I claw his face. Skin rips. Blood spatters.
For a wild moment, I almost think that I can take both of them down.
Then he grabs my head and promptly slams it as hard as he can against the solid wooden bedpost.
As soon as I drop Arya off, I dial a number I haven’t called in ten years.
“Dima,” he answers on the third ring. “What a surprise.”
He doesn’t sound surprised at all. Then again, why would he? Ilyasov is a cold-blooded bastard. As cold as they come.
It’s how we were raised. It’s why we knew—ever since that blood-soaked night all those years ago—that we could never coexist.
It’s why we separated our territory into two kingdoms, one for each of us.
And it’s why we’ve done our damndest to stay out of each other’s way in the decade since we parted ways.
But things have changed no
