Chapter Five

Liliana POV

The knife felt foreign in my hand. Cold. Heavy. Nothing like the little blade I'd kept hidden in my undergarments.  

Mikhail stood across from me on the training mats, his arms crossed over his bandaged chest. The white gauze had a small red stain where I'd stabbed him yesterday. The sight made my stomach twist.  

“Show me your grip,” he commanded, his voice dark.

I swallowed hard and tightened my fingers around the handle. My sweaty palms were making the metal slick.

He moved like lightning. One second he was standing still, the next, he was right in front of me. His large hand covered mine, adjusting my fingers with rough precision.  

“Thumb here,” he said, pressing it against the flat side of the blade. “Or you'll slice your own hand open.”

His touch burned. I pulled my hand away too quickly. My breath came in short gasps.

Mikhail's lips twitched. “Scared, Malyshka?”  

“No.” I lied, my voice barely above a whisper.

Lie.  

Everything about him terrified me. The way he moved like liquid shadow. The way his icy eyes missed nothing. The way he looked at me like I was a puzzle he wanted to take apart.  

He stepped back, his expression unreadable. “First lesson. How to kill a man.”

I swallowed hard.  

I never knew there was a lesson on how to kill.

“Most people go for the chest.” He tapped his bandage. “Stupid. Ribs get in the way.”

He moved behind me suddenly, his chest pressing against my back. One arm wrapped around me, his hand guiding mine with the knife.  

I stopped breathing.  

“Here,” his voice rumbled against my ear as he positioned the blade against an imaginary throat. “Or here.” He moved our hands lower, pressing the tip just below someone's ribs. “Twist upward. Hits the heart every time.”  

His breath was warm on my neck. I could smell his cologne, dark and expensive mixed with gunpowder. It made my head spin.  

Then he released me so abruptly I stumbled.  

“Your turn.” He spread his arms wide. “Try to stab me.”

I blinked. “What?” 

“Come at me. With the knife.” He said as though it wasn't a big deal. 

Does he not fear death?

When I didn't move, he sighed. “If you can land a hit, I'll give you back your locket.”  

My head snapped up. 

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the crushed silver pendant. My mother's face was still visible in the tiny photo, though the glass was cracked.  

Something hot and fierce burned in my chest. I lunged at him before I could think.

Mikhail sidestepped easily, grabbed my wrist and twisted it until the knife clattered to the mats. Pain coursed through my arm, but I didn't cry out.  

“Predictable,” he tsked. “Again.”

I grabbed the knife and attacked him three more times. Each attempt ended the same. He disarmed me easily, him barely breaking a sweat.  

By the fifth try, my arms trembled with exhaustion. Sweat dripped down my back, making my shirt stick to my skin.  

Mikhail studied me with those icy eyes. “You're holding back.” 

“I'm not…” I said, not meeting his gaze.

“You are.” He stepped closer, invading my space. “You think this is a game? That I'll go easy because you're a woman?” His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “Your father certainly didn't.”

The mention of Nickolas sent a fresh wave of anger through me. My next attack was faster, and wilder.  

Mikhail blocked, but not before my blade grazed his forearm. A thin red line appeared on his golden skin.  

We both froze.  

Then he smiled, a real, terrifying smile that showed too many teeth. “There she is.”

Before I could react, he struck. One moment I was standing, and the next, I was flat on my back with Mikhail straddling my hips with his knife at my throat.  

I waited for pain. For death.  

But instead, he leaned down until his lips brushed my ear. “Better.”

Then he stood, pulling me up with him. “Again.” He commanded.

But each attempt was futile. 

But I'd landed two more hits, a shallow cut on his shoulder and a slash across his palm when he'd tried to disarm me.  

Three Hours Later, my entire body ached. My hands were raw from gripping the knife. My legs shook with exhaustion.  

Mikhail examined his bleeding hand with pride. “You learn fast.” 

I didn't answer, I was too busy trying to breathe.  

He tossed me a clean towel. “Shower. Then meet me in the study.”

I caught it clumsily. “Why?”

“Because I said so.” He walked to the door, then paused. “And Liliana?”

I looked up.

“Don't keep me waiting.” He said, his face expressionless.

The door lock clicked. I let out a sigh of relief.

This was nothing but hell. 

I dragged myself into the shower. The hot water burned my bruised skin, but I didn't care. I let it scald me, wishing it could wash away everything, the training, the touches, the way my heart had raced when he pinned me down.  

I turned my face into the spray, trying to drown the memories.  

It didn't work.  

When I stepped out, fresh clothes waited on the counter. A black leggings, a fitted long-sleeve shirt, and...  

My fingers trembled as I picked up the new locket.  

Identical to the one he'd crushed.  

Inside, my mother's photo had been carefully repaired behind new glass.  

I clutched it to my chest, conflicting emotions warring inside me. Why did he give this back? Why is he kind after being so cruel?  

Nothing about Mikhail Volkov made sense.  

I found him in the study, behind a massive oak desk, pouring two glasses of amber liquid. The room smelled like leather and expensive cigars.  

Everywhere smells like cigars.

He pushed one glass toward me without looking up from his papers. “Drink.”  

I didn't move.  

Mikhail sighed. “It's not poisoned.”

“I don't drink.” I managed to say, not meeting his eyes.

His eyes flicked to me, unreadable. “Tonight you do.” 

Reluctantly, I took a sip. The whiskey burned all the way down, making me cough.  

Mikhail's lips quirked. “Pathetic.” 

He drained his glass in one swallow, then tossed a file folder on the desk. “Look.”  

I opened it cautiously.  

Photos. Surveillance shots of... me.  

Walking through Orlov Manor. Scrubbing floors. Kneeling in the snow.  

My throat tightened. “You were watching me?”

“For six months. After your father told me to settle the war with you as sacrifice.” He lit a cigarette, the flame highlighting his sharp cheekbones. “Know why I agree?”

I shook my head, looking blankly at him.

“Because unlike your idiot father, I see value in sharp things.” He exhaled smoke. “Even broken ones.” 

The words should have insulted me. Instead, something warm flickered in my chest.  

I looked away, focusing on the photos. 

I froze. 

The last picture showed me at fourteen, covered in blood.  

My vision blurred. The night I'd killed for the first time came rushing back.  

The dog’s teeth was deep into my skin. My father watched. My sisters laughed. No one came to my rescue as I screamed and cried. The pain was excruciating .

Then in anger, I took the knife I hid in my undergarments and dipped it into the dog's neck. I stabbed it countless times. 

The dog fell, lifeless in its pool of blood.

My sisters screamed, calling me a monster. 

I smirked. “Idiots.” I muttered.

Mikhail's voice cut through the memory. “You just called me an idiot.”

It wasn't a question. And I didn't answer.  

We sat in heavy silence until Mikhail suddenly stood, rounding the desk to crouch before me. His fingers tilted my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze.  

“Listen carefully, malyshka.” His thumb brushed my cheek, wiping away a tear I hadn't realized I'd shed. “Your father called you weak for surviving. But I call you strong.”

His words settled in my bones, warming places I'd thought were forever frozen.  

Then he ruined it by adding, “And I'm going to make you stronger.” 

Before I could respond, gunfire erupted outside.