Boris Pavlikovsky Novels & Stories

Nikolai “Boris is dead.” I hear as soon as I pick up the phone from Dimitri. While I was grateful he had died I was rather surprised, he had looked very healthy yesterday. Dimitri sighs and adds “Pavel killed him.” Pavel, another one of the men I worked with, was not a very wise man to offend. Even I stayed out of his way most of the time. “He must have died in a terrible way then.” Pavel had a reputation of killing people in the weirdest places or while they were doing the weirdest things.

And how did he manage to bring it into the Games without getting caught? Boris swiped at the vial with his massive paw, shattering it in an explosion of glass. A silvery substance splashed across the rough bark of the pedestal, and he quickly ran his claws through it, coating them in the shimmering liquid that danced with an otherworldly glow. He turned to face me again, his entire form imposing, radiating a newfound power that was almost palpable. His eyes were fierce and wild, two molten orbs that pierced the blanket of darkness surrounding us.

Boris advised. Waverly pulled up the corners of her mouth. Boris was a very powerful person. At least he was a good judge of character and was daring. Unfortunately, he was unlucky.

Maybe myself when I’m old. Anyway, I'm Sergei Moreau. A former Boyevik (enforcer) for the Orlovs, now a personal guard to the Pakhan's daughter. Alongside me is Viktor Ivanov — my brother in everything but blood. We stand outside her doors, follow her in the shadows, eat at her table when permitted, and sleep in shifts. This is the life of a guard.

His eyes—those terrible, pale eyes—glowed faintly in the dim light. King Valerian was the embodiment of a warrior king—tall, broad-shouldered, and carved from muscle and discipline. His physique was built not by luxury but by centuries of battle, every line of his body honed like a weapon. Unlike most alphas, his skin bore a faint, icy pallor, a reflection of the frozen lands he ruled, and his long, silver-streaked black hair flowed like the northern winds he commanded. But it was his eyes that set him apart—piercing pale grey, almost white, glowing faintly with the eerie calm of a predator who didn’t need to snarl to be feared. Even in silence, Valerian commanded a room, a man of both chill

That bond was vibrating like a live wire under his skin. “There he is, ladies and gentlemen—Yaroslav Viktorovich Demidov! Captain of team Russia, Moscow's rising player the only non-magical athlete in the tournament, and easily the most disciplined player on the ice. With him, is his team Volkov Ice Dynasty” Disciplined, wow! It's like a kind word for repressed as hell. Demidov walked in with his team while adjusting his gloves with clenched jaw, slicked-back hair, eyes in permanent murder mode. Even seeing this, Kensington's mouth went dry. And god, he was in trouble.

And that was not something that I had to end, that is, of course, if we were to keep our reign up. “We are going to have to control them, Cosimo. They keep growing stronger, and if this proceeds, then they won’t only target Italy.” Mikhail, one of my Russian partners stated. Though human, the man was stronger than his kind. It was his recessive gene that took over in his case. He couldn’t shift despite being the son of two wolves. A shame for his bloodline. “As if you need to tell me what I already know.” I stated bluntly. The man shook his head at me, and I raised an eyebrow. “You doubt my word.”

Had someone come for Dimitri? Alexei's face darkened. "How many?" "At least twenty, sir," the guard replied. "They are heavily armed." "Who is leading them?" Alexei demanded. "A man named Boris," the guard said. "He says he was one of Mr. Dimitri's lieutenants." Boris. That bastard. "What does he want?" Alexei asked. "He demands to see Mr. Dimitri," the guard explained. "He says he will not leave until he does."

Third Person Point of View: “What the fuck is this?” Viktor asked, frowning at the sight of the men carrying the crate. The men brought in the boxes that were arriving from nearby families who were pledging their loyalty to Esteban, and this in specific was for Viktor. “It came to you, from Alexei Aslanov” one of the men said, looking down at his feet, avoiding his and the Alpha’s eyes. They knew the punishment for trying to do so, and each one of them wanted to keep that head of his over his shoulders.

demanded the voice with a thick Russian accent. Ash knew without a doubt that the voice belonged to Sitnikov's vicious enforcer, Boris Grekov. As expected, the giant met Ash at the door looking particularly grim. Despite Ash's expertise in the ring, he decided he was glad the Russian wasn't a fighting man. Ash wasn't entirely sure he would win that confrontation. "Boss wants to see you," Boris said, stepping back to allow Ash into the spacious entryway. "I want to see Anastasia," Ash pressed. Boris grunted and shook his shaved head. The muscles in his neck emphasized the tattoos that snaked down his neck into the collar of his shirt. "She's not here," he said. "Mr. Sitnikov asked to see you