Page 25 of Beautiful Ruin

“I hope so too,” she tells me softly.

I look away toward the fire, blinking until the sting behind my eyes fades. The flames bend and flare behind the grate, devouring the wood in small, hungry snaps.

I wish my life could go back to being that simple.

7

ROWAN

The moment Nikolai Malyshko steps inside the estate’s foyer, I feel a shudder roll down my spine. It’s almost imperceptible how easily the world bends around him. He has never needed a spectacle to make his presence known.

That is what real power does.

The air in the foyer changes the instant he crosses the threshold. Staff are lined along either side of the entrance, their eyes lowered out of respect for someone above their stature just as they would for every other guest Ivan invites through his doors. Guards straighten subtly next to me, though not to the point of snapping to attention—that would insult the Kuznetsov name in its own home—but they adjust accordingly all the same.

Malyshko pauses inside the foyer as the doors swing closed behind him, sealing out the wet, dreary weather and the pale daylight beyond. He wears a black wool coat that cuts cleanly across his chest, the belt looped twice at his waist. He lifts one hand to tug his gloves off and folds them both with neat, almost intimate precision before tucking them into his pocket.

Behind him, a woman and two of his own men follow at a careful distance, neither crowding his space nor lagging behind to present an opening to an opportunist. My eyes stay on the woman first, recognizing her vaguely from Sokolov’s syndicate, before shifting back.

His expression remains calm as his attention roams the staff lined up on either side of the space waiting to greet him. A single sweep of his eyes takes in the foyer, the stairs, the guards beside me, the upper balcony, the hall leading toward Ivan’s private wing, every exit, angle, every single person who might matter.

When his eyes finally land on me, they stay there until I nearly squirm. For the briefest second, I feel pinned in place by that ice-gray attention. It’s quieter and far more invasive than I remember. It’s been a long time since I’ve had Malyshko’s full and undivided attention, and I’m quickly reminded of something I learned a long time ago. He doesn’t need to ask whatever questions are burning on the tip of his tongue because the answers are already written plainly on my face.

I know some might mistake that pause for arrogance or a challenge to rise to in order to assert dominance, but they would be wrong. A challenge implies that two men standing opposite of each other still have something left to establish within the hierarchy, that there is still some level of equality. But that would quickly become a fatal mistake.

This isn’t a challenge. This is simply an assessment.

“Good afternoon, Rowan,” he finally says.

My hands remain clasped behind my back when I bow my head to him. Not low enough to dishonor Ivan beneath his own roof, but just enough to imply deference.

“Welcome,” I say. My face remains carefully blank when I straighten again.

I do not mistake his politeness for safety and keep close to the corridor leading to Ivan’s wing. Behind me, past a private sitting room, two reinforced doors, and three men with orders to shoot before asking questions once the signal is given, Ivan is waiting. He agreed to receive Nikolai, but consent for a meeting does not erase the danger that can lurk behind doors once they are closed.

When he steps forward, I move with him silently, leading him down the hall to Ivan’s wing. I don’t glance back over my shoulder to make sure he is following. It would be an insult to both of us. To him, because it would imply that he might fall out of formation like some underling needing direction. To me, because it would suggest I am nervous enough to check.

The sound of his shoes trails behind me, steady and unhurried against the polished floor. Another two sets follow behind his, his men keeping that careful distance again. The corridor stretches ahead in dark wood, stone floors, and oil portraits of dead Kuznetsov men who look down on us with the grim entitlement of ancestors convinced the living are always disappointing them.

This hallway has always carried too many secrets for my liking to feel even close to home anymore. I have walked it plenty of times after executions and strategy meetings with my clothes rumpled and my hands coated in dried blood. I know which alcoves hide the cameras the best and which room’s walls are thick enough to swallow a scream.

Nikolai walks through it like he knows too, or maybe he simply assumes every place he steps inside is built with the same type of threats hidden beneath its luxury.

When we get to Ivan’s room, the two guards posted outside the door snap to readiness. I lift my hand to knock only once before opening the door. It’s not a request for permission to enter. It is simply a courtesy warning.

The room beyond is dimmer than the corridor, curtains half-drawn against the rainy lighting. Ivan sits near the window in a high-backed chair rather than the bed. Even wounded and stitched together beneath his shirt, he refuses to receive Nikolai propped among pillows like an invalid.

A blanket rests over his lap. He probably hates that too. His face is paler than I want it to be, but it’s composed. One hand rests on the arm of the chair, the other near a glass of water on the side table next to it he has not touched. The bandage at his collar is hidden better today. Someone, likely Ivan himself, has made sure of it.

His dark eyes move from me to Nikolai.

For a moment, the room feels suffocating around the two of them. Pakhan to Pakhan—old power and newer brutality, a wounded strategist and the man who sees weakness like fresh blood in the snow.

I step aside to give Nikolai room to enter while remaining close enough to reach either my weapon or Ivan if for some reason this meeting suddenly turns sour. Violence, when it comes at this level, usually announces itself months in advance, typically through missing shipments, dead intermediaries, shifted alliances, or a dozen other little tremors before the wall comes down.

Unfortunately, I have lived too long in this world to trust history to repeat itself when it comes to men like these two. Being surprised is always to be expected.

I close the door behind us, the latch settling into place with a quiet click, and position myself near the wall closest to Ivan’s back. The air inside his suite is warmer than the hallway outside, though heavy with the faint medicinal scent the staff keeps trying to mask beneath fresh linens.