KISS OF DEATH

PAVEL’S POV

The knife lay on the desk where I’d left it, its blade glinting in the soft morning light spilling through the curtains. It was a relic of last night’s little drama—Ilya’s pathetic attempt to kill me.

I picked it up, running my thumb along its sharp edge. Sleek. Clean. Deadly. A knife suited for quick, efficient work. I imagined  him  holding it,   his  hands shaking but  his   eyes filled with fire.   He  wanted to kill me, and he  had come so close.

The thought of it made my cock twitch in my pants, a low groan of approval rumbling in my chest 

The skyline stretched before me as I stood by the window, turning the blade over in my hands. My penthouse was a fortress, impenetrable, just like me. Ilya thought   he  could challenge that, challenge me. But this wasn’t a fairy tale where defiance would save  him  .

Breaking  him  wouldn’t just be satisfying; it would be art.

A slow, sharp smile curved my lips.

 His hatred wasn’t misplaced. The Volkovs had stolen from me long before  his  father shot my brother.  Nicolai’s death had destroyed more than my family—it had destroyed the boy I used to be. Trust wasn’t a gift anymore; it was a liability.

This marriage wasn’t about love or unity. It was revenge.   His   father’s debts had bought me the chance to ruin what little was left of  his  family, and Ilya was my prize. The bitterness in  his  eyes made it all the sweeter.

But  he didn’t know the whole story. Not yet.

I turned to make my way out of the bedroom wondering what games  he  had planned out today.

I found  him  in the dining room, sitting stiffly at the long glass table.   He  was dressed, but   his   hair was loose, falling around  his  face in dark, careless strands.  His  hands rested near a steaming coffee cup,  his  expression cold and distant. He looked hot… all sexy and wound up, reluctantly I tore my eyes away from him.

“Good morning, husband,” I said, settling into the seat across from   him  .

  He  didn’t answer.   His  hazel eyes stayed locked on the coffee cup as if I wasn’t worth looking at.

Silent treatment. Cute.

I poured my own coffee, the liquid swirling in the porcelain cup. I stirred slowly, enjoying the tension radiating off   him  like heat.

“Nothing to say after last night?” I asked, my voice light. “I thought we’d moved past the whole ‘knife to the heart’ phase.”   His   gaze snapped to mine, sharp and cutting. He didn't seem to like being reminded of his futile efforts, for a Bratva Prince, he was quick to anger, to show emotions..  He would need lessons, no partner of mine would be transparent with uncontrolled rage 

“Don’t flatter yourself, Pavel. If I had another knife, I wouldn’t miss.” he damn near snarled, I giggled, low and amused.

“And if I wanted you dead, Ilya, you wouldn’t have woken up this morning.”   His   fingers tightened around the coffee cup, knuckles white.   His   fury lit up   his   face, and I couldn’t help but admire it.   He  was dangerous, even if  he  didn’t realize how much.

“Drink your coffee,” I said, nodding toward the untouched cup in front of   him  . “It’ll help with the headache. I had the butler prepare something special for us.”

His  lips pressed into a thin line, but he lifted the cup. Pride glimmered in his  eyes as  he  took a small sip, refusing to let me think  he was afraid.

Good boy.

I leaned back, watching  him  as the silence stretched. It didn’t take long. The first signs were subtle—a twitch of   his  fingers, a shadow of confusion, the darkening glint in his  eyes. Then  he   set the cup down,   his   breathing suddenly shallow.

“Pavel,”   he  whispered,   his voice shaking.

I stood, crossing the room in slow, deliberate steps. By the time I reached  him  ,   he   was gripping the edge of the table, his body trembling.  His wide hazel eyes met mine, filled with rage and fear as realization set in.

“What did you do?”

“Relax,” I said, crouching beside him . “You’re not dying. Yet.”

  His  legs buckled, and  he slid to the floor, gasping for air. I caught  him  before  he  hit the ground, lowering  him  .   His   breaths came in ragged bursts,   his  fingers clawing at my jacket as tears filled   his  eyes.

I let   him struggle for a moment,   his  desperation a bitter satisfaction. Then I pulled a small bottle from my pocket. The liquid inside shimmered faintly, the antidote  he  so desperately needed.

“This is the cure,” I said, holding it just out of reach.  His  hand shot out, trembling but determined.   He crawled forward,   his  breath coming in short, sharp gasps, but I stood taller, the vial just beyond   his  grasp.

“You tried to kill me last night,” I said, my voice calm, almost conversational. “Did you really think there wouldn’t be consequences?”

“Bastard,”   he  hissed,   his  voice barely audible. I tilted my head, smiling faintly.

“That’s one word for me. But let’s make one thing clear. If you cross me again, you won’t get the antidote next time. Do you understand?” His   lips moved, but no sound came out.   He  was pale now,   his  body weak, his  breaths shallow.

For a moment, I watched  him  , savoring it. Then I sighed, uncapped the vial, and tilted it to  his   lips. He   drank greedily, clutching at my arm as the antidote worked its way through   his   system.   His  body convulsed once, twice, before  his   breathing evened out.

I held  him  steady until  he  regained  his  strength. When   he   shoved away from me, it was with all the fire of a cornered animal.   He  staggered to his   feet, bracing   himself   against the table,   his   eyes blazing with hatred.

“You poisoned me,”   he said,   his  voice trembling with rage. I straightened, brushing invisible dust from my sleeves.

“Consider it a warning.”

“A warning?”   he  spat, fists clenched. “You’re insane. You’re a psychopathic freak!”

“No,” I said, stepping closer. “I’m in control. And you? You’re alive because I allow it. Remember that the next time you point a knife at me.”  His   breath hitched, but   he   didn’t back down.

“You think you can break me?”   he   said, voice sharp and defiant. “You’ll have to try harder than that.”I leaned in, lowering my voice to a deadly whisper.

“Breaking you isn’t the goal, Ilya. Ruining you? That’s worth my time.”  His   slap came fast,  his   palm striking my cheek with surprising force. The sound echoed in the room, sharp and jarring.

For a moment, I didn’t move. I let the silence hang heavy between us, tension thick like smoke. Then I laughed—a low, dangerous sound that made   him   flinch.

“Good,” I said, my voice cold. “Hate me, Ilya. Hate me enough to survive. You’re going to need it.”

I turned and left   him   standing there,   his   body trembling with rage.

—

In my study I picked up the phone and dialed.

“He’s a tough one,” I said when the line clicked. “But he’ll break eventually.”

“Do whatever it takes. The Volkovs still owe us blood.” the cold voice on the other end of the line replied.

I hung up, my fingers brushing the scar along my jaw. Ilya didn’t know the whole truth—not yet.  Nicolai’s death wasn’t just a memory; it was a wound. And   he  was the key to finishing what  his  father had started.