Chapter 5: Damien

“She’s too young to be getting married,” I all but barked at my sister in the car. Of course, I only spoke Russian to Anastasia, knowing she spoke far too much English at school, gradually being pulled away from her roots—our roots—the culture and blood that ran through our veins with more purpose than anything she learned in a lecture hall.

“Am I too young to be married?” she asked, tilting her head in that familiar, irritating way that never failed to push my patience.

“You’re different,” I answered, flicking the turn signal and merging into the next lane. “You were born for something like that. She shouldn’t be binding herself at that age.”

I didn’t even like saying her name. Lillian. Just thinking about her tying herself to a man like him made something burn low and bitter in my chest. Lillian Caraway had no business marrying someone like Robert Goldman—soft, privileged, polished. A man whose hands had never known real work, whose blood had never stained a floor. He wasn't the kind of man who would protect her. He wasn’t even the kind of man who would fight for her. He was the type to ask permission for a kiss and call it chivalry.

Sure, I was in what people liked to call the family business, carrying the name and legacy of my father like an iron weight around my neck. But unlike Goldman, I hadn’t inherited success through smooth words and nepotism. No, I’d clawed my way up, cut from steel and scorched by fire. I had fought for everything I had. Bled for it. Almost died for it. And even then, I didn’t complain. I rose. I learned. I endured.

Goldman, on the other hand, had licked his father’s boots—probably more than just his boots—to get his position. He made his interns do the grunt work while he coasted on charm and the minds of others. And yet somehow, he was the man Lillian thought she should marry?

If she were mine, I would make her feel powerful. I would make her feel like she was loved—deeply, protectively. She would feel desired, not in a fleeting, shallow way, but in the way a man worships something sacred. I would cherish her. I would revere her. I would make her feel worshipped—like the goddess she was, carved from light and stardust, placed in this world to ruin me in the best way.

“I’m not even sure she knows of your obsession, brother,” Anastasia said with a smug little smirk, clearly delighted by the torment Lillian caused me just by existing.

In my thirty-one years, I had always known that duty would dictate my life. That I would need to produce an heir, a legitimate child to carry on what generations of Volkóvs had built with blood, precision, and absolute control. But I had never looked forward to it—not until Lillian. Until her, it had always been a box to check. A requirement. A future dictated by necessity, not desire.

When she walked into Anastasia’s dorm for the first time, dragging in two battered suitcases and a smile too wide for her face, something shifted. The air changed. The moment her eyes landed on my sister and she beamed with that open, unfiltered joy—I felt it. Then those bright blue eyes turned to me, and I swear everything else fell away. Time, noise, reason.

She didn’t hesitate. She greeted Anastasia, then me, completely unfazed. That smile didn’t falter. And before I even realized what I was saying, the word slipped from my mouth like a prayer: моя богиня—my goddess.

Anastasia had laughed at me that day, then offered Lillian my proper name, which she used with such innocence it made something inside me ache. From then on, I had stopped dreading trips to campus. I had even started looking forward to them. Just to see her. Just to hear her voice and imagine what it might sound like moaning my name instead of greeting me with that sweet, almost teasing hello.

Before her, I’d tried to convince Anastasia to take online classes. I had argued for months, trying to keep her closer, trying to keep the world away from her. But I had stopped once Lillian arrived. She made the dorm feel... less dangerous.

This weekend was important. Especially for Anastasia. She knew it. She’d grown up in the same world I had. We weren’t bred for softness, not really. We were bred for legacy and survival. And she understood better than anyone what it meant for me to care for someone the way I cared for Lillian.

Love didn’t have a place in our world. And when it did, it only ever led to ruin. That was the only reason I hadn’t gone back to that goddamned dorm, kicked in the door, and thrown Lillian over my shoulder. I would’ve brought her home. I would’ve kept her in my bed until she forgot her own name and only answered to mine. Until she was glowing, full, and heavy with my child—our future.

But I didn’t. Because even monsters know patience.

Tonight marked the end of Великий пост, the Great Fast, and as tradition dictated, all the influential families would come together, celebrating the occasion with a feast that rivaled those of our ancestors. These gatherings weren’t just about faith or food—they were about power, loyalty, and legacy. They were a reminder of who we were and what was expected of us. For our family, tonight also held another significance. Tonight, Anastasia would meet her fiancé for the very first time.

Igor was the son of our father’s closest friend, a man who had shed blood and sweat for the organization without ever asking for anything in return. Igor had only recently arrived in the United States, determined to earn enough to support his family back home in Russia. He was a good man—honorable, obedient, and devoted to our cause. Tying our families together through marriage wasn’t just a strategic move; it was a sign of respect and long-term loyalty. It made sense. It was the right thing to do.

Of course, Anastasia had hoped to delay this inevitability. She wanted more time—more time to be young, more time to live freely, more time to imagine she had choices. But she was nearly done with college, and a man like Igor would eventually expect heirs, just as I would. There was no sense in pretending otherwise. She knew our world didn’t operate on dreams.

Still, I believed—knew, even—that if she just gave him a chance, if she opened her mind and let him prove himself, she would see how fiercely a man could love the mother of his children. She would see what I saw in a future built on strength and devotion. That was a promise I intended to honor myself, when my own time came.

“I’ve made my intentions abundantly clear,” I gritted through my teeth, my hands gripping the steering wheel as I turned down the long, gravel-lined driveway leading to our compound.

Anastasia laughed, the sound sharp and familiar, echoing in the confined space of the car. It brought with it a rush of memories—her laughter as a child, the way it used to ring down the long hallways of our family home as I chased her, always pretending to be the villain, only to catch her in a dramatic swoop that left her shrieking with joy. She had always known how to push me. Even now.

“You only speak Russian,” she said, that sly little smirk spreading across her face. “How is she supposed to know what your foreign grunts mean?”

“I hate speaking English,” I replied truthfully, my voice low, edged with frustration. It wasn’t just a matter of preference—it was a matter of dignity. English lacked the weight, the beauty, the precision of Russian. There were no words in that tongue that could capture the essence of what I felt when I looked at Lillian. None of them came close to doing her justice. She deserved poetry, and all I could give her was clumsy translations.

“She only understands English, brother,” Anastasia replied coolly. “If you actually want to court her, you need to speak a language she understands.”

I let out a heavy breath through my nose, watching as Gregor stepped out of the front doors of the compound, standing tall and ready to greet us. He was reliable, a constant. He’d do his job without complaint—just like always. We weren’t like the Gallos, flaunting our wealth with sparkling furniture, glittering diamonds, and garages full of luxury cars. Yes, we had money—plenty of it—but most of it went home, back to Russia, where people needed it far more than we did. That was the difference. We didn’t chase luxury. We preserved legacy.

“Even your tone when you talk to her,” Anastasia continued, clearly not finished with her scolding. “She doesn’t understand a word of what you’re saying, and you sound like you’d rather put a bullet in your head than spend another second near her.”

Her words landed hard, but I didn’t argue. Because she wasn’t wrong.

“Shouldn’t you want to protect her from all of this?” I asked, arching a brow at her as I brought the car to a slow stop.

Her face hardened, her mouth drawing into a thin line. “I am protecting her,” she said, her voice colder now, eyes dark with conviction. “Protecting her from a life with a man she’ll never truly be happy with.”

She didn’t wait for a response. She simply opened the door and stepped out as Gregor moved in to take her suitcase, falling into his usual rhythm—efficient, invisible, silent. The moment passed without ceremony.

And just like that, she was gone, leaving me behind in the car with nothing but my thoughts. My hands tightened on the steering wheel, my knuckles pale, the leather creaking beneath my grip. Because no matter how much I told myself this was for the best, it didn’t make it any easier.

All I wanted—all I had ever wanted—was for her to be with a man who could make her happy. A man who would give her everything she needed. Everything she deserved.

And that man, without question, was me.