Semua Bab MINE TO OWN : Bab 31 - Bab 40

Ivan smiled. But there was no warmth in it. Just the promise of blood. Zane’s breath caught in his throat. Ivan didn’t move, not yet. He simply stood in the doorway like he belonged to another age—an era of war, of conquests, of iron and fire. A beast cut loose. The waiting room had frozen in his presence. Servants had halted mid-step. A maid’s tray trembled in her hands. One of the house guards standing at the edge of the corridor took a visible step back. Zane blinked, trying to understand why his legs wanted to bolt. He had never seen this man before yet his body reacted like it recognized something ancient. Primal. He glanced instinctively toward the corridor that led to Fyodor’s wing. It remained still. Silent. No footsteps. No presence. No judgment. As if the old man was choosing not to see what had just walked through his doors. That absence sent a new kind of chill down Zane’s spine. Joana watched from the upper landing, one hand resting on the banister, her other clutc

The spark beneath his skin started with a whisper. A shift. A signal. Something had changed and everyone felt it. Zane woke up to silence, but not the smothering kind. This was the sort of silence that follows an earthquake but precedes a fire. He got out of bed, his legs taking a mind of their own. The sheets were cold and the space beside him untouched. It was a reminder that Andrei hadn’t come. Not in the night. Not after the collision of breath and confession that occured the night before. He was still pulling away. Still trying to cage himself before Zane could decide whether to stay or destroy him. Zane didn’t knock this time. He went to the west wing, past the guards who didn’t stop him anymore. He was no longer just a guest. No longer just a captive. He was something else. Andrei was in the training room. Shirtless. Barefoot. His hands were wrapped, striking into the cold morning air with brutal rhythm. Zane stood in the doorway, watching. He knew better than to interr

The library doors groaned as they opened, and the silence that followed fell like a guillotine. Fyodor sat in his usual place with his cane propped beside him like a scepter, the dying fire painting his lined face in golden shadows. He did not look up at once. Instead, he tapped ash from a long, thin cigar into the crystal bowl beside him. The room smelled of burnt oak, smoke, and something older. Zane stood in the doorway, unsure whether he was invited or summoned. Andrei was beside him standing tense and unreadable. “Come in,” Fyodor said at last, voice sounded like gravel over gravel. “Both of you.” They obeyed. Andrei took his usual position, but Zane hesitated until Fyodor gestured to the seat across from him. Not beside Andrei. Across. Zane sat. Fyodor observed him. Not stared, but measured. “You acted quickly,” he said. “Most people in your position would’ve ducked or screamed. You didn’t.” “I didn’t think,” Zane replied, voice even. “I just moved.” “Hm.” Fyodor’s m

The snow still fell outside the stone walls of the estate. It blanketed the estate in white silence, turning its violence white and its shadows soft. But inside the Dostoevsky household, nothing was quiet. The attempt on Andrei’s life had ignited a fire in the house—one that would burn slow, subtle, and deep. Zane stood before a long mirror in one of the lesser salons, his arms at his sides, shoulders straight. He wore black slacks and a cream sweater, simple, understated. But elegant. Behind him, tailors hovered like silent birds, pinning and adjusting, their eyes flicking to the door every time it creaked. Andrei had ordered it. A new wardrobe. Not for aesthetics. For presentation. For transformation. Zane met his own reflection’s gaze. The man looking back was cleaner, sharper, quieter. But not less dangerous. When the tailors bowed and left, he stayed where he was. He waited. Andrei entered without announcement. No suit today. Just a fitted black polo over black pinstripe

Katherina found Zane alone in the conservatory. The snow outside covered and glazed the glass panels overhead in white, but within, the air was warm, heavy with the scent of orchids and jasmine. Zane sat by the edge of a long backed velvet chair with one leg crossed over the other, staring into the darkened garden with a calm that didn’t belong to him. Not the him she remembered. He didn’t turn when she entered. She closed the distance slowly, the sharp click of her heels muted by the thick Persian rug. “You’re hard to pin down these days,” she said, tone light. “Even for me.” Zane finally looked over. His eyes didn’t flash the usual caution. No panic. He just… stared. “Maybe you’re losing your touch,” he replied coolly. Her smile flickered. “I see you’ve found yourself some teeth.” He tilted his head. “Or maybe I stopped letting people like you pull mine.” There was something dangerous in his stillness. A new weight to him. She stepped closer, studying him. “I heard about t