Crown of Hate (Soulless Empire)

Chapter 2

2

MIKHAIL

“Something wrong, malyshka ?” I ask, flashing a wolfish grin. I caught how she tensed at my touch, shaking me off like I was hot metal.

No surprises there. Alya Varkov hates me—or at least she thinks she does. But It’s child’s play compared to the way I felt about her father. That asshole deserved a fate far worse than death. He should have suffered more. By my hand.

The familiar rage bubbles up inside me. I push it down, but barely. Years of work, of carefully laying plans, all to bring him down. And when I was so close—so goddamn close to putting a bullet through his skull and watching the light fade from his eyes—someone else robbed me of the satisfaction. The memory still burns, even now.

“I’m not your damn malyshka ,” Alya hisses, her tone as sharp as a viper’s bite—only this sweet little girl doesn’t look like she has fangs. “Don’t call me that!”

A chuckle rumbles in my throat. For someone so small and delicate, Alya is quite feisty—too smart-mouthed for her own good. I find myself oddly impressed. Most women swoon at my feet as if I’m some demigod, and most men piss themselves in fear. But not Alya. No, she stands tall, chin raised, eyes blazing.

It’s a breath of fresh air to have someone who doesn’t tremble in my presence.

My mind races, a whirlwind of dark desires. I don’t hurt women—it’s one of my few ironclad rules—but I can’t get over the idea of how fun it would be to break her.

She’s a vision of beauty, no doubt. That small heart-shaped face. Those big hazel eyes, deep enough to drown a man. Long, wavy hair that cascades down to her waist, just waiting for my fingers to tangle in them. And Christ, those breasts—full, perfect, rising and falling with each breath she takes. It’s maddening.

There are many ways to break a person. But breaking a woman isn’t violent. It’s art. It’s poetry written in gasps and moans. Breaking Alya would be my magnum opus.

I can already see it. The perfect punishment, tailor-made for her.

I’ll make her crave me. I’ll haunt her dreams, her every waking moment. Until she’s begging for my touch, my kiss, my everything. Then I’ll pin her against the wall, whisper filthy words into her ear, and strip away that venomous innocence piece by tantalizing piece. My dick twitches at the thought.

But it’s not just lust—it’s triumph. Vengeance.

A savage grin spreads across my face as I imagine her father’s ghost watching helplessly.

Take that, you dead bastard. I’ll paint your daughter’s juices all over your grave.

“You’re beautiful when you sneer like that,” I goad, drinking in her fury.

Her brows knit, then she huffs out an exasperated sigh. “You’re a fucking asshole.”

“I’ve heard that a lot,” I agree with a nod. She stares at me, clearly taken aback by my unruffled response as I casually tear the seal off the envelope.

“I hope someone kills you,” she says, seething. “I hope they rip you apart, limb from fucking limb.”

With my fingers half-lingering on the paper inside the envelope, I lift my head to look at her, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Such vile words from such a pretty mouth.”

She’s young and na?ve. If she weren’t, she’d know the lethal stupidity of uttering such threats to a man like me. “I’ve killed men for far less than that.”

“Like you killed my father?” she laughs sardonically. “Don’t let me being a woman stop you.”

“Your father was scum,” I state coolly. “While you were lounging in your pretty castle, enjoying all spoils of his corruption, Daddy dearest was trafficking girls your age.”

“That’s a lie,” she chokes out, eyes glistening with tears. “My father would never do something like that.”

I don’t bother to correct her. People only see what they want to see. For a princess who was raised in a fortress of delusion, she’d only see her father as a hero, even when he was worse than the devil.

I pull out the letter, my eyes immediately drawn to the signature at the bottom. It’s someone I know all too well. One I dream of every night.

Akim Petrov.

A smile pulls on my lips. “Speaking of the devil.” The last time I heard from him, he was helping Boris Gusinksy steal my crown.

What is he up to this time…

My curiosity piqued, I devour the contents of the letter, and my smile fades.

“This piece of shit…”

He’s offering peace… By offering Alya to me. In exchange, I’m supposed to abandon my quest for revenge against him and Boris, the puppet Pakhan warming my seat.

Fucking bastards.

I crumple the letter, nostrils flaring at the blatant insult. They think they can manipulate me like this? Control me with a pretty face and a warm body? Someone’s about to choke on more than they can swallow.

Cracking my neck, I let my stare fall on Alya. She doesn’t seem to know what’s in the letter. If she did, I imagine she’d be running out of here by now. Or maybe she wouldn’t have come at all.

She frowns at me. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

I raise the crumpled letter. “Know what’s in here, sweetheart?”

Her gaze darts to my hand, and then back to my face. “No. Akim wouldn’t tell me anything.”

So, an innocent lamb has waltzed into the wolf’s den. How deliciously na?ve. “It says you’ll be my wife. In return, I’ll stop trying to kill your cousin and agree to live a peaceful life here in Chicago.”

A place I don’t belong. Not anymore.

Russia is my home. The Pakhan my rightful title. No one—not Akim, nor Boris—will keep me from reclaiming what’s mine.

Suddenly, Alya lunges forward and snatches the paper from my hand. Her jaw falls open as she reads. “I refuse. I won’t marry you.”

“Doesn’t look like you have much of a choice.” I push up from the couch and prowl towards her.

She stills in fear, but she doesn’t back down. Instead, she squares her shoulders and meets my eyes, despite the terror bleeding into hers.

The girl has the survival instincts of a lemming.

“Sit your pretty ass down and wait here,” I order, my voice harsher than I intend. “Try to leave, and you’ll be shot dead the second you walk out of that door.”

I don’t wait for her to incline or argue before I briskly walk to my study. Semyon is sitting on one of the mesh chairs across from mine. He whips his head to me when I enter.

“Where is the girl?” he asks.

I sink into my chair and, propping my elbows on the desk. “In the living room.”

He studies my expression like a hawk—not surprising given how on edge I’ve been lately. He and the other guys have been walking on eggshells around me. “Something’s wrong.”

Not a question, a statement. Smart man. He knows me too well.

“She brought a letter from Akim Petrov.” Semyon’s eyes flash red at the name. I’ve told him all about that bastard. “He wants me to marry the girl and stop any attempts at retaking what’s mine.”

There’s shock on Semyon’s face, followed by an explosive burst of laughter that reverberates through the room. Semyon is a striking blend of his half-Russian and half-Italian heritage. He takes after his mother the most with his Italian features: wavy black hair and smoldering deep brown eyes that seem to see right through you. He’s nearly as tall as I am, with a presence that’s both imposing and magnetic.

“That asshole thinks you’ll roll over just because he’s dangling some cunt in front of you?” he snorts in derision. “What an insult.”

Something about him calling Alya a cunt rubs me the wrong way. “Watch your mouth when you talk about her.”

Semyon narrows his eyes, clearly surprised. Then a deranged little smirk takes over his face. “Pussy-whipped already?”

“Far from it.” I steeple my fingers in front of me and think for a moment. “But I like her spirit. Life’s been too boring lately.”

“Christ, you’re not actually considering this farce, are you?”

“Marriage,” I muse, rubbing my jaw “Never gave it much thought before.” Not until the feisty little messenger walked right into my home with an offer wrapped in an insult.

On second thought, the idea of having a little wife doesn’t sound so bad. “I haven’t decided yet.”

Semyon’s smirk vanishes. “What’s going through that head of yours?” Worry now etches his face. “It’s a trap. They’ll use her to control you. Then they’ll fucking put you in the ground.”

“They can try.” I rise from my chair with a plan starting to take shape in my mind. “Akim and Boris want to play a game? Then game on.”

I’m already halfway to the door when Semyon calls out, “What’s the plan, then?”

“She’s waiting for an answer.” I wrap my hand around the doorknob, feeling the heat from my palm warm the cold metal. “It would be rude to keep the lady waiting.”

Alya flinches when I re-enter the living area. She’s still standing, still cautious. Apparently not cautious enough to know she shouldn’t have come here in the first place.

Her flowery scent hits my nose as I pass her. It’s a smell so delicious that the heat sizzles down my spine. I imagine waking up to that sweet aroma every morning. As my wife, it would be mixed with other, far more sinful aromas.

I nestle back on the couch, right where I was sitting before. “You can leave.”

“Um…” She threads her fingers together. “Akim expects a reply. What do I tell him?”

“Do you want to marry me?”

She jumps at the question, scarlet flooding her cheeks. “N-no. Of course not.”

Little liar. She can deny it all she wants, but I’ve bedded enough women to read her body language like an open book. The hitching of her breath, the blush staining her cheeks, the tension thrumming through her body—she’s anxious around me, yes, but it’s not only from fear. The little minx is lusting after me, whether she admits it or not.

Sure, she might not want a wedding, but I’d bet my fortune she’d enjoy the honeymoon.

My pants tighten at the thought.

While I’d like to tease her a little more, I have a different plan to set into action. “Then it’s settled. Tell him my answer is no.”

“So you’re going to keep coming after him and Boris?” she asks cautiously.

“Yes. They stole my throne, after all.” I don’t add that I’ll also be coming for her. I’ll make her mine. It’ll be my own way of saying ‘fuck you’ to Akim, and of besmirching the grave of Alya’s bastard father.

“I-I’ll be on my way then,” she nods, relief evident in the slump of her shoulders.

Turning around slowly, she ambles to the door, pausing for a moment before leaving, as if expecting some final word from me.

I can’t help but smile. She probably thinks this is the end of it, that we’ll never cross paths again.

The sweet little thing doesn’t know a lamb does not saunter into a lion’s den and walk out alive.

Akim Petrov insulted me.

Now it’s time to return the favor. With interest.