James
I pushed myself up and moved swiftly toward the source of the noise, stepping into the room to find her standing in the middle of it, eyes wide, clinging to whatever strength she had left just to stay upright. Her eyes locked with mine as Fleory stepped aside, and she didn't bother with pleasantries. Her eyes were wide, bloodshot, and fixed on me, full of fury and a deep, exhausted defiance.
"What the fuck do you still want from me?!" she snapped, her voice sharp, biting. She didn't even try to hide it, that edge of vulnerability beneath her anger.
I barely had time to process the venom in her words before she swayed on her feet, her eyes starting to roll back, like she was about to pass out again. Before she could, she slapped herself hard across the face, snapping back to reality with a sharp, almost primal gasp. My eyes narrowed in confusion before schooling it, leaning against the doorframe, folding my arms, letting the tension build just for a moment. She was a mess, barely standing, yet her defiance hit me like a slap.
Another fucking problem.
I wasn't going to waste time explaining myself, but the words came anyway. "I was hoping for a thank you, for saving your life," I said, letting the dry sarcasm drip from my tongue.
I was feeling anything but sarcasm.
"I didn't need your saving!" she barked, voice raw and desperate. "I don't need anything from you! You saw how he sent men to kill me. That concludes I'm not the one you want. You can't use me to get something out of him!"
"Why don't you sit down?" Fleory suggested, hands reaching to steady her, just as I replied, "You're not in any shape to stand here yelling at me."
She didn't move. Didn't acknowledge our words at first. But the fact that she stayed on her feet, swaying, eyes half-closed like she was about to collapse, only made her look more stubborn, more foolish. And for a moment, I almost felt sorry for her. Almost. She wasn't the type to feel sorry for. Didn't seem the type that would even let you. She was not delicate. No, there was something raw about her, something wild. And as she stood there, the world around her seemed to blur into insignificance, as if it existed only to frame her presence, to whisper of the untold stories that simmered just beneath her skin.
"I will not be your pawn. I've already made that mistake once."
Alya Corginei. The daughter of Siege.
How I missed him having a daughter, I'll never understand. Maybe it was by design. The Bratva doesn't raise daughters. They raised weapons. And Alya? She was, it seems, forged in silence, hidden behind shadows and smoke until the time was right. Metka. That's what they called her. The Mark. Because once she set her sights on you, you were marked on her list, that meant you were as good as dead. The sniper with forty confirmed kills before her eighteenth birthday. But Alya wasn't just some mercenary with a long-range rifle. She was Siege's right hand, his blood and blade. He trusted her with everything; shipments moving across Europe, arms deals deep in the Caucasus, it was her who oversaw the Istanbul job, where an entire port vanished off the radar for 48 hours. Her who handled the Shanghai route, keeping it clean and untraceable despite global eyes on it. Shipments crossing borders? She arranged them. Arms deals gone sour? She cleaned them up. She wasn't just his daughter. She was his heir. She was his shadow. His blade. His trust personified. Or so I thought. Or so she thought.
And I knew this how?
Because I used to work under Siege.