Chapter 4 THE WOLF AND THE SPARROW

THE WOLF AND THE SPARROW

The bathwater was scalding hot, but my skin might as well have been marble for all I felt it.

Steam curled in ghostly tendrils from the surface as Viktor lowered me into the clawfoot tub, his hands impersonal as a surgeon's. The porcelain burned where my thighs touched it, but I didn't flinch. The pain was good-it drowned out the memory of icy river water filling my lungs, of numb fingers scrabbling at broken ice.

"You'll lose toes if we don't warm them slowly," Viktor said, kneeling beside the tub. His sleeves were rolled past his elbows, revealing thick veins and faded ink-a coiled serpent here, Cyrillic script there, the tattoos of a man who'd lived several lifetimes before forty.

I stared at my feet under the water, pale and alien-looking. The nails were tinged blue, the skin wrinkled from hours in the snow. "You should have let me."

Viktor stilled. His reflection in the water wavered as he leaned closer, distorting the sharp angles of his face. "Let you what?"

"Die out there."

His hand shot out, gripping my chin hard enough to bruise. "Look at me." When I didn't obey fast enough, he twisted my face toward his. His eyes were black with something darker than anger-something primal that made my pulse stutter. "You don't get to die until I allow it."

The words slithered under my skin like a living thing. I wrenched away, water sloshing over the rim. "Why bother saving me just to keep me prisoner?"

Viktor stood abruptly, droplets falling from his hands like liquid mercury. He dried himself with a monogrammed towel, each movement precise. "You'll eat dinner. Then we'll talk."

The door clicked shut behind him, the lock engaging with a finality that made my stomach clench.

---

Dinner was served in the library tonight-a calculated choice, I was certain.

A small round table had been set before the fireplace, its surface gleaming with crystal and silver. Viktor sat silhouetted against the flames, his face in shadow. The flickering light caught the scar above his eyebrow-thin and white, like a slash of paint on canvas.

I took the chair farthest from him, my damp hair clinging to my neck. The bathrobe they'd given me-plush Egyptian cotton, no doubt worth more than my first car-gaped at the collar, and I clutched it tighter.

The first course arrived-a rich borscht that stained the spoon crimson. Viktor watched as I lifted it to my lips, his gaze tracking the bob of my throat as I swallowed. "You'll need your strength."

"For what?" My voice came out hoarse, still raw from screaming in the snow.

His knife scraped against the Limoges china as he cut into his steak. Blood pooled around the meat. "For the truth."

I set my spoon down with deliberate care. "I'm done with games."

Viktor leaned back, swirling his wine. The ruby liquid left streaks on the crystal like arterial spray. "Your father didn't just gamble away money." His gaze pinned me like a butterfly to corkboard. "He stole from me."

The soup turned to acid in my mouth.

"Three months ago," he continued, "Gregory took something from my vault. Something irreplaceable."

My fingers found the table's edge, digging into the polished wood. "What?"

Firelight glinted off his smile. "You."

---

The glass slipped from my fingers, shattering on the hardwood. A shard skittered toward Viktor's shoe-he didn't flinch.

"That's impossible," I whispered.

Viktor stood, moving to the fireplace with predatory grace. From the mantel, he took a small velvet box. Inside lay a yellowed photograph-a younger version of my father standing beside a woman with Viktor's eyes.

"My sister," he said, tracing the woman's face with a tenderness that made my skin prickle. "Anya."

The room tilted. The woman in the photo-I knew that smile. Had seen it in the faded pictures Dad kept locked in his desk, the ones he'd claimed were "just old friends."

"After university," Viktor continued, "Anya went to America. Met your father. Had you." His thumb brushed the edge of the photograph. "Then she died."

Ice flooded my veins. "No."

"He never told you." It wasn't a question.

I stared at the woman's face-my nose, my chin, the same stubborn set to the brows. The truth hit like a bullet between the eyes.

Viktor's voice was soft as a razor's edge. "Welcome home, niece."

---

I smashed the photo against the wall.

Glass rained down as I backed away, my breath coming in ragged gasps. "You're lying."

Viktor didn't flinch. "Am I?"

The fire popped, sending up a shower of sparks. Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed midnight-twelve mournful notes that seemed to vibrate in my bones.

"You kidnapped me," I said slowly, "because you think we're-"

"Family?" He laughed, the sound hollow. "No, little sparrow. I brought you here because Gregory stole you from me." His knuckles whitened around the wine glass. "You were mine from the moment you drew breath."

The admission hung between us, pulsing like a living thing.

I lunged for the fireplace poker.

Viktor moved faster. His arm banded around my waist, hauling me against his chest. My back met solid muscle, his breath hot on my neck.

"Careful," he murmured, his lips brushing my ear. "You'll hurt yourself."

I elbowed him hard in the ribs. He grunted but didn't let go.

"Let me go!"

"Never." His hand slid up to grip my throat, not tight enough to choke, just enough to feel my pulse hammering against his palm. "You're Sokolov blood. That makes you mine."

I went still. "What do you want from me?"

His teeth grazed my shoulder through the thin fabric of my borrowed dress. "Everything."

---

Dawn found me at the library window, watching snow blanket the estate. My reflection in the glass looked hollow-eyed, a ghost of the girl who'd woken up yesterday thinking she knew her own history.

Viktor had left me there with a final warning: "Think carefully about your next move."

The door opened without a sound. I didn't turn.

"Emilia."

Aleksei's voice. Not Viktor's.

The Bratva lieutenant leaned against the doorframe, his usual smirk absent. In the grey morning light, he looked almost human-the shadows under his eyes suggesting he hadn't slept either.

"He's not lying," he said quietly. "About Anya."

My fingers curled into fists, nails biting into my palms. "Why tell me this?"

Aleksei pushed off the doorframe, moving closer. The scent of cigarettes and gun oil followed him. "Because you deserve to know what you're up against." He stopped just out of reach, close enough that I could see the scar bisecting his lower lip. "Viktor doesn't want a prisoner."

"Then what does he want?"

"A successor."

The word settled over me like a shroud. Outside, a branch cracked under the weight of snow.

Aleksei turned to leave, pausing at the door. "He'll break you to make it happen." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Question is-will you let him?"

The lock clicked behind him.

Outside, the snow continued to fall, burying everything in pristine white.