Chapter 11

Lydia

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“No.”

I don't know why I need to see him do this. I don't think it has anything to do with that piece of shit he’s got tied to a chair.

This is about Viktor and me.

When he nods, power surges through me. He’s… agreed. He’ll let me.

I swallow hard and face him. It's not about the violence—it's about him… trusting me enough to let me watch it. To know that I'm not going to dissolve into a puddle and lose my shit.

He turns back to the man, who seems to not be showing a lot of fear. If it were me, I would literally be wetting my pants. Viktor is the biggest, most powerful man I’ve ever met in person. He just knocked the kneecap out of another man before he ordered him shot and killed. And now this asshole was some kind of creeper for me…

I don’t know how he’s still sitting there, staring at Viktor with a look of sheer challenge.

He must not be right in the head because any normal human who saw Viktor just splinter a baseball bat into matchsticks in one hard throw can’t possibly be still sitting there without a single trace of fear or remorse on his face.

Viktor stalks over and grabs this guy by the hair. With a vicious pull that makes me cringe, he yanks his head back, bares his neck, and stares into his eyes.

I half expect him to scalp him with a knife, bloody and brutal.

“Tell me what you did,” he snarls. I hold my own. It isn’t easy.

The man in front of us has the gall to spit at him. “Yudin promised me that he would share. So he did. He gave me pictures of her. He took videos. And he was planning on letting me have her fucking pussy.”

I gasp and cover my mouth with my hand.

He wouldn't.

He didn't…

How could I have been so fooled?

Viktor takes the man's head and slams him bodily against a wall. His prisoner screams, then falls heavily to the floor. It’s astonishing to me that the pile of limbs and sinew, muscle, and blood cells that constitute the human body is somehow both fragile and soft yet remarkably resilient.

Viktor bends, lifts the man by the shirt with his left hand as if he weighs no more than a toddler, and brings his right fist back. The punch lands with the force of a judge’s gavel.

Blood spurts from his nose. Bone breaks. He hits him again and again. Nausea blooms in my belly with every sickening thud.

“And you took it. You fucking let him do it.”

The man spits on the floor, spitting teeth and blood and bile onto the concrete. I take an involuntary step back.

“I fucking did because she's nothing to me. She's a sack of bones and holes. I was going to use one of those fucking holes, you son of a bitch?—”

I've seen evil things in my life. I was raised by Petr Ivanov, one of the cruelest men I've ever known. I've seen what my father and his men were capable of. But somehow, staring into the face of the man Viktor is destroying, I feel like I'm staring into a pit of darkness.

Sack of… bones? Holes? I think I'm going to vomit.

For the first time, I think I want Viktor to hurt him.

Viktor kicks him. Throws him against the wall.

My heart pounds like a drum in my chest, my breaths shallow and rapid as I stand in the dimly lit warehouse. The stench of oil and rust is heavy in the air, making it hard to breathe. I idly wonder if there’s a car shop nearby. I watch, transfixed and terrified, as Viktor, a tower of rage and muscle, drags the man who dared to lay a hand on me back in front of me to face him. The man's feet barely touch the ground, his face contorted in fear as Viktor’s iron grip holds him aloft so he can punch him again.

Viktor’s face is a mask of fury, the scar on his cheekbone stark under the harsh light. He throws the man into a chair, the sound of wood scraping against concrete echoing through the space. That’s when I notice more ropes coiled like a snake in a shadowed corner. Viktor, with precise, practiced movements, ties the man to the chair, his large, calloused hands moving with an efficiency that chills me to the bone.

Viktor doesn’t seem to know I’m even there. His focus is solely on the man before him, the man who endangered me. He leans close, his presence so overwhelming that the air seems to thicken around him.

His accent is heavier. He’s angry.

“You touched what is mine,” Viktor hisses, each word dripping with venom.

The man whimpers, his eyes darting around, seeking escape where there is none. I watch as Viktor straightens, and in one swift motion, he pulls a knife from his boot. The glint of the blade is sinister, the intent behind it even more so. My stomach churns as I watch, my feet rooted to the spot, unable to move, unable to stop the scene unfolding before me.

Viktor places the cold metal against the man’s cheek, the threat clear. “This is the last face you’ll see before you learn the price of your actions,” he says, his voice low and dangerous.

Relief swells in my chest. Will he end this violence? I want to walk away, move on with whatever happens next.

Tears prick my eyes, my conflict palpable. I know this man deserves punishment, but the brutality—the power and cruelty that Viktor personifies—is almost overwhelming.

He is my protector, yet in this moment, he embodies every dark nightmare I’ve ever had.

Viktor turns to look at me, his eyes searching mine for a moment. There is a question there, a silent asking for my approval, my sanction to continue. My heart aches, torn between my desire for safety and my fear of the man before me.

With a heavy heart, I nod slightly, my silence giving him the go-ahead he waits for. Viktor’s expression hardens, and he turns back to his captive, the knife now poised with deadly precision.

The scream that tears from the man’s throat is cut short as Viktor works, his actions efficient and ruthless. I turn my head away, unable to watch, my ears ringing with the man's cries.

Just because he deserved what he got doesn’t mean he wasn’t a human who will never breathe again, who will never walk this earth and have a chance to repent.

The body falls to the ground. Blood splashes on concrete. I don’t need to look into the face of the man he killed, but I do have to look into the face of the man I’m about to marry.

He turns to me, his face spattered in another man’s blood. I realize he’s done this before because he’s good at what he does. His skill comes from practiced experience.

“That’s nine down,” he says in a low growl as he reaches for my chin, his hand rough and warm against my skin. “One to go.”