by Gaja J. Kos
All the while, Demyan had been on the outside. Unsure what was going on with me.
Whether I was even still alive.
I touched my lips to his. “I’m here for you.”
Again, no protest. I made myself more comfortable on the couch that creaked with every small movement and gave Demyan room to compose himself. After a few long sips of his beer, he cradled the can in his hands and turned to me.
“Before the War brought us all out, we…we weren’t quite so lucky in my home region as to live in anonymity. I have no idea how, but the people there knew about us. Fucking hunted us.” A growl rattled in his chest. “My brother Yuriy and I were orphaned at an early age. Without our parents, we couldn’t survive when the smallest slipup could mean our execution. Actually, just a trained dog catching our scent and pointing the hunters in our direction would have done the trick.”
The taste of Paulaner in my mouth gained a sour tint.
I had no idea.
No idea that anyone aside from sensitives who had been ingrained in our community long before the War had even the faintest idea of just what—who—was out there. With the exception of vampires, us supes had lived in hiding and flew under the humans’ radars. Maybe I’d been naive, but I’d assumed the situation was the same no matter where in the world.
I tipped the can to my lips, hoping that this time, the taste would be better.
Slightly, but only just.
“We had no choice, really, but to join the local pack,” Demyan went on, his eyes glazed with the shadows of the past. “The very same one our parents wanted to stay the fuck away from.” He shrugged casually, but I could see the tension riddling every muscle in his body. “I was ready to do everything to keep us alive. Keep Yuriy alive—and away from the fucking mess I knew I was willingly stepping into. So I became what the pack needed me to be.”
I barely breathed as he spoke, well aware of the direction this was headed.
“It still haunts me, you know,” he said, “some of the twisted shit I’ve done.”
My hand reached for his. Morozov entwined his fingers with mine—that single contact the only thing breaching the distance he’d wrapped himself in as whatever nightmares he’d carried with him rolled through his mind. It was there, in the hard set of his jaw, the coldness in his eyes…
I didn’t want to push him to tell me anything. If he chose to, he’d do so at his own pace.
My own experience at the lab had taught me as much.
Even someone as sturdy as a werewolf was fragile under the right circumstances.
“I wasn’t a good man, Greta. But everything I’d done, I did it for my brother.” His gaze met mine briefly. “If I was an obedient soldier, they left him alone. So I never balked. Never allowed myself to think who I was slaughtering. Torturing. Eventually, though, I reached a point where I knew I’d break beyond repair if I let it go any further.
“I began helping people on the side. Like Uliana and Ivan, long before I actually got them out. I’d tipped off the innocents on our hit list to get the fuck out of the area. Tried to harm only those who deserved it. But pulling shit like that… It was risky. I needed an out. And I got it.”
“The War,” I whispered.
Demyan dipped his chin. “The War. I used the turmoil, the pack’s preoccupation with everything else that was going on, to get Yuriy and me out. I’d kept records. Evidence of the pack’s actions. I wasn’t sure if it would do me any good, but I’d hoped the War would bring more than just death.”
And he’d gotten his wish.
Where before, there were only the elusive higher circles presiding over the supes, the War brought forth institutions like ICRA. A far more efficient and widespread net to ensure the safety of the population, human and supe alike.
“You went to ICRA,” I ventured a guess.
“I did.” He stroked my hand with his thumb and locked his gaze on mine, the intensity there strong enough to whisk my breath away. “After Yuriy and I ran, I made a deal with the newly formed Russian ICRA faction. I demanded they send my brother overseas, give him a new identity. He protested, but I refused to budge on the matter. He deserved a life—the kind he could never have if he stayed with me.
“ICRA met my request. I had the files for leverage, and they were eager to bring down my old pack. Of course, the evidence also showed me as one of the main perpetrators. I might have only followed orders, but with so much blood on my hands, they couldn’t just let me walk. By some odd stroke of luck, though, they saw me more as an asset than a threat. So instead of executing me like I’d expected, they hired me. In nearly the same capacity as my role had been in the pack.”
A dry laugh left his lips.
Given where he’d ended up, I couldn’t say I was surprised. I took a long, long swallow of my beer then set my can on the club table. To grab Demyan’s hand with both of mine.
But there was no pity in the affection. Just understanding.
ICRA did good for the wider community, but the shadier aspects were almost always there, ever-present—and felt only by those of us who willingly, or unwillingly, entered their clutches.
“ICRA gave me a new name, the one you know me by, and stuck me in the most lethal subdivision they had. The one with the highest on-duty death rate. Tell you the truth, I’m not sure they intended for me to survive. But I did.”
I held myself as best as I could, revealing nothing of just how much his admission touched me. Even though all I wanted to do was wrap him in my arms and thank the fucking gods that he’d survived. That we lived this version of reality now, instead of the one where I would have never known of his existence at all.
But that wasn’t what Demyan needed right now.
“Once they realized my knack for survival was pretty damn strong, they changed their opinion of me,” he continued. “They allowed me to pick my own position, transfer if I wanted to.”
“And you came here.”
A small smile played upon his lips. “I came here.” He squeezed my hands, but the moment of brightness that had freed the strain from his face went away far too quickly for my liking. He tossed back the beer, then lowered the can into his lap. “I thought I was free of my past. That the pack, the brutality, was ended once and for all. Clearly, I was wrong.” A mirthless laugh. “I never wanted to drag you into any of this, Greta.” His eyes locked on mine. “That’s why I lied. Why I acted so evasive.”
“And yet you forgot that I’m as stubborn as we Black weres get.” I offered him a small smile—and was rewarded with a genuine one of his. “Demyan, I want to stand by your side. And I hope you know that no matter whether we take what happened at the restaurant further or not, I’ll always have your back.”
Sure, it would hurt to walk away from this werewolf. To work beside him as no more than partners. But I felt the truth deep in my bones.
Demyan Morozov was a soul that called out to mine.
Regardless of how much I’d always yearn for us to be more, I’d still be there for him.
“Like I said before, you’re a good man. And an excellent boss. Our division wouldn’t be what it is if it weren’t for your leadership.” I disentangled my fingers from his to cup his face and let my other hand rest on his muscular thigh. “You said your brother deserved a good life. Well, so do you.”
Something flashed in his eyes—a blend of disbelief and longing that threatened to break my very heart. Despite his assertive nature, Demyan clearly wasn’t sold on the fact that he, too, deserved happiness.
As much as any of us in tune with the more ruthless aspects of life could get.
But as his gaze dipped to my lips, as he leaned closer…some of that darkness dissipated.
I met his lips with mine.
Not a prelude to anything, but a promise.
We’d get out of this. Brave the storm and come through on the other side victorious.
But only if we did it together.
Chapter Eleven
Lying to my c
oworkers wasn’t something I enjoyed, but it was a necessity.
I declined any offer of help from the agents whose schedules had freed up a bit as they wrapped up their own missions. Instead, I went through the files and did my own research without letting out a single hint about what I was truly digging into.
The case.
That was my answer time and time again. And we left it at that.
Demyan and I had agreed over breakfast to keep everything under wraps. Our brasses, all the way to the very head of ICRA, knew of his past in intimate detail. But our team…
All they saw in Demyan Morozov was the hard-ass, efficient boss who cared about the people stationed under him. A leader who never faltered. Who knew when to be firm with someone and when to offer support.
Demyan wanted to protect that.
Though I doubted there was a single soul in our department who would take the news of his past badly, I respected his wishes and didn’t push the subject. Forgiving yourself was the hardest, and Demyan… He wasn’t there just yet.
I only hoped that he would be capable of seeing all the good he’d done—and was still doing.
It wouldn’t erase the past—nothing ever could—but perhaps it would make it less of a weight dragging him down.
People could change. Their actions in the present, their goals for the future—that was what mattered in the grand scheme of things.
But until Demyan was ready to look his personal demons in the eye, I offered him what I’d promised yesterday.
My unwavering support.
With all the files gathered in one place, I went over to the coffee maker at the far end of the floor where we also had a small kitchenette we rarely used—why would we, when there was a burger joint with excellent beer on tap just a ten-minute drive away—and poured myself a fresh cup. I swiped a homemade chocolate chip cookie, courtesy of Clara, from the platter set up on the mini counter, stuffed it whole into my mouth, then returned to my desk while I chewed. The privacy blinds open, Demyan watched me through his office window, a look I couldn’t quite decipher resting on his face. When our gazes met, however, he inclined his head—a silent confirmation that while I was working on my end, he was doing the exact same on his.
I plopped down behind my desk, sipped my coffee, then got back to work.
The first thing we needed to figure out was who from his old pack had orchestrated the attack. ICRA hadn’t nabbed everyone during the raid in Russia, and Demyan didn’t believe for a second Aleksei Valanovic and the werewolves we’d taken out at the warehouse had been working alone. My intervention had kept them from spilling any beans, but given the death looming over Demyan’s head at that time, I wasn’t exactly mourning the fact that I hadn’t waited a few seconds longer.
I flipped through the first file. The personal information I only skimmed, but once I hit the paragraph spelling out the werewolf’s known connections, my reading dropped to a slow, attentive crawl. Demyan had given me a list of all the active pack members from his time in Russia—a long series of names I’d memorized on the drive over to Neubiberg.
Regardless of the respect I had for the rest of the team, I didn’t want to leave sensitive information like that lying around. Protecting Demyan’s privacy was merely one aspect. The other, far more practical one was that I’d learned over the years that the only way to prevent anything from seeing the light of day was by keeping it in the dark vaults of your mind. Of course, not even that was foolproof when there were magical capabilities out there that could extract such knowledge. But unlike someone spying on our HQ or outright breaking in, the odds of someone invading my mind were slim. These files, at least, could be interpreted in more ways than one.
None of the wolf’s known associates’ names rang any bells. Still, I wrote them all down in my notepad for thorough checking later. Far too often, it was the connection of a connection that provided the needed link. I wasn’t taking any chances to let something slip through the cracks by doing sloppy work.
Once that was done, I moved on. Same routine, same results.
By the fourth file, Demyan’s voice pierced the low buzz of the floor. “Freundenberger, my office, please.”
I glanced over my shoulder. His frame was coiled with tension, face revealing nothing. My eyebrows rose, but I quickly closed the file, turned the notepad upside down, and sent the computer to sleep. When I got up, Demyan was already waiting for me in his office.
He didn’t have to tell me to shut the door once I stepped inside.
A flash of what rested beneath his hardened face told me enough. He was struggling with something.
Though for the life of me I couldn’t come up with any explanation as to what had prompted this sudden change.
I approached the desk but didn’t sit. A fat file rested on the cleared space in front of him. Demyan kept his hand to the side, not quite touching the brown folder but giving the impression he wanted to.
“Speak to me,” I said softly, though not without resolve.
Demyan sighed, then looked up at me at last. “There’s one more thing you should be aware of.”
He slid the folder over.
My fingers brushed the edge, but before I could take it in my hands, Demyan said, “If you really plan to see this all the way through, then you need all the information.”
I quirked an eyebrow. I’d thought he’d already given me all there was to know.
Curious—and maybe a bit afraid—I lifted the file and flipped it open.
My heart hammered in my ears.
I looked at Demyan. “This is—”
“My unredacted file.” His jaw tightened. “The evidence I told you about—it’s all there. Along with my statements.”
Sweat threatened to lick my palms. I calmed my heartbeat, but the weight of the file in my hands remained, an ominous, oily presence I knew wouldn’t dissipate until I tackled it head-on. Read every last word from start to finish.
“You said I’m a good man,” he continued, not meeting my eyes. “Go through that. Then decide if I’m worth risking your life for.”
He spun his chair around so he was facing the windows. Dismissed, I left, though not without casting one last look at what little of his body I could see beyond the back of the chair. The white-knuckled grip on the armrest. The tension in the honed muscles of his forearm, visible thanks to the rolled-up sleeves.
I returned to my desk, unlocked the first right-hand drawer, and stashed the folder there. In the middle of the day, the floor seemed too crowded to touch Demyan’s past. Or maybe I was just putting things off given we were almost fully staffed twenty-four seven.
My coffee had gone cold, so I grabbed the mug and went over to the tiny kitchenette to make myself another.
Demyan had drawn the blinds on his office window. I wondered what he was doing in there—the limbo he was trapped in.
As if something snapped, I marched back to my desk, stacked the folders already there in two high piles—one on each side—then pulled out the one I not only needed, but wanted to see. The sheer weight of it as it landed with a thud on the flat surface spoke volumes.
Then again, Demyan’s time with the pack hadn’t exactly been short.
I loosened a breath and started reading.
* * *
There are some images you just know will stay with you until your dying day.
I wasn’t entirely sure whether it was the severity and brutality of the crimes, or the fact that Demyan had to live through them, that twisted my stomach and almost made me wish I hadn’t delved into the rabbit hole. But horror after horror, I refused to give up. Pushed on to the next paragraph. The next body.
His world had been carved from blood and pain.
Demyan had been young, so fucking young when he’d sought the protection of the pack. It was a wonder he got out at all. That he kept his morality despite the pack’s obvious attempts to turn him into a sadistic killer.
Once I neared his escape in the gruesome timeline, I fo
und myself breathing a little easier. Cheering for him.
As he’d said, helping others had been a massive risk. If any of them had talked—if another member of the pack had tortured the information out of them had they been too slow to escape—all the work Demyan had done to protect his brother would have been in vain.
I lifted my coffee cup to my lips, but there was nothing in there left to drink. I groaned and rose to get a refill when my gaze skimmed the paragraph at the bottom.
I sank back into my chair hard enough the poor thing groaned, but I hardly noticed.
Three times. Three times my eyes skimmed the words on the page there, letting them sink in.
Fuck. It made sense.
It made sense now, the lot of it.
The newly established Demyan Morozov, fledgling ICRA agent, hadn’t only given the Agency the means to track down and lock the pack up.
He went in there right alongside them.
Slaughtered everyone who made up the core of the group.
Then ripped his alpha’s guts out.
Chapter Twelve
The way Demyan looked at me when I threw his file on the desk with a loud thud, I might as well have fired a gun.
Then his expression slipped into something worse.
Resignation.
I crossed my arms and pinned him with my no-bullshit gaze. “I was eleven when I made my first kill. Self-defense. I ripped the fucker’s throat out, then kept clawing at his face until I reached bone.”
Confusion now.
I pressed on.
“My bloodlust always ran high. My mother said it came from being a Black were.”
I shot him a pointed look. He had kept that fact from the rest of the team for as long as he could, but a secret like that didn’t remain hidden forever. Nor should it. Yes, Black weres were the most ruthless sort. But it had been Black weres—my twin brothers and their pack—who had prevented the War from ruining our damn world.
