Chapter 31

Chapter

Thirty-One

"For the two of us, home isn't a place. It is a person. And we are finally home."

― Stephanie Perkins

Volk

Six hours left.

In just six hours, Igor will be back, and I'll have to tell him everything: Viktoria's betrayal, his illegitimate child, and Vlad's vile revenge.

In six hours, he'll want to take them all down—Helena, Dasha, Vlad, and Sofiya. But a part of me can't let Sofiya go down for nothing.

I never cared about innocent people before. Business was just business. But with Sofiya, things are different, and I hate myself for it.

A mere glance from her with those captivating brown, almond-shaped eyes is enough to make me bow at her feet.

So, I decided to let Alexsei whisk her away back to San Francisco.

She'll be on her own now. Knowing Igor, he'll try to wipe out anyone connected to Viktoria, and Helena's first in line. Ever since I locked Helena up in our warehouse, she's been obedient. She can sleep, eat, and find some peace until all hell breaks loose. I've even heard she asks about Sofiya often. And as for Vlad, that son of a bitch is stuck in the basement, securely locked up.

They're all waiting for Igor's return. And so am I.

"Is Volk your real name?" Sofiya's breath caressed my chest as she spoke.

She lay still on top of me, her arms encircling my waist, her head resting against my chest, where she traced little stars with her fingertips. I

seized her hand abruptly, bringing it to my lips and kissing her knuckles one by one, eliciting the most adorable little chuckles from her.

Adorable? Again? I had never used that word before, and yet I'd already used it twice with her. Fuck, she messed up my brain.

" Nyet, " I replied, letting go of her hand and allowing her to continue drawing on my bare skin.

"No?" she repeated, a puzzled expression on her face. "Then what's your name?"

She sat up, clutching the covers to her chest. The sight of her perky breasts sent blood to my dick, but I pushed the thought aside.

"Wait, let me guess!" she exclaimed, her hand resting on her chin in a playful imitation of Auguste Rodin 's The Thinker.

"Give it a shot," I encouraged, genuinely curious to see where her imagination would take her this time.

She was like a bouncy rabbit, hopping around with excitement, all fired up for a treat.

"Hmm, David? No, not David. Let me think… Ah, got it! Sergey," she shouted, a triumphant grin spreading across her face as she settled on the name she thought suited me best.

"Sergey? Seriously? That's the most cliché Russian name you could think of?" I teased, my hand playfully tracing her neck, soaking in the sound of her laughter.

It was like the cutest little bird chirping on a sunny spring day.

Cutest? Ah, shit!

I rubbed my beard in frustration, trying to shake off the effect she had on me. But her laughter was infectious, and I couldn't help but join in.

"Yes," she giggled, playfully attempting to push my hand away. "But wait, I've got another one!" She pushed her hair away from her face, her eyes laced with amusement as she nervously nibbled on her nails, eagerly waiting for my response.

"Hit me."

"Nicholas, like the Tsar!" she quipped with a smirk. "You give off major dictator vibes."

A playful smirk tugged at the corner of my lips as I silently raised an eyebrow.

She couldn't contain her amusement, hastily placing her hand in front of her mouth to stifle a laugh that was dying to burst out. I could see the sparkle of joy in her eyes, a delightful secret she couldn't keep to herself.

I had this strong urge to push her hand away, to capture her laughter with my lips, but I restrained myself, opting to remain silent and instead focus on observing her closely with hunger in my eyes.

"Alright, alright, you win," she grumbled, her voice filled with a touch of resignation, as she snuggled back onto my chest.

Her hair draped over us like an enchanting veil. Her arms wrapped tightly around me, holding on as if she never wanted to let go, and a pang of pain surged through my chest at that thought.

Less than 6 hours left.

She tilted her head, looking up at me with curiosity, her chin nestled on my chest.

Her lips were slightly parted, while her eyes roamed freely across my face.

"What's your actual name?" she whispered, barely audible, as I casually brushed a few strands of hair behind her ear.

"Mikha?l Volkov," I said, the words slipping off my tongue.

Only two people knew my real name—Igor and Alexsei.

I didn't know why, but I had this urge to tell her, maybe because deep down, I knew I'd never see her face again, and she seemed trustworthy enough to keep my secret. There was something about her that made me want to share this part of myself, this hidden truth. I wanted to share all my dark secrets with her, and I wanted her to do the same.

"My mom died during labor," I said, the weight of those words settling heavily upon my chest. "My dad was devastated by her loss, and in his grief, he decided to honor her memory by naming me after her. Her name was Mikha?la Volkov." I stayed silent for a couple of seconds, feeling suddenly very exposed. "He only had one picture of her," I scoffed softly, my voice tinged with sadness. "It was taken on their wedding day in Moscow. He was 22, she was 21. In the photo, he wore a plain white shirt and black shorts, while she had on a flowy floral dress. They looked so happy, unaware that someone was capturing their moment. He had his arms around her waist, and she had hers around his neck. Their foreheads were touching, and they both had genuine smiles on their lips."

"My dad always carried that picture with him in his wallet," I continued with a hint of nostalgia. "Whenever he wanted to share something about their past, he would let me look at it. He'd tell me stories about how she loved dancing while cooking his favorite meals, and how they would take long walks together every day, holding hands and trying to name all the birds they saw in the sky. I remember him mentioning how she would kick him at night when he'd snore too loudly, and how he would make up for it by baking her blinis with strawberry jam and whipped cream because he knew she couldn't resist them."

Those memories were like frozen snapshots, capturing the beautiful moments they shared. Even though my mother passed away during childbirth, my dad held onto those memories dearly, keeping her spirit alive through his stories.

They became a way for me to connect with the mother I never had the chance to meet. It was his way of keeping her memory alive and helping me understand the love they had shared.

Listening to his stories, I could almost imagine her presence in the room.

Sofiya's fingers delicately traced the tattoo on my arm, bringing it closer to her face. Her eyes focused on the inked skin, pausing at the intertwined initials inside a sinuous snake on my wrist .

"P and M?" she asked softly, her gaze lingering on the tattoo.

"Peter and Mikha?la Volkov."

The tattoo was my way of honoring my parents, a means to keep their memory alive. Each time I glanced at it, I couldn't help but be reminded of the family I had lost. The snake coiled around their initials symbolized the harsh reality of death and how it had taken them away from this world.

"Mikha?la Volkov," Sofiya murmured softly, savoring the name on her lips. It was clear she wanted to hold onto it, as if carrying a piece of my mother's memory with her. "It's a beautiful name."

She gently pressed her lips against the tattoo, leaving a faint kiss, then glanced up at me with her wide, doe-like eyes. Sensing my contentment, she lowered her head once more, showering my arm with kisses.

In that moment, a soft hum of satisfaction escaped my lips.

"Volk, I—" she began, but I gently interrupted her, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.

"You can call me Mikha?l."

"Are you sure?" she asked, surprise evident in her voice and eyes.

I nodded, reaching up to stroke her cheek and planting a soft kiss on her nose.

"Well, Mikha?l," she whispered, her voice carrying a playful tone as a sweet laugh escaped her lips. "I want you inside me again, please."

The sound of her voice, calling me by my real name, hit me like a thunderbolt, almost making me drop to my knees and beg for her to repeat it over and over again .

From that moment on, it struck me like a ton of bricks—she was fucking mine.

She was mine, and I'd be damned if I didn't do everything in my power to keep her safe, even if it meant vanishing from her life for good. I'd endure the agony of not seeing her face again, just to ensure she stayed safe and untouched.

For her well-being and happiness, I'd sacrifice my own desires. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but I swallowed it anyway.

To stop my head from spinning, I grabbed her lips and kissed her like there was no tomorrow, consuming her every sigh.

I flipped her over, losing myself in her completely, showing her my obsession in the only way I knew how.