He went still.Not because he had to, but because he chose to.
We paused in that position when we heard a slow clap.
We both looked up.
Viktor stood at the edge of the yard, coat draped over his shoulders, expression carved from stone.
Approval did not come easily from him.But when it did—it mattered.
“Discipline,” he said.
It was one word, and it was directed at me.
Rasputin snorted beneath me.
“Boring,” he muttered again.
I released him.
He rolled onto his back, staring up at the grey sky like he had just finished a pleasant afternoon activity instead of losing.
Viktor stepped closer, his boots crunching against frozen ground.
He stopped in front of us.First he looked at Rasputin.Then at me.His gaze lingered.Thoughtful.Judging.
“Archie will inherit everything.”
The words settled into the air like a verdict.Final.Unquestioned.
Rasputin went very still for half a second.Then he laughed.Loud.Unrestrained.
He pushed himself up onto his elbows, looking at me with something sharp and amused in his eyes.
“Of course he will,” he said, shaking his head.“Our perfect little blue-eyed machine.”
He sat up fully, dragging a hand through his hair.Then he grinned at me.Wicked.Mocking.But there was affection buried somewhere deep beneath the edge of it.
“The Prince of the Bratva.”
The title landed heavily between us.
I said nothing.
Because titles meant responsibility.Power.Expectation.Chains.
All the things I didn’t want or aspire to.
Rasputin saw it differently.
He leaned closer, voice dropping just enough that only I could hear it.
“Tell me, brat…” he murmured.“Do you even want it?”
I met his gaze without blinking.
Rasputin didn’t flinch.He held eye contact like it was a national sport—steady, unrelenting, daring me to be the first to break.It was the kind of stare that made lesser men shift on their feet, second-guess themselves, fold under pressure.But I wasn’t one of those men.I knew him too well.
Knew every line of his face.Every scar he never spoke about.