As soon as the door shut behind us, I dropped the act. I threw myself into Aisha's arms with a dramatic sigh, nuzzling into her shoulder like some spoiled cat.
"I'm exhausted," I groaned, though there was a grin tugging at my lips.
She chuckled softly and patted the top of my head with gentle fingers, the kind of tenderness I didn't get from anyone else. For a second, we just stood there in the soft quiet of her hotel suite—me breathing her in, her fingers brushing through my hair like she always did when she knew I was barely holding it together.
Then she spoke. "Did you have fun?"
"Yeah," I said, pulling back just enough to see her face. "Too bad it had to come to an end."
She gave a knowing smile and crossed her arms. "You know such outcomes are inevitable. Your father has eyes everywhere."
I scoffed. "Including the most recent pair," I muttered, rolling my eyes. "Viktor."
Aisha tilted her head.
"His presence alone is suffocating," I continued. "And the worst part? He has to be with me every damn hour of the day. I need to get rid of him fast. I just… don't know how."
She hummed, thoughtful. "Maybe… don't?"
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
She shrugged. "Give him a chance. He might not be so bad."
"There's no way I can escape again with him breathing down my neck." I paced toward the window, frustration itching under my skin. "If I don't shake him, I'll never get out. He's like… a shadow I can't outrun."
Aisha blinked, surprised. "You're planning to leave again?"
"Of course I am," I said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "And this time, I'll be prepared. Last time I was careless."
There was a beat of silence.
Then she smiled, soft and sad. "Then I'll be rooting for you."
My chest tightened at that.
She always had.
I turned and looked at her—this woman who had been the first real friend I'd ever had. It wasn't long ago, really. Just a few years. I was fresh out of college, angry at the world, angry at Dimitri. Word got around that he'd killed his former secretary in a rage and hired someone new. I'd been curious.
I didn't expect her.
But we didn't become friends then. No, that came later.
It was at some charity gala. Too many faces. Too many whispers. I could feel the walls closing in again, the panic scratching at my throat. I slipped out, heart racing, hands trembling, crouched behind some marble column like a damn child.
And she found me.
She didn't ask questions. She didn't flinch. She just left, came back with a warm blanket, and sat beside me until I could breathe again.
She stayed.
No one ever did that before.
And despite all the lines I swore I'd never cross, the promises I made to myself, there were nights when the panic got too loud, and the cold too unbearable, and she was the only one who knew how to hold me without asking anything of me.
She was my first. Not because I loved her. Not because she asked.
But because I needed to feel real. Alive. Human.
And she never once made me feel ashamed of that.
We were tangled up on the bed, her arm wrapped around my waist, her head resting lightly on my chest. For a little while, there was only the sound of our breathing, the slow rhythm of borrowed peace.
Then I broke it. Because I always do.
"Do you know how I can get rid of Viktor?" I asked quietly, running my fingers through a lock of her hair.
Aisha shifted, lifting her head just enough to meet my eyes. "You're really not letting this go, huh?"
"He's glued to me. If I breathe too loudly, he probably notes it down in a report."
She rolled her eyes playfully but nodded. "I'll do some digging. See if there's anything I can find. But someone like him… it won't be easy."
"I don't need easy," I murmured. "I just need a crack."
She didn't reply. Just let her head fall back against me. We slipped into silence again—until I stirred it once more.
"Do you know the name Nikolai… Gregorov?" I asked, staring up at the ceiling. She stiffened against me. I felt it. Sharp. Immediate.
My gaze snapped to her. "Do you know him?"
A pause. Too long.
"You do know him," I said again, sitting up slightly. "Who was he? What did he do for my father?"
Aisha didn't meet my eyes. Her fingers clenched the sheet, hesitation bleeding from every inch of her body.
"Aisha," I said, more firmly this time.
Finally, she sighed and sat up beside me, folding her legs under her. Her voice came low, careful. "He was one of the underlings. Ran some of the… dirtier smuggling jobs for Dimitri. Real bottom-rung type, but useful. Loyal."
"Then what happened?"
"He was accused of selling intel. Leaked something to one of Dimitri's enemies—supposedly." Her jaw tensed. "Your father didn't even ask questions. As soon as the word came in… he had him killed. No hesitation."
I swallowed. The image of that man earlier—his face contorted in grief and rage, screaming his son's name like it was the only thing he had left—flashed behind my eyes. How many bodies were buried silently under my father's orders?
"Remember the name of the boy your father murdered—Nikolai Gregorov!"
The panic scratched at my chest again, quiet this time, waiting for the right moment to claw out.
"Do you think he really did it?" I asked softly.
Aisha looked at me, her eyes unreadable. "Does it matter?"
It did matter.
It mattered because that man had looked me in the eye like I was the one who slit his son's throat. Because even now, I could still hear his voice echoing in my skull, thick with hate and grief, burning my ears like acid.
Because no matter how far I ran, the trail of blood my father left behind would always find me. Cling to me. Mark me. Drown me.
I didn't say anything.
Didn't move either.
Just lay there beside Aisha, her fingers tracing soft circles on my arm, and stared up at the ceiling like it was seconds away from crashing down and burying me in the rubble.
Nikolai.
That name settled on my chest like weight. Not just a name now. Not just some blurred figure in a file or someone I passed in a hallway. He had a father. A family. A reason to want my throat slit open. And he was gone because of mine.
I couldn't blink. My throat felt like it was wrapped in wire.
How many more?
How many more names were buried beneath Dimitri's empire? How many more men were killed while I played house with people like Aisha, trying to pretend I wasn't part of this bloodline?
I felt it all—my own expression, blank and tight. The way my fingers tensed in the sheets. The panic, quiet and sharp, whispering up the back of my skull.
I wasn't free. I wasn't ever going to be. Not from him. Not from his legacy. Not from the stench of bodies he left behind for me to inherit.
I was the next shadow in line. The next name that would send people into rages and grief. The next Kurov-Shin.
My chest fluttered too fast, breaths too shallow. I didn't want to breathe. Didn't want to feel anything.
I hated this. I hated him. I hated the weight I couldn't put down.
My jaw ached from clenching. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood, just to remind myself I could still feel.
Then Aisha moved.
"Kairen," she whispered.
I didn't answer.
She turned her head toward me. She saw it—everything I didn't say, didn't show. She always did. Saw through the walls I tried so fucking hard to keep standing.
Her hand came up, warm and steady, cradling my cheek, guiding my eyes to hers.
"Don't do that," she said, voice barely above a breath. "Don't you dare blame yourself for his sins."
One breath escaped me. It scraped my throat raw.
"I'm still his," I muttered. The words felt like ash.
She leaned in and kissed my forehead like it could undo the damage.
"No, Kairen," she said. "You're yours. No matter how hard he tries to take that from you."
No. A curse.
That's what I was. Not a son. Not a person. A curse wrapped in skin and silk, molded in his image. Guarded by weapons. Carrying the sins I never asked for. Every corpse Dimitri left behind—somehow, they all found their way to my doorstep, scratching at the wood, howling my name.