Chapter 3

You the garden and the grave.

Zyran Demir

Rurik Lebedev is the kind of man who thrives in filth. A parasite. A cockroach. The type that survives nuclear blasts, festers in rot, and still believes he's fit to sit at my table.

I let him. For now.

He leans back, watching me like we're equals. Like he doesn't operate in the shadow of men greater than him. "You Demir boys are all business. No time for pleasure?" His grin is slow, smug. "A deal is best sealed with something sweeter, no?"

I don't answer. Neither do my brothers.

He exhales dramatically, swirling his drink. "Fine." He flicks his wrist, a casual, lazy motion.

His men move.

The girls are shoved forward. Silent. Scared.

My stomach twists not with pity, but with fury. They're trafficked. That much is obvious. They weren't smuggled here for a night of indulgence; they were taken, broken down, made into products.

Should i just kill him?

Bastard is offering them like party favors.

I glance at my brothers. Rezan's lips curl in distaste, but his expression is otherwise unreadable, eyes flickering like he's already calculating how to make this a problem for Rurik later. Cihan's jaw ticks his only tell when he's seconds away from gutting someone. And Dehrin? He looks a breath away from putting a bullet in someone's skull.

Rurik gestures lazily at the girls. "A gift."

The air turns sharp.

Cihan speaks first, his voice smooth, almost amused. "I hope you don't expect us to indulge in something so vile." He leans back, crossing one leg over the other, utterly unbothered. "We conduct business, not...whatever this is."

Rurik chuckles, as if we're being dramatic. "A gift should not be refused. It is disrespectful."

Disrespect.

A dangerous word in our world.

That's the politics of it power is measured in how little you show fear, how much you can take without bending. Refusing a gift in this circle is an insult. Accepting one is a silent agreement. It's all about leverage, appearances, unspoken debts. And Rurik? He's playing a game he thinks he's already won. I let the silence stretch, cold and oppressive. Let him feel it.

His smirk falters for half a second before he covers it with a drink. Then, just as lazily as before, he lifts his chin toward the girls.

"That one."

His men grab a girl and shove her forward.

She stumbles. Small hands catching at the air, too slow, too unsteady. I catch her before she hits the ground. She's light. Too light. Like she's spent her whole life trying to disappear.

Then she looks up and i stop breathing momentarily.

Big hazel and glassy eyes meet mine. Wide, searching. terrified.

Something tightens in my chest. She's too young for this world. Too innocent. Too dangerous. The thought is immediate, instinctual. Too pretty, too fragile and it feels deliberate. A trap? A plant? It wouldn't be the first time.

Slowly, I pull her behind me. Not an act of kindness. Just caution. Right?

Rurik watches, amused. "She's a delicate thing, no?"

I ignore him. My voice is steady when I ask, "How old is she?"

Rurik waves a hand, careless. "Eighteen."

Liar.

"And untouched," he adds, grinning. "Fresh."

The girl flinches.

Disgust curdles in my stomach. I resist the urge to snap his neck, if only because bloodstains are a pain to clean off expensive suits.

Beside me, Cihan moves. Slow. Unhurried. In one smooth motion, he removes his blazer and drapes it over the girl's shoulders. She grabs at it, fingers tightening around the fabric.

Enough.

I glance at my men. "Take the rest. Get them somewhere safe."

Rurik smirks. "A heart, after all."

I finally look at him. Just a glance. Just long enough for his amusement to flicker into something else. A pause. A shadow of doubt.

Good.

Without another word, I turn, already walking away, the girl still behind me, and my brothers follow.

The deal is done. The night is over.

But as we step out of that godforsaken place, one thing is certain.

This isn't over.

Thoughts on Zyran?