Serpentine Desires

The predator

People die when they stop fighting—when they surrender to the cold, the pain, the fucking void. I used to think that was a lie. Some stale motivational nonsense. Turns out, I was wrong. Surrender is a choice, and my little bird nearly made it.

The woman who killed me with her gaze now lay on the bed, her breaths uneven beneath the three thick blankets I'd draped over her. Her skin was paler, her lips cracked, and her once-bright eyes were now hidden behind fluttering lids. She was burning with fever, despite her body's icy tremors.

Fuck. One second late, and she would've frozen to death.

I dragged a hand through my hair, my jaw clenching as I stared at her. Four hours. Four damn hours I was gone, handling business, and this was what she managed to do—nearly killed herself in the snow.  

It wasn't the first time she'd run, and it wouldn't be the last. That, I understood. She was a bird, after all—delicate and flighty, always testing the bars of her gilded cage. What I couldn't understand was why she'd done it this time. What had snapped? What had sent her stumbling into the storm without so much as a coat?

She knew and I made it sure that she knew, there was no escape. I fucking let her have her space. She didn't know how fucking painful it was for me to stand two hours in the bathroom and pump my cock just because I wanted to plough her.

I resisted the urge to storm into the room and pin her to the bed and fuck her senseless no matter how deep her cries were starting to bother me now.

But what I did? I controlled.

And this was how she paid me back.

She wasn't supposed to be like this—weak. That wasn't my little bird. My little bird fought, bit, clawed, even when it was futile. That's what I liked about her.

This... this was just pathetic.

If it wasn't for the camera I had all around the property, I would've gone to collect her corpse. I'd have assumed she'd already done the one interesting thing left—died.

The worst part? I actually felt something.

She didn't even look like a person anymore—just some crumpled thing that forgot how to exist.

It was pathetic. Weak. Everything I hated. And yet, I couldn't stop watching.

Her fingers twitched against the blankets like she was trying to grab hold of something—what, exactly? Life? Hope? My attention? Who the hell know. All I knew was that seeing her like this made my stomach churn like I'd swallowed a handful of glass.

What was happening to me? Why was I still sitting here, staring at her like I gave a damn? I should've left this room hours ago, let her rot in her own misery. Instead, my eyes stayed glued to her, drinking every detail. The sharp line of her jaw, the shadows beneath her eyes, the way her body curled in on itself like she was bracing for something that would never come.

I hated this feeling. This knot in my chest. It wasn't guilt—I don't do guilt. It wasn't pity either, because pity was for people who didn't understand how disgusting weakness really was. No, this was something worse.

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, glaring at her like I could force her to move with my mind. She did not matter.

Liar.

I clenched my fists, nails biting into my palms, trying to crush the thought before it could take root. Because if I did care, if I actually felt something for her at that moment, then what the hell did that say about me?

Judas Romanovski was a heartless mobster. I wouldn't live up to that name.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck- 

My phone rang and my jaw clenched.

"What now?"

Kyle's voice came through the line. Cold, detached and sassy as always. "Lucius's gone. He's not on Russian lands anymore. Not his sister, not his mother. I believe they're in Switzerland."

I sighed resisting the urge to snap at him. It wasn't his fault. I expected it. Fuck, I knew it. Ivan Morozov's death had rattled the Morozovs. If it wasn't for Anya and my little bird fucking with my plans, I would've had Lucius's head by now.

"What's the other delightful surprise?"

Kyle spoke. "The president of Russia... he wants you dead."

I laughed—snorted. "Vlad wants me to join his list of regrets? Tell him to take a fucking number. Hell, maybe get in line."

"But—"

"I'm not in the mood for your amateur-hour excuses, Kyle. I know what you're doing here. Don't save Anya from my wrath. I'll see to it she stays in her room for another decade or so. Lucius running is on her and the rest of the circus I call a crew. And Vlad wanting my head? That's just foreplay. If he really wants me dead, tell him to come over himself. I'll even leave the door unlocked."

Kyle sighed. "What do we do about Lucius?"

I rubbed my face eyeing my Ptichka. "You find him, you drag him back by his shiny little teeth, and if you can't manage that? Then you better hope Vlad finds you first. Got it?"

"Yes, Jud... Boss." 

I leaned back in my chair. My eyes flicked to her again, to her still form on the bed. The words clawed at my throat and I dragged a hand down my face and let out a sharp exhale.

"Kyle..." I started keeping my voice uncharacteristically low.

"Yes, boss?"

I hesitated, tongue stuck against my teeth like it was rebelling against the betrayal about to leave my mouth. "How do you... lower a fever?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line. Then—

"What?"

"You heard me," I snapped, already regretting this goddamn conversation. "Fever. How do you get rid of it?"

The fucker paused and then choked on whatever shit he was drinking. "Judas Romanovski. King of chaos. The devil in a tailored suit. Asking me about basic first aid?"

"Don't push me, Molotov," I warned, my tone razor-sharp, though I knew it was already too late.

"Are we talking about you? Or is this for someone else? Like, I don't know... your little bird?"

My fist clenched so tightly I thought the phone might crack. "Shut the fuck up and answer the question before I decide your usefulness has expired."

He paused and then muttered in his cold voice. "Cool her down. A damp cloth, maybe a bath if it's bad. Fluids—water, not vodka. Though knowing you, you're probably trying to pour whiskey down her throat and wondering why it's not working."

I pinched the bridge of my nose, inhaling deeply to keep from reaching through the phone and strangling him. "Anything else, Molotov?"

"Yeah," he said with a snort. "Maybe try not to sound so worried next time. It's bad for your reputation."

I hung up before I could say something I'd regret. Or maybe something I wouldn't. My eyes shifted back to her, my little bird, lying there like the world had finally broken her.

"Worried, my ass," I muttered, but the words tasted like a lie.