Katya Miro Novels & Stories

“I’m Josephine. And you?” “Katya,” she replies. “Katya Morozova.” We hold the handshake for a second longer than necessary. I don’t know why, but something in her eyes makes my stomach flutter. Just the same unsettling feeling I got the first time I met Sasha.

“Kitty is a kitten, we have to go…” Louis decided to say, touching her hair with his lips. They had several hours to sack this city, and the time was running out. Kit sighed, lifted her head, muttered something in Russian, and dropped it back. It could be “yes, of course”, “I don’t want to go anywhere” or “go to hell” - his choice. She was, of course, tired because of the night flight and the sex marathon they had arranged. Lou, too, would gladly send everything away and would not get out of this bed for another year. But - it is necessary. It is necessary, it is necessary, it is necessary ... Jeff already called, sarcastically wondering where the devils are.

Katerina Two taps, and then the bedroom door swings open to reveal a woman older than my mother. Her short hair is streaked white and gray, like a birch tree in winter. She's wearing a stiff dress the color of mud that covers her from her wrists to her ankles. The only color on her is the twin sapphire studs in her ears. They match the discerning eyes that follow my hand as I shove my phone under a pillow. "Dobriy vecher," she says. "You must be Katerina. I'm Ulyana Nazarova, the head of the household staff."

After a few minutes, she stirred and Ceaser quickly ran to her, he ran his hand through her hair and gradually began to stroke it. "My kitten," he smiled, running a hand across her cheeks. "How do you feel?" Aria slowly raised her face towards him, crying. Her eyes had changed colour, and were now deep red. Evil, malevolence, anger and vengeance was all I could see inside those eyes. Caesar continued. "Are you ready to pay them back for what they did to you?" He asked her, and just as I had expected, she nodded, hypnotised. "Very well, my little kitten." He continued to stroke her hair and then kissed her forehead before he handed her the knife. Then he instructed her.

She bites her lower lip— white teeth sinking into red flesh— then turns, smiling at the bartender. "Whisky please. Rocks." Her gaze returns to me, and she raises her eyebrows. "Make that two," I say, not leaving her gaze. A minute later he places the drinks in front of us, her hand immediately reaching out to bring it to her lips. "Katherine," she says after taking a slow sip, "but my friends call me Kat." "Adam, but everyone calls me Emilio." "I think I'll stick with Adam," she replies haughtily, daring me to tell her otherwise. I lean in closer to her, trailing her body with my eyes again. I can't stop looking at her legs. She notices, and again raises an eyebrow.

he asked. “My… my name?” I stuttered. “Yes, you,” “It's Lena.” “Lena,” he squinted his eyes and clenched his fist. “Tell me something, you were thrown out of your home by your mother and kidnapped along the way?” “Stepmom,” I clarified, my voice weak yet firm. “They threw me out after… after… I” “Go on,” he turned to face me, his eyes rolling in scrutiny.

But I recognize the silhouette on the bow before the tender even launches. Katarina. She’s eighty-something now—exact age is classified, even to us—but she still moves like someone who could vanish into a crowd or a shadow in seconds. Silver hair cropped military-short, eyes the same piercing gray. She steps onto the sand alone, no entourage, carrying only a slim leather case. Luca meets her first. They don’t hug—never have. Just a long look, then he nods once. “Thought you were done with boats,” he says.

"I called them off." "Then who?" Elena peered through the window. "A woman. Young. Dark hair." My heart stopped. "Sable?" "No. Someone else." The door opened. A woman walked in. Dark hair. Green eyes. My face. "Hello, Mira," she said. "I have been looking for you." I stared at her. "Who are you?" "My name is Katerina. I am your sister." Isabella stepped forward. "Katerina is dead."

"I need somewhere more alive." I coughed. "What's your parents’ names, kiddo?" Kyara asked again. Mischa shrugged again and grabbed another piece of bread. "My dad’s Dimitri Romanov. My mom’s Tatiana Andreevna." Aurora froze mid-slice. Kyara stiffened. I looked at them, confused. "What? What's wrong?" Kyara turned to me. "Tatiana? Tatiana Andreevna? THE Tatiana? The one whose designs were worn at the Met Gala? The one whose winter collection every A-lister is obsessed with?!"

If Cayden and I had just stopped in to say hi, she would have come and given me a hug, but much like my father, she differentiates between her daughter Scarlett and her Alpha Scarlett. “Alpha Scarlett, Beta Cayden. Is everything okay?” She asks, her big green eyes wide with concern and her chocolate brown hair still slightly damp from a shower. It’s like looking into a mirror and seeing my future self. And I’ll tell you, I could do a lot worse. My mother still turns heads and is still a beast on the sparring fields. I’ve never seen her in an actual battle, but I have no doubt she can still kickass.