CHAPTER 61

Nikolai Volkov

The morning had begun with softness—a rarity in my life. Alessia’s scent lingered on my skin, on the sheets, in the air. My bed, usually cold and sterile, still held the warmth of her body, the ghost of her moans, the scratch of her nails across my back. For once, the world had been silent. Still. Peaceful.

But peace never lasts long in my world.

I stood by the window, shirtless, coffee in hand, watching the city breathe beneath the weight of sunlight. Alessia was still asleep behind me, her hair sprawled across my pillow like a silken halo. I could’ve stayed there. Pretended the war outside didn’t exist.

My phone buzzed on the table.

Zayn.

I frowned. He wouldn’t call this early unless something was wrong.

I answered. “What is it?”

There was no greeting. Just a pause—too long—and then his voice, hard as concrete.

“He hit us.”

My fingers tightened around the ceramic mug. “Who?”

“Viktor.”

The name was enough to make my blood freeze. I turned away from the window, my jaw