walentyn's wrist and pushed it back down on the bed, ignoring the venomous glare. »Cute.« 

Walentyn did not get what exactly was so funny or cute about anything, for that absolute asshole had almost killed him with that drug! 

Victor saw the reaction in Walentyn's eyes—ah, there it was, he thought. Evidence that Aurora had not erased everything, the rage was still there. He grinned. »You look pissed.«

»I hope you choke on your smugness,« said Walentyn—his voice was cracked, raw and hoarse from the dryness and dehydration. The insult was weak, yes—yet, it was the only one he had.

Again, Victor laughed—delighted. The raspy and hoarse was priceless. He'd definitely missed that version, the fierce and spiteful spirit. »Aw,« he coed, mockingly so, patting Walentyn's cheek. »Still got bite.«

Walentyn jerked his head away from the pat, visibly disgusted. That condescending pity wounded his pride more than Victor's violence, and that mocking tone was incredibly irritating. He tried to sit up, at least, but his arms trembled, too weak from that fucking fever. Victor noticed the struggle, though, of course, he did not help. He only watched Walentyn struggle, still standing over him with his arms folded again while enjoying the show of frustration on the younger man's face. »Get up,« he said, as if Walentyn was not trying to do exactly that. »Breakfast. Unless your Polish pride prefers to starve.«

Walentyn gritted his teeth. Breakfast? After everything, Victor played the host now? How ridiculous. But... he was starving, his recovery had burned off all energy inside his body. With a grunt, Walentyn swung his legs over the edge of the bed and slowly pushed himself up to stand. His legs were wobbly, for they were too weak to carry his weight. And when he tried and took a step forward, he stumbled and lost balance. 

Instantly, Victor reacted. He reached out his hand before Walentyn could crash to the floor and hurt himself. Embarrassed, Walentyn held onto the Victor's arm—he hadn't meant to collapse and display his weakness, especially not in front of Victor. With Alex, it would have been less embarrassing. Victor steadied him, and for a second, they just stood there. Then, Victor slid an arm around Walentyn's waist to support him. »Careful,« he whispered into Walentyn's ear, which made the younger man shiver. Victor, he was so close—it sent a chill down his spine, not because he found it scary, rather... confusing. Victor was helping him? Being gentle? What sort of game was that man playing now? 

Step by step, Victor guided him forward. He supported Walentyn's body weight, kept him from falling to the floor. The dining room wasn't far, yet, for a weak-legged agent, the way was like a long journey. The table had already been set: Fresh fruits, toast and eggs—a proper meal. Victor was generous enough to pull out a chair and help Walentyn sit down on it. He grabbed a glass of juice and placed it in front of Walentyn. »Drink.«

Walentyn glared at the glass. Orange juice, his least favourite—it was so bitter and sweet at the same time, he did not like that. With a weak hand, he pushed it away and muttered: »I don't like this.« Was he being petty? Perhaps. However, he would not let Victor order him around.

Victor paused. Then, he curled his hand into Walentyn's hair and yanked his head back. Walentyn gasped as pain flared in his scalp—one second, Victor was playing the nice guy, and in the next, he was all aggressive again, playing the villain?! Through clenched teeth, Victor hissed: »Drink the damn juice.« 

Despite the pain, Walentyn argued back: »I hate orange juice!« A stupid argument, a petty fight; however, both men were too stubborn to back down.

Victor yanked Walentyn's head harder and forced his face closer to the glass. »You don't get to choose.«

Still, Walentyn refused to open his mouth. The juice spilled over the rim from Victor's rough movements. 

All the while, Alex was watching, silently so. He stood in the background, in the doorway, his arms crossed. He had come back to check—and now, he was becoming a witness of that: Victor manhandling a half-recovered Walentyn while fighting over orange juice. Ridiculous, but Alex said nothing, he solely stayed and observed. 

»I won't drink it!« Walentyn went on. 

Victor snapped. In one brutal motion, he slammed the glass on the table, juice splashing everywhere. He grabbed Walentyn's jaw and squeezed it. »Open. Your. Mouth.«

But Walentyn, he clamped his mouth shut, his eyes blazing. He would absolutely not. Not for Victor, not after everything that man had done to him. Let that bastard go on and try to force-feed him like a child, for all he cared! A standoff, stupid and childish—and still, neither backed down. 

Victor had had enough. He pinched Walentyn's nose shut and cut off his air supply—a cruel trick: Suffocating him to force him to gasp and open his mouth. Immediately, Walentyn panicked and his body instinctively gasped for oxygen. His mouth flew open in a desperate and involuntary inhale. And Victor, he seized that moment. He poured the orange juice straight into Walentyn's mouth—the liquid flooded down his throat, cold and bitter and forcing him to swallow so he did not choke. 

A cruel victory, a petty war Victor had won—once again. Finally, he released Walentyn's nose, satisfied. 

Walentyn coughed, juice dripping down his chin. The taste was vile. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and hissed: »You fucking psychopath!« His voice sounded hoarse but also venomous. It was a weak curse, born out of extreme exhaustion and frustration. Yet, the rage was real. Victor was always forcing him and that made him furious. 

Victor did not flinch. That weak, raspy insult, he ignored it. He leaned down, invading Walentyn's space, and said, calmly so: »You'll drink what I give you.« He grabbed a slice of toast and held it out towards Walentyn with expectancy in his eyes, as if to prove the point. »And you will eat what I feed you.«

Walentyn stared at the toast as though it was poisoned. Hell, no—never. After that act of humiliation? No way. He turned his head to the side, his lips pressed together, tightly. He refused to eat food from Victor's hand like a little obedient and trained dog.

Victor was not having it and his patience snapped. He shoved the toast into Walentyn's mouth and clamped his jaw shut to force him to chew it.

Bread crumbs spilled—it was messy, an act of dominance. 

With his mouth full, Walentyn gagged; the toast tasted like ash or dust. The never ending humiliation burned worse than the fever had—he was eating by Victor's command, what the fuck?!

»One day, you will pay for that!« 

Victor laughed. »Sure,« he said, his voice thick with sarcasm. »Perhaps, when you're not half-dead from fever?« Then, he grabbed another piece of toast, ready to force it into Walentyn's mouth again. That time, though, Walentyn's anger overpowered his weakness. He lunged forward and tackled Victor with the rest of his strength, knocking them both to the floor. A crash: Plates shattered and the fight was on. The two men rolled across the floor, wrestling; fists, elbows, knees. Victor was larger, stronger—but Walentyn, he fought with pure rage and frustration that had pent up inside of him and was fuelled by his wounded pride. There was no technique behind his punches—only desperation and the intent to hurt. 

Finally, Alex moved to intervene. He wrapped his arms around Walentyn and separated him from Victor. The latter pushed up himself, wiping blood from his split-lip—yes, Walentyn had actually landed a hit on him. He thrashed in Alex's grip, still furious. The bodyguard was holding him firmly, not letting go despite the intense struggle. The dining room was a mess, there were plates and food everywhere. »I hope you will rot in hell, Victor Volkov!«

Again, Victor wiped his lip—the wound stung—and he grinned. »Same to you, spy,« he shot back. 

Alex kept Walentyn from launching another attack. For now, the fight was over.

Victor stood, dusting off himself. The breakfast was definitely ruined, the floor was littered with broken dishes. Victor turned to Alex and nodded towards Walentyn in his arms, a silent order: »Take him away.« Alex understood immediately and without a word, he dragged Walentyn back to the bedroom; ignoring the verbal protests and weak kicks.

Victor watched them go—the fight had been stupid, but also strangely... entertaining. 

The bedroom door clicked shut when Alex left, and Walentyn was locked up inside the room. He was all alone, trapped with his own anger. First, he paced—then, he collapsed on the bed, fuming. His mind drifted to Wywiad, Kasprzyk. Were they already searching for him? Doubt began to creep in—would they come at all? The silence that surrounded him pressed down. No signals, no rescue team. Walentyn sat up, at the edge of the bed, and clenched his hands; the realisation, how alone he really was, started to settle. As it seemed, no one was coming for him. Why? Was it because he was in Kazakhstan? It was far away from Warsaw, not easy to access—the rescue team would have to cross borders, sneak in inconspicuously—which was nearly impossible. 

Walentyn's hope died—they wouldn't come, at least not fast enough; perhaps, not at all. He stared at the wall, his chest tightening. Would he be trapped with Victor forever? No, before that, Victor would grow bored of him and kill him, eventually. Nonetheless—the mission had failed. Walentyn curled into himself on the bed, wrapping his arms around his knees. No rescue, no escape until the day he died of Victor's hands. The agent Wywiad had trained and sent into Victor's arms had been... abandoned. 

The door was unlocked from the outside and opened. In walked Alex with a staple of clothes in his hands. 

»What's that?« Asked Walentyn, arching a brow. 

The bodyguard did not answer—instead, he approached him and dropped the clothes on the bed, fresh and folded. A shirt, pants and underwear. He pointed at the bathroom down the hallway, a silent order: »Go there and change.«

Walentyn eyed the clothes with suspicion. That wasn't prison uniform, those were normal clothes. They were going out, thought Walentyn. Where? What was Victor planning? 

Alex waited, arms crossed. Still, Walentyn hesitated—was that a trick? A test? But then again, those were just clothes. He sighed, not motivated enough to stand up. Therefore, he began to unbutton his shirt right then and there. Alex's eyes widened for the fraction of a second; then, he turned his head away to give Walentyn privacy. He stood there, stoic, fulfilling his duty as a guard and keeping an eye on the man Victor held captive. The unbuttoning of the shirt was slow, reluctant—every movement screamed: »I don't want to do this.« 

Walentyn peeled off the shirt and reached out for the new one. The fabric smelled clean, too nice. It wasn't something Victor would just hand out, not randomly. Walentyn dressed quietly, but he was still suspicious of what would come next—and he was absolutely not anticipating it. Once fully dressed, he glanced at Alex. »Now what?«

Alex gestured towards the door—»follow me.« No further explanation, just orders and the expectation to obey. Reluctantly, Walentyn stood and walked towards the door, tense and on edge. What the hell was all of that about? Alex stepped ahead and lead the way down the hallway, not looking back to see if Walentyn really followed or not. When they entered the living room, Walentyn's breath hitched. There he stood. Victor, large and broad-shouldered, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit—the fabric was black. A long coat was draped over his shoulders, expensive fur, real fur. His cold eyes gleamed under the sunlight that was shining through the floor-to-ceiling windows. That man looked lethal, powerful and untouchable. He pressed his phone against his ear—and as soon as Alex and Walentyn entered, he ended the call and slid the small device into his coat pocket. He turned around, and his stare was burning right through Walentyn. 

Fucking psycho. Walentyn thought that, though, he did not say it aloud.

Victor's sharp eyes swept over him, taking in the new clothes—and also the tired posture. He nodded towards the door; no words, solely a silent command: »We go.«

Walentyn took the coat, which was handed to him by Alex: Thick, woollen and meant for freezing weather. Kazakhstan's winter was brutal, merciless; snow everywhere and wind that cut through skin like sharp blades. Walentyn shrugged it on, grateful despite himself—the warmth was immediate, and he was glad he wouldn't have to freeze outside. 

Victor already had his gloves on and tucked his hands inside his coat pockets as he approached the elevator. Alex followed behind Walentyn, ensuring he would not abruptly bolt—although, where exactly would he even run off to? The elevator descended in silence. Outside, snow fell; thick and fluffy. The city appeared almost... quiet. The tension was thick as no one spoke; to the point where Walentyn could not endure it any longer. »Where are we going?« He asked, not able to pull himself together and shut up. 

»Out,« said Victor, his voice sounding cold and calm. That was it—and that did not even deserve to be called an answer, not a proper one at least.

Alex kept his face blank; without Victor's orders, he was not allowed to answer questions, even if he wanted to. 

Walentyn was pissed-off. »Obviously we are going out. I'm asking where.« 

Slowly, Victor turned his head to the side, his eyes looking down on Walentyn with an icy stare. His voice sounded even colder when he said: »You don't demand answers.«

Walentyn clenched his jaw—he really couldn't hold back anymore. »I'm not a dog you can drag around!« He snapped, his voice sounding sharp and full of stupid defiance. »Where the hell are we going?!« The tension grew thicker until it was suffocating all three of them. In one smooth motion, Victor grabbed Walentyn by the collar of his shirt and slammed him against he glass wall of the elevator. It rattled, and Alex tensed beside them, ready to intervene if needed. »You talk too much,« growled Victor.

»And you don't talk enough!«

Wrong answer. Victor's fist shot out, not a punch but a brutal shove that knocked Walentyn's head back against the wall; pain flared in the younger man's skull. Then—the elevator dinged: Ground floor. Victor released Walentyn and smoothed his coat as if nothing had happened. The doors slid open and revealed a sleek lobby beyond. Outside, a black SUV with tinted windows was already waiting for them. Victor exited first, how else could the order have been? Alex nudged Walentyn forward, no choice but to comply and follow. As soon as they stepped outside, the cold bit the skin—the snow blanketed the city surround them. Walentyn shivered, not even the thick coat he wore could protect him. 

Victor slid into the backseat and Walentyn followed. Alex got in the passenger seat. The car pulled away from the penthouse, tires crunching on the snow. The city blurred past—drowning in winter beauty: Snow-covered skyscrapers glittered under the grey sky. The city was a modern and vast, a mixture of sleek glass towers and Soviet-era buildings, all dusted in white. The streets were wide and quiet, the traffic was rather thin due to the cold and ice. In the distance, the Bayterek Tower stood tall—the city's iconic landmark. 

Chapter Text

The vehicle turned onto a main road, heading towards the Khan Shatyr Shopping Centre. 

A massive, white-dome shaped structure—modern and luxurious. The most upscale mall in Astana: High-end brands, cafés and even an indoor beach under the glass roof. Neither Victor nor Alex had confirmed it, but that was clearly their destination. Walentyn watched out of the window and frowned; a shopping mall? Victor Volkov, the ruthless crime lord, went out to buy things in a mall? That made zero sense, was that a bad joke? A test? Why the hell would he suddenly do that?! Walentyn's mind raced with thoughts of confusion. 

The SUV pulled up at the entrance. Victor walked ahead, Walentyn and Alex followed behind. The snow was crunching under their boots as they walked, leaving traces of their steps. Inside the Khan Shatyr, the huge glass dome glittered: Expensive boutiques, people strolling around in luxury bags and designer clothes. Walentny, still standing on the curb, hesitated.

Come on, thought Walentyn, that was ridiculous. Victor in a high-end mall? It was not that he couldn't afford it, no, it was not the lack of money. Rather, it was that the man looked like he belonged in a war zone—and not a place surrounded by luxury stores and coffee shops! 

Alex nudged Walentyn on the shoulder: »Move.«

The younger man pressed his lips together, tightly so, into a thin line; then, he asked: »What are we doing here?«

Alex glanced at him; and then, he looked away. He didn't know the answer to that, either. Victor hadn't told him why they were there, solely that they would go there. And Alex, he just followed orders without questioning them. Victor was already far ahead, not bothering to check if his bodyguard and Walentyn trailed behind.

Walentyn sighed. Alex and him trudged after Victor, Walentyn with his hands shoved into his pockets. The entire situation was beyond absurd, but whatever. 

The air was warm—luxurious scents of coffee and perfume mingled together, everywhere. People glanced at their group, especially at Victor. That man did not give a damn, he headed straight to a boutique without any hesitation or sparing those gawkers a glance. The boutique displayed tailored suits, leather and fur coats and designer watches—all expensive beyond believe.

Absolutely everything cost more than Walentyn's entire salary, even as an agent at Wywiad. 

Immediately, a sales associate rushed over, smiling nervously as Victor entered. He bowed—he didn't seem to know who exactly Victor was, but he appeared to be a man of importance and wealth. With a polite smile, the sales associate asked: »Sir, how can we assist you today?«

But Victor wasn't polite enough to answer the already stressed-out associate. Instead, he walked straight to the rack of coats, running his fingers along the fur. His eyes flicked to Walentyn. »You,« he said, »come here.«

Walentyn froze. ...What? Why him?

Victor's tone left no room for argument; his finger pointed at a particular coat. »Try it on.« 

Eagerly, the sales associate hurried over, ready to assist. First, he examined Walentyn's build, his skin tone—then, he picked out a navy fur coat, elegant, yet not too flashy. A good and well-fitting colour for his complexion. »This one will suit you, sir,« he said politely and held it out to Walentyn. 

Walentyn scrutinised it skeptically. »I don't know,« he said, his eyes darting between Victor and the coat. »Looks more like something that guy would wear.« He had lowered his voice and leaned towards the associate, as if to share a conspiracy theory no one else was supposed to hear—and, inconspicuously so, he pointed his thumb at Victor.

The sales associate blinked, unsure if Walentyn was joking, and even more hesitant to let out a laugh.

Victor, however, caught the finger-point and subtle voice-drop. His eyebrows twitched—he was amused. »Try it,« he said again, not angry; perhaps, a little firm. He put his hand on Walentyn's shoulder and leaned down. »Maybe, you will become a man like me if you wear it,« he whispered into his ear. Victor's breath was warm Walentyn's his ear, and a shiver ran through Walentyn's body. That deep voice was too close, and it annoyed him already.

Meanwhile, the sales associate looked away, pretending not to hear.

After a brief moment of gathering himself and letting the shiver pass, Walentyn turned his head over his shoulder, subtly so, and shot back: »As if that is something to aspire.«

And Victor chuckled. It was a rather rare sound to hear from him, however, it sounded genuine. He didn't get mad at Walentyn, did not use any violence—he was just entertained, as it seemed. »Keep talking,« he murmured. Then, he turned to the associate. »He'll take it.« End of discussion. 

The sales associate bobbed his head quickly and began to wrap up the coat.

Walentyn's mouth gaped open—protest?

Yet, Victor silenced him with a single look: »This isn't negotiable.«

Victor handed the man his black credit card, and he rang it up swiftly; no receipt requested. Victor bought things like those often, another luxury purchase was nothing out of the ordinary to him. Walentyn hated everything about it. Great, he thought. Now, he fucking owed Victor. The coat was packaged in seconds, and Alex took the bag, carrying it out as they exited the boutique. Their next destination was a jewellery store, and Victor strolled right towards it, as if he was in a hurry. That store displayed elegant accessories: Glass cases with glittering with rings, necklaces and bracelets. 

Walentyn's eyes widened—wait. It suddenly clicked in his head: Irina Ivanova, Victor's fiancée, the woman he was supposed to marry soon. Yes, he was probably there to buy her something.

Walentyn watched from behind as Victor entered the store, his expression, as always, unreadable and devoid of any emotion. That time, the sales associate was a woman. With a professional smile on her lips, she rushed over and gestured to a display of diamond rings; Victor had expensive taste, she could tell that by looking at him. »Looking for something specific, sir?« Her tone was as polite as her smile, but also very professional. 

Victor scanned the cases; while Alex and Walentyn hovered near the entrance—feeling awkward and out of place. It was... too private, watching Victor choose a gift for Irina.

However, thought Walentyn then, how many times exactly did one get to be inside a jewellery store of such luxury? He might as well take a closer look around.

Walentyn moved towards a different case, one with silver bracelets and delicate necklaces. Those were gorgeous, beautiful; too expensive to ever be owned by him. Still, he stared at the pieces, fascinated. One day, and that day would come, he would buy his Mam one of those. The thought warmed Walentyn on the inside. His hardworking mother deserved something like that, a delicate bracelet, or a necklace with a small pearl. Walentyn's chest ached, was Mam okay? Had she noticed he had vanished? Did she cry at night, wondering if her son was alive or dead? Suddenly, the beautiful jewellery became a burden, a cruel reminder of how far away Walentyn was from home. 

All the while his heart broke, Victor picked out a ring: Diamond solitaire, elegant and expensive. The sales woman showed him two options, and Victor pointed at one: That was the one. He handed over his card without hesitation. The transaction was swift and the jewellery quickly packed inside a velvet box.

Then, Victor glanced at Walentyn—for once, he noticed him. »Looking for something pretty for your girl?« He asked, his voice sounding sarcastic and bordering at mockery.

But Walentyn simply ignored that stupid idiot; he did not even have a girlfriend. And it was not as if any of that damn jewellery was something he could afford, anyway.

Victor followed the younger man's eyes: A silver bracelet, thin and simple, and nothing extravagant at all. Without saying another word, he turned back to the woman and pointed at it. She brightened and fetched the bracelet, placing it on a velvet tray. Victor took a closer look at the design—and then, he handed the woman his card, once again paying. 

Walentyn's face fell. »What the hell are you doing?!«

Victor ignored the outburst. »Christmas is coming in Poland, no?« He said simply—as though that explained everything. 

Walentyn arched a brow—did Russian's not celebrate Christmas on January 7th? Well, December 24th was widely known as Christmas Eve, world wide, even. Still, why would Victor Volkov care about something like that? Walentyn narrowed his eyes, and once again, that strange and suspicious behaviour annoyed him. The bracelet purchase most definitely did not feel like kindness, like something Victor had done from the bottom of his heart—rather, it was as if he was playing with Walentyn. 

The bracelet, wrapped in a small and elegant box, was handed to Walentyn. At first, he was hesitant to even take it, so bizarre was the entire situation. But, then, he just accepted it; Mam would get it. She would receive it and know that her Tynek was alright, alive at leats. A small sign of life. Walentyn clutched the box, carefully so, his heart pounding inside his chest. 

The three of them left the jewellery store, and Victor threw a quick glance at his wristwatch. »Time to get lunch,« he said to Alex—and they were back to him barely acknowledging Walentyn's existence. Alex nodded and they headed towards a sushi restaurant. No one bothered to ask Walentyn if he was hungry, or if he even liked sushi. 

Like a child that was tired from having been at the shopping centre for too long, Walentyn followed behind the two men. He looked around: The mall was busy, crowds of well-dressed people strolling as if the place was a park, shoppers carrying designer bags in their hands. In the centre bubbled a fountain, and a live pianist played classical music near a café—people applauded, amused and so full of joy. There were expensive perfume stores and fashion boutiques with runway outfits on display. Sunlight poured through the glass dome, creating a dazzling golden glow over everything. It filtered down in soft beams, illuminating the marble floors, chandeliers at the ceiling and even the water in the fountain. It was beautiful, mesmerisingly magical, too. 

Abruptly, Walentyn stopped—he froze mid-step. Was that—? 

Across the food court, near a coffee shop, sat a man with a dark coat. A profile Walentyn had seen before, and his breath hitched before his pulse spiked. That was Kasprzyk's second-in-command, a man Walentyn knew, for that same man had briefed him once before another mission, one of his earliest. No mistake, he recognised that face, even from afar. Was Wywiad finally tracking him down? Had they sent someone to extract him, rescue him? Hope flared inside his chest, and it was wild and desperate. He hesitated; should he move, approach the man, make eye contact? Somehow signal him he was surely the guy he was searching for? But Victor and Alex, they were tight there, so one wrong move and they would...

...hold on. Where were Victor and Alex? 

Walentyn glanced around, hectically, and he found the two men: They were already inside the restaurant, waiting to be seated—and, apparently, they hadn't noticed that Walentyn had stopped and wasn't with them anymore. The Wywiad agent was still there, standing to his feet and about to walk away. Walentyn had to make a decision, fast. 

He broke into a run, darting through the crowd, weaving between shoppers. No time to think it thought, only to act. The agent hadn't seen him, not yet, and he was about to turn around a corner and disappear out of sight. Walentyn's heart was pounding in his throat, he was almost there. 

The agent then finally spotted him, and recognition flashed beyond his eyes—sharp and immediate. For a second, they solely stared at each other, not saying a word.

Then—the agent turned away abruptly. 

That turn of events made Walentyn's stomach drop; that agent had just... turned his back on him and was ignoring him?! 

He pretended not to know Walentyn, as though he hadn't recognised him, and kept walking. No reaction, no signal—nothing.

...What the fuck?! Walentyn sprinted after the man and shoved past people. Why the hell had he ignored him? Something was wrong. 

The agent was walking fast, blending into shoppers and heading towards the exist.

Walentyn had a hard time to keep track. He pushed through a group of teens, not apologising and not really caring who he'd knocked over.

The exit was ahead and the agent had almost reached it. If that man was gone, Walentyn might lose his last chance to escape. That meant he absolutely had to catch him, whatever the cost. 

Walentyn lunged forward, his hand almost caught the agent's sleeve in his hand.

In the last second, though, the man dodged—he slipped inside a crowded elevator and vanished behind closed doors. Gone. 

Walentyn stood frozen in place as people bumped into his shoulder, his chest heaving from the sprint.

Ja pierdolę, that agent, he had definitely avoided him on purpose, not by mistake—by choice!

Was Wywiad actually... abandoning him? Leaving him at Victor's mercy, not caring about him anymore?

Walentyn stared at the elevator. No, they really did not care. The only answer was that they had given up on him entirely, which also explains why the rescue was taking so long—it wouldn't come in the first place. 

Suddenly, the mall around him began to suffocate him, too crowded and too loud. He turned on his heel and moved towards a restroom. He needed a moment, to breathe, to process—for, that agent's rejection had shaken him, more than he liked to admit. Ahead, the sign loomed: Men's Room. Walentyn pushed his full weight against the door and it swung open, wide. Relief washed over him when the noises of the mall muffled behind as soon as the door fell shut. The room was empty, solely a row of sinks and stalls—completely quiet. Walentyn braced his hands on the edge of one sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror. What now? His face looked right back at him: Pale, tired eyes, dark circles. Not the agent he used to be—now, he was almost sure Wywiad had abandoned him. Could he still call himself an agent, or was he now only a man being held captive by Victor? 

Behind him, the door swung open again. In the doorway stood Victor, the expression on his face betraying nothing.

The second Walentyn's thoughts had drifted to him, that man appeared—wow, what a wonderful day it was today.

Silence stretched between them, for none of the men spoke a word. Victor shut the door—the sound of it echoed so loud in the empty room. He studied Walentyn's face through the mirror, noticing the visible distress on his features. »If you had to piss,« he finally spoke, »you could have just said so. No reason to go and run away.« He leaned agains the door, folding his arms before his chest.

He knew. He knew something had happened—he saw that Walentyn was not only pissed-off, he was also hurt, in a way—disappointed. 

Walentyn clenched his jaw—no, he would not spill his guts to that man. He also refused to meet Victor's penetrating gaze, even through the mirror. He wouldn't confess that Wywiad had given up on him. The silence went on, the tension building. Victor exhaled through his nose—his patience was growing thinner by the second. He approached Walentyn, who inched back instinctively, but his back immediately came in contact with the sink.

Victor did not stop there, he closed the distance and did not mind the younger man's retreat—he kept going until he stood right in front of him. One hand came up and caught Walentyn's chin between the fingers; not violent, just firm and forcing eye contact. His eyes dropped down to Walentyn's lips. 

The latter froze, what was Victor doing..? Those silver eyes locked on his lips, an intense gaze. The air between them, and there was barely any space that held them apart, sifted.

Silence—then: Victor leaned down, and he kissed Walentyn. Not sweet or gentle, rather dominant and rough.

Walentyn shoved his chest, hard. But Victor wouldn't budge, not a little bit—his solid muscles kept him in place. The kiss broke for a brief moment, only for Victor to exploit it and pin Walentyn's wrist on the wall above his head. He had successfully caged him, no escape. Victor kissed him again, deeper and more demanding. Walentyn still struggled, twisting his wrists—but the grip around him was made out of iron. Victor's other hand slid around the back of Walentyn's head, tilting it for better access. It wasn't romantic, it was possession. 

Walentyn bit down on Victor's lip, his only chance of defence.

Victor hissed and yanked back, his eyes flashing with anger. Blood welled on his lower lip where Walentyn had sunk his teeth in. He glared at Victor, panting from the lack of oxygen. »What the fuck is wrong with you?!« He balled his hands into fists. »Stop kissing me out of nowhere, you can't just do that!«

Victor wiped away the blood from his lip, not impressed by the outburst but irritated.

»I'm not gay!«

That was when Victor snapped back, narrowing his eyes. »I didn't ask if you were.« Even to Victor himself, his own behaviour made no sense at all. He was engaged—although, he had no romantic feelings for Irina. Still, he was not into men. Yet, there was something about Walentyn that pissed him off so badly, he always felt the urge to upset him until he snapped, get the worst out of him. His hand shot out and curled around Walentyn's collar, yanking him closer—not to kiss again, only to glare at him. No, it was not about attraction—it was all frustration. 

Walentyn shoved him back. »Get off,« he growled. 

With a loud exhale, Victor released the grip and finally stepped back. Reality had returned. He wiped his mouth again and regarded Walentyn as though he was the one who had started all of it. Then, he turned around and yanked the restroom door open. As he stormed out, he bumped shoulders with another man—that man shouted something, loud and in furious Russian. However, Victor ignored him entirely, as if he did not exist, and kept walking. The stranger kept yelling words and insults after him with a face red of rage.

Walentyn did not even listen, too occupied was his mind with what had happened. His thoughts were racing: What the hell was that?! Why did Victor always kiss him—they were not close, not friends to joke around like that; they were not anything at all, they hated each other! Walentyn exhaled, running a hand through his hair. No, that had to stop—it couldn't happen again! No more kisses out of nowhere—he was Victor's fucking prisoner, not a character in some trashy romance novel. 

He walked out the restroom, too, still ignoring the raging Russian guy. 

Chapter Text

Together, the two men returned to the sushi restaurant, where Alex was already waiting, wondering where they had been for so long. His gaze flicked between Victor and Walentyn, immediately noticing the tension—however, Alex was not the man to make inquiries about matters that were none of his business; and they would be none of his business unless his boss made orders.

And Victor, he did not say anything right now. He just walked into the restaurant, where a table had been set for three.

As the hostess led the three men to their seats, an awkward silence dominated the air around them. 

Alex took his seat after Victor and Walentyn, not asking any questions. The waiter arrived and handed them the menus: Expensive sushi, wagyu beef dishes and more. Victor scanned the options, acting as if nothing had happened, as he always did when, indeed, something had happened. That man only ever bothered about the present and future, always turned his back to the past.

Walentyn glanced at the menu, awfully confused by the Japanese names and prices. What was... uni? Sashimi..? He had no idea, he wasn't really someone who tried out food from different countries and cultures. Back in Poland, he usually ate simple things his mother would cook him: Pierogi, placki, kopytka—and if he needed something warm, żurek or zupa ogórkowa. Not luxury sushi. Walentyn chewed on his lip, visibly overwhelmed.

Victor caught onto the Walentyn's hesitation, and without taking the eyes off his own menu, he pointed one finger at a certain dish: A simple tuna roll set, easy for beginners.

The waiter returned to the table and Victor ordered exactly that, along with two plates of another dish with wagyu beef, for Alex and himself. As soon as he was done, Walentyn narrowed his eyes and glared at him—he did not exactly want to eat the food that man recommended him. 

Victor noticed the glare and didn't care, it did not matter to him whether Walentyn was pissed or not. The food was delicious, and that was all that mattered at the moment. 

Finally, Alex broke the suffocating silence and asked Victor something regarding their regrouping, and he also informed him about a business call he'd missed during his absence. Victor nodded along at Alex's question and pulled out his phone to check the messages. Minutes later, the food arrived, elegantly plated, too much for Walentyn's taste. His tuna rolls sat in front of him, and the other two men picked up their chopsticks and dug in. Walentyn could only stare at the chopsticks. 

Ah, right, thought Victor. He didn't know about sushi—so, he surely did not know how to use chopsticks, either. Victor grabbed a spare pair and dipped a tuna roll into soy sauce. He held it out towards Walentyn. The younger man hesitated, his pride and hunger were fighting against each other. He was an adult man, he did not need Victor to feed him. He would figure out a way himself. Yet... for once, Victor was not mocking him and only offering help that looked dangerously close to genuine. 

Reluctantly, Walentyn leaned forward and took a small bite, testing the taste at first. ...Not bad. 

The corners of Victor's mouth curled upwards. »Aha,« he purred. »He does know how to be a good boy.«

Immediately, Walentyn regretted accepting Victor's help, and his eyes narrowed. Good boy, he could kill him! His pride took over and he grabbed his own pair of chopsticks, trying to mimic the way Victor held them so effortlessly between his fingers. However, when he did it, it did not look elegant, graceful—it looked clumsy, like he did not know what he was doing; and he didn't. God, it was impossible to have one single normal moment with that man! 

That bastard watched, amused, as Walentyn fumbled with the chopsticks, slicing through the tuna like it had offended him.

Even Alex smirked behind the rim of his water glass, he couldn't deny that it was entertaining.

The sushi chef glanced over, wincing while he watched how his dish got butchered by Walentyn. 

Soon, they were done and left the restaurant. That time, the car ride back to the penthouse felt longer—awfully longer.

Walentyn stared out of the window, watching snow fall on Astana's lights. Not yet, he did not want to return to that place yet. He wasn't ready, not for the heavy silence, the tension and... whatever Victor would do next, for he was so unpredictable. 

They pulled up to the penthouse; the same doorman nodded at Victor as they headed towards the elevator. They ascended in quiet—and when they stood before the penthouse door, Victor pulled out the keycard and unlocked it. 

Walentyn's heart picked up the pace. What now? Would Victor... rape him again? 

The penthouse was eerily quiet, too clean; as if such violence had never taken place beyond those walls. Victor walked inside and tossed the card on the coffee table in the living room; then, he shrugged off his coat and draped it over the couch. He said something to Alex, ordering him to bring vodka or whatever. Walentyn did not actively listen to the words the two men exchanged. He was too distracted by his own dreadful thoughts. 

Alex came back with a bottle and a glass and handed those to his boss. Victor poured himself a generous amount and took a sip. Meanwhile, Walentyn watched him; they way Victor lounged on the couch, the ease with which he exerted his dominance. He sat there, legs spread apart, almost taking up all the space. That was how one expected a man like him to sit: Unbothered and in complete control. As though nothing in the world could rattle him, ever. The power which radiated off him—Walentyn did not like to admit it, and he never would do so aloud, but he felt it.

»Пошёл сюда!«

He suddenly ordered Walentyn to come closer. The younger man froze when he heard the command—that tone was authoritative, no room for argument; requiring absolute submission. 

Walentyn moved towards Victor, each step feeling heavier than the last. With his sharp eyes, Victor watched as he approached, setting down his glass on the coffee table. Once Walentyn stood close enough, one hand shot out and curled around Walentyn's wrist, yanking him down to sit on Victor's lap. 

Walentyn's entire body stiffened as he sat on Victor's thighs, his large hands settling on his waist. He tried to shift away, though, the grip only tightened to the impossible, keeping him in place.

Victor's other hand slowly slid up Walentyn's back. 

»What the hell do you think you're doing?!« Snapped Walentyn. »Get your hands off me!«

Yet, Victor just regarded him with his icy glare.

»Get your hands off me, asshole,« Walentyn repeated. 

Those words ignited the anger in Victor. His hand came from Walentyn's back and squeezed his jaw, slamming their lips together. It was violence, all teeth and force. Walentyn could taste the trace of vodka on Victor's tongue, and he hated it. Victor did not let go, didn't even loosen his grip a little. Even when Walentyn tried to shove him away, his fists banging against the broad chest, he wouldn't budge, not an inch. Too strong, that bastard had too much strength, and he was way too used to overpowering others. His hand moved again, from Walentyn's waist to his back, trailing up and down his spine in slow strokes.

Awful! Walentyn despised it.

Finally, Victor broke the kiss, but just so he could bite Walentyn's bottom lip.

Walentyn gasped, that bite stung and pain flared where Victor's teeth had clamped down. He started to shake, from rage and humiliation.

For a second, Victor studied his face. Then, he kissed him again. That time, it was slower; although, definitely not less intense. One hand tangled Walentyn's hair, the other one was on his hip, holding him close while he explored his body. It was demanding, and at some point, Walentyn couldn't breathe. Victor's touch was everywhere; lips, hands—heat. The penthouse faded, Alex's existence began to vanish—in that moment, it was solely them, in a twisted way.

Though, the terrifying part? That time, Walentyn did not hate it as much as he should. 

His mind spiralled; that was wrong, it shouldn't feel okay. The other times Victor had touched him, it had felt forced, violent—cruel control and degradation.

But now? It confused Walentyn, really, and made his stomach turn in a way he failed to comprehend. 

Abruptly, Victor ended the kiss and pulled back, his eyes filled with irritation. Something was off, it did not feel like sheer domination as it usually did. There was something else, and it was so distracting that it pissed Victor the hell off. Without a word, he shoved Walentyn off his lap and stood up, storming to the master's bedroom.

Walentyn was dazed, confused—and he only heard how Victor slammed the bedroom door shut behind him. 

Silence. 

The penthouse felt even more quiet now; Alex was nowhere to be found, he'd probably disappeared inside his own room.

So, all alone, Walentyn sat on the couch, his heart hammering inside his chest. He was so confused, for, what the hell had just happened..?

The next day, an uninvited guest arrived at the penthouse. »Long time no see!«

To everyone's utter surprise, Nikolai appeared before their eyes—the golden boy of the Kotov Family. He stood there, smiling brightly with a ridiculously expensive coat draped over his broad shoulders. His voice was loud, cheerful—and annoying as hell. Alex, who had opened the door for Nikolai to enter, appeared right behind him. »Boss,« he said to Victor. »Nikolai Kotov is here.«

Victor, who sat on the couch in the living room, froze; and the cup of coffee hovered midway to his mouth.

Nikolai. A man he could tolerate in business meetings, but not beyond that. He always showed up unannounced, an awful trait. And he always wore that fake-friendly grin on his lips, too, as though it was something which had been passed down in his family.

Victor's hand clenched around the cup. Someone ought to end that damn bloodline.

Nikolai barged inside, plopping on the couch beside Victor as if he owned the place. »Victor! It's been so long,« he chirped. Then, he started to talk: About the FSB hunting Victor, that his name was on the hit list and that he'd become Russia's most wanted man. And he said all of that with excitement, as if he shared gossip with a friend.

Victor listened to the bullshit, his grip around the mug tightening with each word. Hearing all of that from Nikolai Kotov made it a million times worse, like Victor was some sort of joke to him.

Even Alex, who stood stiffly by the door, could sense Victor's growing rage.

»Tell me, what the hell are you doing here?« His voice sounded far beyond annoyed, as if he would explode any second if Nikolai drove him over the edge. 

However, Nikolai grinned, unfazed by the threat in Victor's tone. »I missed you, my friend!« He said, as if that made any sense and explained everything. »Oh, and I also came to warn you: They are closing in. Moscow sent trackers.« His eyes were bright, shining with concern, feigned concern. 

Victor did not believe that nonsense for a moment. Concern? Kotov was never that generous without an ulterior motive. »How did you find me?«

Nikolai lifted a brow, the corners of his lips twitching a little. »Your whereabouts are not as much of a secret as you think,« he said, now grinning again. »What's your next destination?«

At that question, Victor narrowed his eyes. Why did Kotov wanted to know that? 

Instead of giving him an answer, he took another sip from his coffee. »It's over, Kotov,« he told him, his voice lowering. »Our families are no longer tangled together in business. So, piss off.«

Nikolai's grin faltered. Ouch. Victor was always so cold to him, but that rejection still stung. Dramatically, he clutched one hand over his chest, right where his heart was. »Victor, after all we've been through together?!« He feigned to be wounded by the words.

Yet, of course, Victor did not soften, not in the slightest. All they had been through? They used to be business partners because their families had been allies, not friends. 

Nikolai was just as much of a snake as the rest of his family. Victor rose to his feet, not acknowledging Nikolai's hurt. 

It wasn't going as planned, thought Nikolai—though, he'd come prepared, for he knew it was not easy to convince Victor Volkov.

The atmosphere was charged with hostility, Victor very much disliked Nikolai, who sighed exaggeratedly and stood up, too, brushing imaginary dust off his coat with one hand. »Fine.« The disgusting fake-friendliness had vanished off his face and had been replaced by a more solemn expression, a colder and detached one. »Rumour has it, your plan is to regroup. Let me join.« 

Victor scoffed. Hell no. The last thing he needed now was another inconvenience, Nikolai's backstabbing and manipulative ass tagging along while wiggling his tail.

»No.« One word—flat and final, no negotiation. 

Nonetheless, Nikolai would not back down. He took a step closer, standing before Victor, and his voice dropped lower, too. »Victor, think. I have resources, contacts, money.« He paused. »I can help you.«

Victor regarded him, unimpressed. He could smell it, that bastard wanted something. Kotov would never help without making the other party pay a price, and it was never a cheap one. »I don't need your help,« replied Victor, and he turned towards the window to end the conversation—dismissing Nikolai. The latter clenched his jaw, that was going south too fast. Victor was shutting him out completely, right at the beginning—how rude! He took a deep breath, it was time to switch tactics, then. In a sudden, utterly dramatic and theatrical move, Nikolai dropped down to his knees and clasped Victor's hand, begging. »Please,« he said and looked up at him, »consider it.«

As though Nikolai's touch was poison, Victor yanked his hand back. What the hell?! That wasn't even worth calling begging, it was pathetic. Victor had zero tolerance for those theatrics. »Get out,« he hissed and pointed at the door. In that exact moment, Walentyn walked in on the scene and froze mid-step. Immediately, he recognised the face of the man who kneeled before Victor. 

What was Nikolai doing here? 

Nikolai's face lit up, like he was genuinely happy to see Walentyn. With joy, he jumped back to his feet. »Walentyn!« He approached him, his arms open wide. »Oh my, I haven't seen you in ages!« 

The younger man stood, stiffly so, not returning the embrace. That man had no reason to be in Kazakhstan, why would he even bother to visit them? Also, how had he found them in the first place? If even Nikolai could track them down that easily, it would only be a matter of time until the FSB found Victor. Walentyn gasped when Nikolai tightened his arms around him and squeezed him. However, he finally seemed to notice Walentyn's stiffness as he pulled back, his hands gripping Walentyn's shoulders instead. »Hey, you are stiff.« His eyes gleamed, suddenly.

Oh, drama. He loved that, the tension and mysterious vibe. 

Instead of showing concern, Nikolai clapped his hands together and grinned. »So, what's been going on here?« 

Walentyn clenched his jaw, visibly on edge. The last thing he wanted was for Nikolai to find out about the degradation and humiliation Victor had put him through.

Yet, Nikolai seemed to miss that entirely, it flew over his head—or, perhaps, he simply did not care. He was too busy living for the drama: Perhaps, Victor had been a little mean to his assistant? Or, had they fought? Whatever it was, Nikolai took pleasure in it. »Are you two having problems?« He teased and nudged Walentyn with his elbow. 

Before anything, Victor's voice cut in. »None of your business, Kotov.« The message was clear as ever: Drop that bullshit already, you're going too far. 

Nikolai pouted—how boring. He held up his hands in mock surrender. »Okay, okay. I was just trying to make a little conversation!« His eyes darted between the two, it was itching him to dig deeper and find out about the truth—for, the subtle tension? Mh, delicious. »By the way,« he said and suddenly changed topics, »would you let me stay here for the night, Victor? I tried to book a room, really, but there is none available in Astana—not a single one!« He exhaled, exaggeratedly so. 

Victor narrowed his eyes, absolutely not. The idea of Nikolai staying at his penthouse, under his roof? Unbearable, he could gag.

»No,« he replied, no room for argument. »There are plenty of other cities in Kazakhstan.«

Nikolai pouted harder, shoving his lower lip forward. »But Victor! It's freezing outside, and I am tired!« He whined, wrapping his arms around himself as he shivered, dramatically so. »Please, just one night?« He was pushing—hard. 

Victor pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers and counted to five inside his head. That pathetic idiot was exhausting as hell.

He exhaled through his nose. »One night. You sleep on the couch, and you leave at dawn.« 

Nikolai beamed. »Oh, thank you, Victor!« He bounced over to the couch, already making himself more at home than to Victor's liking.

Meanwhile, Walentyn still stood there and just watched. It would be a long, long night. Yet, he couldn't help himself but wonder once again: What had made Nikolai come all the way to Kazakhstan if the Kotov Family and the Volkov Family had split? What reason did he have to show up, so out of the blue? And why the hell would Victor let him stay? 

All of it made no sense to Walentyn, not really. 

Chapter Text

For the past ten minutes, Nikolai had been quiet, flipping through the channels on the TV and scrolling through his phone. He had grown bored of watching news or films.

Victor had retreated to his bedroom for the night, leaving Walentyn all alone with Nikolai. He could not even relax when Victor was absent, for Nikolai kept starring at him, glancing ever since Victor had vanished. While Walentyn pretended not to notice the intense and burning stare, he could not help himself but feel so uncomfortable that glaring at the floor was his only escape.

However, he stiffened when Nikolai suddenly wrapped one arm around his shoulder, a gesture that felt too casual.

»So,« began Nikolai, his voice speaking over the news channel, which kept murmuring in the background, »what's the matter with you and Victor, hm?«

Walentyn clenched his hands into fists, what was the matter with Victor and him, he asked? 

The truth was too ugly to be spoken aloud; rape, captivity and animosity. 

Walentyn solely swallowed, not looking Nikolai in the eyes as he replied: »...Nothing,« for all of it left a bitter taste on his tongue. 

Nikolai, on the other hand, smiled—but his eyes, they betrayed the feigned friendliness; they were cold. His grip around Walentyn's shoulder tightened as he leaned closer. »Come on, you can tell me! Are you two fighting?« He studied Walentyn's face closely, depicting every micro-expression. If there was drama between Victor and him, he wanted to know—not out of kindness. Rather, he was hungry for leverage he could use to his advantage.

Yet, Walentyn somehow managed to keep his expression blank, refusing to show Nikolai any sign of reaction, any shift in emotion. Walentyn distrusted Kotov, for obvious reasons: The Kotovs were known for being snakes, especially that Kotov, right beside him. So, Walentyn shrugged, playing the oblivious. »We are fine.« His voice sounded too flat, not exactly convincing. 

Which is why Nikolai narrowed his eyes. He knew that was a lie. Walentyn's body language betrayed him, he was tense and guarded; and he avoided eye contact at all cost. 

Something was off. Nikolai tilted his head, that smile still present on his lips; though, now, there was an edge to his tone. »Are you sure?« He was pushing, testing the limits. 

Walentyn bobbed his head. »Yes. Victor... he is just on edge.«

Aha. Pretending to buy it, Nikolai nodded. »Ah, yes. The FSB stuff,« he said, waving a hand as if disinterested to discuss it. All in his circle were talking about it, he was sick of the attention Victor received, even after his damn downfall. Still, Nikolai found Walentyn's reasoning to be weak, it did not explain why he was so on edge with Nikolai around. He leaned closer, lowering his voice more. »I presume he needs some way to release the stress, no?«

Walentyn's stomach dropped. Was Kotov already suspecting something? The implication was obvious, though, was Kotov really hinting in that direction?

Walentyn clenched his teeth, but he maintained a steady voice. »...What are you implying?« 

Nikolai chuckled, he was implying exactly what Walentyn thought. He was not stupid, he knew Victor very well, and he was also awfully familiar with the way that man operated: Power, control—no mercy for no one. He gave Walentyn's shoulder a squeeze. »I'm not stupid. Irina is not here, how else would he satisfy his needs? He surely would never lay a hand on Alex.«

That was the confirmation: Nikolai fucking knew. Or, at least, his suspicion was strong enough to be close to the truth. What disgusted Walentyn more was how casually Nikolai was about it, as if that was the usual behaviour, normalcy for the people around him. He did not look the least bit sorry or sympathetic for Walentyn at all. That was not surprising. Still upsetting. 

Nikolai was waiting for a reaction; a flinch, denial, an outburst of anger—anything. But Walentyn remained quiet. That was... interesting, so Nikolai thought. Most people would have leashed out by now. His smile widened, and in a quick motion, he showed Walentyn back with much force.

Walentyn hissed as he crashed onto the couch with Nikolai's weight pressing down on him, hovering on top. His smile had turned into a cruel grin, all teeth like a malicious cat.

The TV was still playing news in the background, muffling any noise they could possibly make. 

Immediately, Walentyn slammed his elbow into Nikolai's jaw. A sharp crack, audible—and pain flared where Walentyn had hit. It was rage that had made him strike; no one would touch him, especially not Kotov. Nikolai reeled back, clutching his face; shock flashed across his features. He growled, more surprised than hurt—ow, that elbow had been brutal! However, his expression changed, for he shared Walentyn's way of thinking: Not a soul dared to strike him like that! And, if they did, they would not get away with it.

Nikolai's hands flew forward and his fist curled around Walentyn's collar, yanking him up. He was ready to throw a punch, absolutely ready—no more pretending, no more nice guy act. It was time to let his true colours shine through, the ones which showed that a Kotov did not back down from violence. As he attacked, Walentyn ducked just in time, so Nikolai's fist whooshed past his face. He twisted and kneed Nikolai hard into the stomach, aiming to knock the wind out of him. Nikolai gasped, doubling over. But he recovered fast; his head shot up and he glared at Walentyn with fury on his face. »You little—« Again, he swung and aimed for Walentyn's face. 

Once again, Walentyn dodged the punch. With a frustrated growl, Nikolai's hand then grabbed a fistful of the hair to yank him down. »You're dead,« he hissed, raising his other hand to strike.

Walentyn somehow snatched his wrist mid-swing, twisting it.

Nikolai yelped and lost balance, and Walentyn shoved him onto the coffee table, glass shattering beneath his back. 

»You underestimate me,« said Walentyn. Now, he was the one on top of Nikolai, above him. 

Nikolai's eyes widened. That... was not a normal reaction from an assistant. No, that guy was acting like someone who knew how to fight. Nikolai's mind was searching for an answer:

Who was that guy really?! 

The Kotovs had a long history of underestimating their opponents, but right now, that arrogance was backfiring. Nikolai tried to shove off Walentyn with his hands; however, the younger man was trained and, hence, stronger. The glass of the shattered table dug deeper into Nikolais back, drawing blood. »Who the hell are you?!« Nikolai sounded panicked and pained. Beyond a doubt, Walentyn was not a random Polish guy who worked as Victor's assistant. He was someone dangerous, a professional. 

Walentyn had the upper hand, and for the very first time, Nikolai Kotov felt an emotion he'd never felt before: Genuine fear in his guts. 

When Walentyn slammed his elbow into Nikolai's nose, the latter screamed and blood gushed out. His hand flew to his face and he rolled to the side, the blood dripping between his fingers. There was no way, thought Nikolai, that was truly happening to him right now! He was a Kotov, untouchable and respected—so much respected, others rather bowed their heads when he walked by than to risk and throw a false glance at him. And yet, there he was, getting the shit kicked and knocked out of him by a Pole?! Pathetic. 

»I'm going to kill you!«

Nikolai was back on his feet, unsteadily so, and swung a brutal punch back at Walentyn—wild, furious and drunk on rage. There was no technique behind it, only blind and bold anger. Kotovs fought dirty, and right now? Nikolai's sole goal was to inflict pain on Walentyn, a thousand times worse than the pain he'd felt.

But Walentyn, of course, ducked the punch that lacked technique, for Nikolai was moving too slow and too predictable. The fist merely grazed his cheeks, that was about it. No real pain.

Walentyn countered with a knee in Nikolai's stomach. He huffed as air left his lungs and crumpled.

»Sure,« said Walentyn as he watched the man fall to the floor. »Try it.« 

Grimacing, Nikolai clutched his stomach. That Pole had some serious skill! It was so fucking humiliating, how could a Kotov lay on the floor like that, all bleeding and wounded?! Wrecked by Victor Volkov's damn assistant?! Nikolai raised his head and looked up at Walentyn with pure hatred in his eyes. By now, all the feigned friendliness was genuinely gone. And Walentyn, he returned the glare, a cold and unflinching stare right down at Nikolai. He was a mess, bleeding, panting from their little fight, and all in all looking pathetic. The golden boy, reduced to that. Served him right, thought Walentyn. He did not feel the tiniest ounce of sympathy for that man.

That would be enough. Without a word, Walentyn turned on his heel and walked away. 

All Nikolai could do was watch him go. Aside from the TV, the penthouse had fallen silent. The floor was dirty with his blood, the marble no longer white and polished. 

As Walentyn neared the bedroom, his small victory faded fast. Right, he'd almost forgotten he didn't have a room to call his own. There were only two bedrooms in the penthouse, one for Alex and the other reserved for Victor. That meant he would have to share a space with... Victor. His stomach twisted at the thought. No escape, and no euphoria even after winning a fight. For a few seconds, Walentyn hesitated while he stood before the bedroom door. His hand wrapped around the handle, and it felt cold against his palm. Victor would wait inside, either asleep or working—or, worse, he was waiting for Walentyn. Either way, Walentyn would have to step inside and face him, sooner or later. All alone.

He took one, final deep breath before slowly turning the handle. 

The door creaked open, and inside, Victor sat; in an armchair by the window. His eyes were glued to the book he held in his hands, the only source of light were the dim city lights which shone through the window right into the room. He did not look up when Walentyn entered, nor did he say a word. The air was charged with hostility, it was radiating off Victor. He hadn't slept, he had been reading since he'd retreated to his room. Whether he had heard the fight with Nikolai down the hall, Walentyn couldn't say for sure. If he had, then he was simply ignoring it, no comment.

Walentyn stood awkwardly near the door, unsure of what to do. It had been a stupid idea to come to the room, he thought. He wanted to leaver—rather, he would sleep on the bathroom floor than share a space with Victor. He turned around, ready to go anywhere. But as soon as he took the first step back, Victor's voice finally cut through the tension: »Where are you going?«

Instantly, Walentyn froze. He heard how the book snapped shut, and he felt the quiet yet intense burn of Victor's stare in his back. 

Victor put the book on the table beside him. Slowly, he rose.

Suddenly, the room was smaller—the size of a cage.

As Victor approached him, Walentyn inched back instinctively until his back collided with the closed door behind him.

»...I'm tired,« he mumbled, hoping that would do something. As thought there was a tiny bit of hope telling him he could get some sympathy out of Victor. 

Victor halted inches from him, towering. Tired, right.

For a long moment, he solely stared down at Walentyn; and then, he reached out his hand and gripped his wrist. He pulled Walentyn forward, not rough but with firm force. He dragged him to the bed and pushed him down on the mattress. Walentyn's eyes widened—wait, hold on, he wouldn't do that, would he?! Not when Nikolai was there, right down the hallway.

Though, the way Victor was looming over Walentyn, regarding him with those eyes that were a void of emotions, it did not seem as though he cared. Kotov could hear, could even walk in on them—and, perhaps, that might've been the point of it. Victor's infamous power play: I do whatever I want, wherever and whenever. He leaned down and slammed his lips on Walentyn's.

By now, those kisses were very much predictable. That intimacy always led to violence.

Victor's hands slid down and gripped Walentyn's hips, already moving towards undressing him.

And Walentyn? He braced himself for the worst. 

Then, Victor suddenly broke the kiss, and his hand was tugging at the hem of Walentyn's shirt, yanking it up in one pull. That time, Walentyn did not even bother to resist physically, for he was too tired, and trying to fight off Victor? It would only make him angrier, anyway. That did not mean Walentyn was consenting to it, not at all, never. His mind was screaming, reminding him of the pattern: Kiss, strip and violate, a never ending cycle of torture and humiliation. 

When Victor's mouth began to explore the bare skin, his lips leaving kisses on Walentyn's stomach, the latter stiffened. ...Kisses on the stomach? Victor never did that, he was never so tender with Walentyn. Usually, it was straight to business—aggression and violation, his hands groping, yanking, pushing, thrusting. The sudden softness was... not part of that script. Confused, Walentyn furrowed his brows, but Victor continued without acknowledging Walentyn's uneasiness, his lips trailing higher. It was strange, really, not rough or demanding. Only... kissing, like he was mapping Walentyn's body, exploring it with real curiosity. His mouth closed around one nipple, sucking. »Wait—« Walentyn gasped in utter surprise. 

Victor ignored that, too, and his tongue flicked over the nipple, teasing and testing. It was not violence, it was something else—a strange sort of intimacy that was so unlike Victor, and it made zero sense that it came from him. Walentyn's muscles tensed—that time, it wasn't out of fear. It was...

...he did not quite know how to name that feeling. Confusion? Surprise? No, it was more than that. 

For a second, Victor stopped to study the reaction. He liked what he saw: The gasp, the visible shiver on Walentyn's skin—no hatred, no anger. It intrigued him, and he wanted to see more of that. So, again, he leaned down and licked that same spot, slow and deliberately. Again, Walentyn's breath would hitch at the contact. The way Victor was touching him, curious and almost in an oddly affectionate sense, overwhelmed him. Though, there was something that terrified him: The way his own heart was hammering inside his chest. He panicked, internally. Why was his heart racing in such a fast pace? It was not from fear, not from anger—not because he'd just finished a marathon. It was something else entirely—something Walentyn refused to give a name, for if he did that? It would mean he admitted to the fact that Victor had a physical effect on him. That was unforgivable. 

Victor noticed the heartbeat, he felt it under his lips; rapid and frantic. How very interesting, he thought. Walentyn wasn't pushing him away, was not fighting him. He was not screaming or kicking or thrashing, his breathing just came... faster. Victor kissed higher; up his chest, close to the collarbone, testing how Walentyn would react to it.

Walentyn? He couldn't move, only let it happen. Victor's lips reached his jaw; and then, they found his mouth. The kiss was barely a brush of their lips, too soft. Too much, Victor Volkov did not kiss like that, he was never so gentle with anyone—especially not Walentyn, who he probably considered one of his greatest enemies. Walentyn came back to his senses, more or less, and shoved Victor back. He was panting, for what the hell was happening? No, he couldn't, and wouldn't, let that go on. The vulnerability mixed with that weird affection, that was worse than Victor's violence! 

Victor's face twisted—that rejection? Unacceptable. No one rejected him, especially not after he'd been nice to them. His hand wrapped around Walentyn's throat and he slammed him back into the mattress, all gentleness gone as though it had never even existed in the first place. His lips crashed down on Walentyn's again, but that time, it was all teeth and tongue and force again. He nipped Walentyn's bottom lip until it stung, abusing the sensitive flesh while his grip around the throat tightened.

As a response, Walentyn gagged, the hand on his throat was blocking out oxygen. He was chocked and threatened. Exactly what he had expected from the very start. 

Victor's free hand slid down, undoing buttons and pushing aside fabric with zero patience. That man, no matter how hard he tried, would never show patience nor gentleness. That act from before, he couldn't have kept it up for much longer, anyway. It was never about intimacy, it was always about taking what he wanted and having the absolute control over everyone and everything. 

Victor had a condom ready and ripped it open with his teeth. He spat the wrapper aside, not hiding his impatience at all. No more games, no more gentle hands. The condom was on in seconds, and without preparation, he pushed his flesh inside Walentyn, not caring if he ripped something along the brutal intrusion. Walentyn bit his lip to stifle a sound, God, that hurt! Kurwa! He stiffened. The bed creaked under the force as Victor moved with intensity. It was not supposed to be pleasing, no, but punishing. A punishment for Walentyn's ungrateful behaviour, the rejection. Every thrust was sharper than the previous one, only to prove his point: No one treated Victor Volkov with disrespect. His hand was still around Walentyn's throat, and with each time he pulled back and pushed forward again, it only tightened.

Walentyn was starting to see stars; he wasn't passing out, not yet, but the pressure was relentless, like a leash. His vision blurred at the edges of his eyes, his body going into survival mode.

However, Victor did not loosen his hand or slow down the pace of his hips. He kept intruding into Walentyn with no consideration.

Walentyn's hand came up and wrapped around Victor's wrist, and the latter glared down—a challenge.

Instead of mercy, he tightened the hold even more, a warning: Don't push your luck and test me. 

Walentyn's fingers trembled, he was begging. Not using words, no. He was pleading with a touch. Please, let me breathe, at least. 

Victor saw that and still, he did not care. Until the end, he held the grip and remained relentless.

Finally, he came. He released and let go, right as he finished. The grip was gone, the aftermath was awful.

The lost oxygen rushed back into Walentyn's lungs, burning. He gasped and coughed, his vision swam and the room spun. 

Victor rolled off him without a word, not showing any subtle sign of remorse, as expected from him. He stripped off the used condom and walked to the bathroom, not looking back. Walentyn heard how he turned on the faucet, and water splashed into the sink. He stay on the bed, lay there with a heaving chest and heavy limbs. The horror was still there, and the silence only made it worse. No apology, not as if Walentyn would have expected something so human from Victor. Solely the sound of him washing up, like nothing had happened.

Chocking someone was normalcy in Victor's world. 

Victor returned to the room, his shirt was off and his face looked freshly washed. He grabbed a towel and dried his skin. Then, he headed straight to the wardrobe to pick out new clothes. All the while, he ignored Walentyn. He was damn good at that, Walentyn had to give him credit for it. Ignoring people as soon as he exploited them and discarded them. 

Walentyn watched him, still trying to catch his breath and calm down from the assault. Victor had used him and now, he was acting all cold—typical. 

»I'm such... a fool,« mumbled Walentyn; though, it was more directed to himself than Victor. His eyelids were so heavy, they fell shut. He was a fool for thinking, even solely for a second, that Victor Volkov would be capable of being soft, of being a human. He was an idiot for believing that there could ever be something likeable about that man. 

Victor had heard the weak whisper, but he showed no reaction to it. He pulled on the sweatpants he'd picked out and slid under the blanket on his side of the bed. His back was turned towards Walentyn, and the space between them was like an invisible wall. One which only Victor was allowed to cross whenever he wanted to. He decided, and he had the control. As always. 

The next day, Walentyn was woken up by a slight shove on his shoulder. 

»Hey.«

He blinked, feeling like absolute shit. Above him stood Alex, dressed in a simple hoodie and a pair of sweatpants. His face was the usual, he didn't smile but did not look unkind, either.

»Get up,« he said to Walentyn. »We are leaving.«

Still sore from the previous night, Walentyn sat up, slowly so. Leaving? Where? Why? He was too tired to question Alex, so he just swung over his legs and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Victor wasn't there, what a fucking relief. Despite that Walentyn was half-asleep, Alex handed him a duffle bag; already packed. Inside were clothes and his fake passport, all the belongings he'd need.

»Car's outside,« Alex said as he turned to the door. He didn't elaborate on it further, but again, Walentyn was too exhausted to make any attempt to inquire. He took the duffle bag and slung it over his shoulder, following Alex silently. The penthouse was quiet, no sign of neither Victor nor Nikolai. The latter had probably left early in the morning, like Victor had told him to. 

Wherever they would go now, it was sudden. 

The world outside was blanketed in white, snow piled the streets; cars were buried underneath it and icicles clung to buildings. And it was fucking freezing. The air bit Walentyn's cheeks the second he set a foot out, and his breath came out in tiny, visibly puffs. By the curb, a black SUV idled, the engine running. In front of it leaned Victor; he stood tall, and the fur coat he wore made him appear even more imposing. He was discussing something on the phone; and, as much as Walentyn could make out from the distance, he did not look pleased. Snowflakes were settling in his dark hair as he barked into the speaker. The cold did not seem to bother him. 

Walentyn's eyes flicked to Alex, who waited right next to him. »We are leaving Kazakhstan?« 

Alex nodded once. Again, no elaboration, only confirmation: They were leaving—and not solely the city, but the country. That explained while Walentyn had been given back his passport. 

Victor had ended the call and pocketed his phone. Then, he turned to face Alex and Walentyn. »Davai!« He barked the command across the street. 

It was urgent, thought Walentyn. They had to leave fast, for whatever reason. 

Alex opened the door of the SUV and held it open, a silent gesture that told Walentyn to get inside first. He climbed into the car, and the leather seats felt cold against his skin. Victor slid in right after him, slamming the door shut. The driver, a Russian man with a beanie on his head, pulled away from the curb as soon as Alex had taken his seat beside him. The snow fell heavier now, blurring the view on Astana. They merged into the traffic, weaving through snow-covered streets. All those days Walentyn had spent in captivity faded in the rearview mirror, and ahead lay an unknown future. During the ride, no one spoke. When Walentyn turned his head to the side, he saw that Victor was staring out the window, his jaw tight. A feeling inside Walentyn's gut was telling him they were going somewhere far away. 

Hours passed, and Walentyn dosed off. The exhaustion was winning over the tension inside his body; a silent battle. When he woke up again, the roar of rotor blades blasted in his ears. The SUV was gone, and he was inside a helicopter, far above the clouds. Below, snow glittered like a diamond carpet. He blinked awake, slowly so, still disoriented. Boże, one moment he was in a car, and in the next, he was thousands of feet above the ground of earth! Infinite white expanded underneath, trees stretched endlessly—no buildings. Just snow with no end and entirely untouched. 

Oh, fuck, was Walentyn's first thought. That was fucking Siberia. The most isolated place on earth, weak signals and no roads for miles. There, Wywiad would never track him, no chance. 

»That's why the bastard bought me a fur coat,« muttered Walentyn, only audible to himself. Victor had been planning the move, down to the tiniest detail. He would trap Walentyn in a frozen hell with no way out. Victor watched as it dawned on Walentyn. He was busy with work and flipped a page of the document on his device, unbothered by the horror on the other man's face. He would proceed with the plan: An isolated safehouse, deeply buried in Siberia's woods where no one would find them. 

The helicopter descended through a blizzard, the visibility of the surroundings dropping to nearly zero. Snow whipped against the windows and whoever the pilot was, Walentyn felt bad for them.

They manoeuvred carefully and landed on a helipad which was buried beneath snow. Into view came a massive, isolated dacha, wooden and fortress-like. 

The Volkov's Siberian hideout.

The door opened, and a brutal wind howled inside, biting through the layers of clothes Walentyn wore; even the fur coat could not protect him. Victor was unfazed by the cold, of course he was. Without hesitation, he stepped onto Siberian soil, as though that was his summer vacation. Asshole, thought Walentyn. His arrogant ass had probably spent most of the summers in that godforsaken, frosting hellhole. He clenched his teeth and followed Victor out. The air was glacial and fucking freezing his lungs with every breath.

Ahead loomed the dacha. Walentyn scanned the surroundings, the horizon: There were no other buildings, only snow and snow—and more snow. A vast and empty wilderness with no way to access help. Victor marched through the storm towards the front doors of the dacha. He unlocked the door, stepped inside and kicked the snow off his boots. The interior was warm, the fire had already been lit. The expensive fur of the rug on the hardwood floors made walking comfortable and cozy, in an odd way. Not that it felt like home to Walentyn.

Alex followed after them with the duffle bags in his hands. He didn't speak, just dropped the things by a coat rack. He peeled off his gloves—no comment. 

Victor shrugged off his fur coat and draped it over a chair, that would be their new home now. The first thing he did was to walk to a cabinet and pour himself a drink. He didn't offer one to Walentyn or Alex, that would be too much to ask of a man like him. The other two men lingered by the entrance, waiting for Victor's orders. »Take him to his room.«

Alex nodded and picked up Walentyn's duffle bag from the floor. »This way,« he said to Walentyn and gestured to the staircase.

While Victor stayed in the living room and swirled his Vodka, Alex led Walentyn down a long hallway. The dacha was huge, yet every wall felt as if it was caging them. They stopped at an open bedroom door: The inside was simple but luxurious. A king-sized bed, a desk by the window and heavy curtains. What to call it? A prison with silk sheets. Alex set down the duffle bag on the dresser and stepped back, waiting for Walentyn to enter. Eventually, Walentyn followed inside. At least, he thought, he'd finally have his own goddamn bedroom. 

As Alex left, he closed the door softly behind him, leaving Walentyn all alone to himself, allowing him his well-deserved privacy.