Page 120 of Convenient Vows

I think of Maksim.

My sweet boy—cowering in a room alone because Cristóbal thought fear was a better teacher than kindness. I think of the nights I couldn’t sleep because of what Cristóbal might do. The bruises hidden beneath long sleeves. The tightness in my chest every time he walked into a room. The secrets. The torment.

And I remember the moment he told me—smiling like it was a joke—that he had been the one behind the kidnapping attempt when I was seventeen.

All these years, and he never stopped hunting me

I turn to Zasha.

My voice comes out even. “Yes. But make it slow.”

Cristóbal’s eyes widen. “You wouldn’t—”

Zasha doesn’t wait for the rest. He drags Cristóbal up by the front of his blood-soaked shirt and slams him into the wall again—hard enough to make the whole corridor shudder.

Then, methodically, he drives one of his knives through Cristóbal’s shoulder—pinning him to the wall like a grotesque insect.

Cristóbal screams.

“Yuri. Roman.” Zasha doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to. “Get me gasoline.”

They’re already moving before the sentence ends.

Cristóbal thrashes, panic finally overtaking him. “You can’t do this! You’re not—she won’t let you!”

He looks at me.

I meet his gaze.

“I’m the one who asked for it.”

Zasha’s lips twitch, not into a smile—but into something far more dangerous.

“I told you,” he whispers, leaning in close. “You’d beg for death by the time I was done.”

I don’t look away as they pour the gasoline over him. Not once.

Zasha doesn’t speak again. He lights a match with a casual flick of his wrist—like he’s done it a thousand times—and watches it burn for a second.

Then he drops it.

Flames roar to life, licking up the wall. Cristóbal’s screams are immediate, high, and terrible. He kicks, jerks, but the long knives hold him in place. His cries turn into gargled sobs. Then, eventually, to nothing.

I don’t flinch.

I won’t.

Zasha steps back, the orange light painting his face like war paint.

Viktor finally exhales and nods. “I want the report to say fire started as a domestic accident, and unfortunately, the occupants of the house were killed in it.”

We leave the corridor behind, smoke trailing after us. The fire will take the rest of the estate soon. I can smell it already, feel the heat chasing our heels as we head for the exit.

When we reach the gates, the cool night air hits me like a wave. It tastes like ash.

The gates creak open, and the world outside blinks into view. For a moment, I just stand there, frozen. I turn back once, only once, to look at the building behind me. Or rather, what’s left of it.

The flames light up the dark sky, casting long shadows.

---