The Voice

Alex Volkov, Prince to the Russian Empire, the Bratva royalty—was dead.

Like dead, dead.

I still couldn’t swallow the word. I stood there, egg dripping between my fingers, the shell cracked and forgotten on the floor. The pan on the stove hissed and sizzled in the background, but it couldn’t compete with the pounding of my heart.

Shot.

In public.

In the street.

Alex Volkov. The man who haunted my nightmares ever since he walked into Asher’s cage for me....grinning like the devil himself, that smug, detached smirk that never reached his eyes, as if he knew something I didn’t.

The one who threatened Asher.

The one who said he was going to marry me.

The one who wanted me not because he loved me but because he wanted to take away whatever Asher loved. He wanted to play with Asher’s toy.

Or snuff it out.

Asher had told me the last time I left that he needed time. Just time. “Let me handle this,” he’d said.

And it seems like Alex Volkov’s time had just run out.

The screen on the TV shifted.