The dim flicker of a single bulb cast jagged shadows across Zara’s cramped apartment, a shithole in the heart of a neighborhood that smelled like desperation and broken dreams. Peeling wallpaper curled at the edges like old scabs, and the faint stench of cheap vodka clung to the air, a reminder of last night’s futile attempt to drown her guilt. Zara paced like a caged wolf, her heavy boots thudding against the warped floorboards, her mind a fucking storm of self-loathing.
“Ty durak, Zara. Stupid, ugly bitch,” she snarled under her breath, her thick Chechen accent mangling the Russian words into something raw and guttural. Her hands clenched into fists, nails biting into her palms as she replayed the betrayal over and over. Pashka—sweet, dumb, lovable Pashka, with his round belly and stupid grin—had trusted her. And she’d sold him out for a handful of dirty cash to cover her debts. “How could I do this to him? My only fucking friend in this hellhole. I’m worse than a dog. Worse than shit on a boot.”
Her dark eyes burned as she stopped pacing, slamming a fist into the wall hard enough to make the plaster crumble. Pain shot through her knuckles, but she welcomed it. She deserved worse. Far worse. But sitting here, hating herself, wasn’t going to fix a damn thing. She had to face him. She had to beg. Even if Pashka hated her—hell, even if he pulled a knife and gutted her like a pig—she owed him that much.
Grabbing her leather jacket, Zara stormed out into the cold night, her breath fogging in the icy air as she made her way to Pashka’s place a few blocks over. Her heart thundered in her chest, a war drum of dread and desperation, but her steps didn’t falter. She was Zara fucking Kadyrova. She didn’t run from her mistakes. She owned them, even if they crushed her.
Pashka’s building was somehow even shittier than hers, the stairwell reeking of piss and stale beer. She pounded on his door with a fist, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the quiet hall. “Pashka! Open the fuck up! It’s me!” she barked, her voice rough with emotion she couldn’t hide.
A muffled groan came from the other side, followed by the shuffle of heavy footsteps. The door creaked open, and there he was—Pashka, all 300 pounds of him, filling the frame with his unkempt beard and a stained T-shirt that barely covered his gut. His bleary eyes widened at the sight of her, confusion morphing into something harder. “Zara? What the hell—?”
She didn’t let him finish. Shoving past him, she stepped into his cluttered apartment, her boots tracking mud on the already filthy floor. Then, before she could stop herself, she dropped to her knees right there in front of him, the cold linoleum biting into her skin. Tears—fucking tears, which she hadn’t shed since she was a child—streamed down her sharp cheekbones as she looked up at him, her voice cracking like brittle glass. “Pashka, I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I betrayed you. I sold you out, and I hate myself for it. Please, don’t hate me. Don’t… don’t fucking kill me. I’ll do anything. Anything to make this right.”
Pashka blinked down at her, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. For a moment, the silence was suffocating, the weight of her confession hanging between them like a guillotine blade. Then, to her shock, he let out a barking laugh, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Kill you? Zara, you crazy warlord, I’m not gonna kill you. I’d probably trip over my own feet trying to swing a knife. Christ, get up. You look ridiculous down there.”
She didn’t budge, her hands gripping her thighs as she glared up at him, tears still glistening in her eyes. “Don’t fucking mock me, you dumb mountain goat. I’m serious. I fucked up. I told those bastards where to find you, and I took their money. I’m trash. Worse than trash. So scream at me. Hit me. Do something!”
Pashka sighed, his massive frame slumping as he crouched down to her level with a grunt of effort. His round face softened, and he reached out, hesitating before resting a meaty hand on her shoulder. “Zara, I’m not gonna lie—I’m pissed. Real pissed. But I ain’t gonna hit you. And I sure as hell don’t hate you. You’re a pain in my ass, yeah, but… you’re my pain in the ass. Always have been.”
Her breath hitched, a mix of relief and frustration clawing at her chest. She swatted his hand away, but there was no real venom in it. “Stop being so fucking nice, Pashka. It makes me feel worse. I don’t deserve your forgiveness. I’m a snake. A filthy, backstabbing snake.”
He grinned, a lopsided, infuriatingly sweet grin that made her want to punch him and kiss him at the same time. “Yeah, well, you’re my snake, then. Hiss all you want, warlord. I ain’t letting you slither away that easy.”
Zara’s eyes narrowed, her tears drying as a spark of her usual fire returned. She rose to her feet, towering over him now that he was still crouched, her presence commanding even in her vulnerability. “You’re too soft, you know that? Too fucking soft for your own good. Anyone else would’ve thrown me out on my ass—or worse. Why the hell are you like this?”
Pashka stood too, wincing as his knees popped, and shrugged. “Maybe I’m just a glutton for punishment. Or maybe I like having a crazy Chechen bitch yelling at me. Keeps life interesting.”
She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a dangerous purr as she poked a finger into his chest, hard. “Watch your mouth, fat boy. I might be on my knees begging for mercy, but I’m still the one in charge here. You don’t get to play the saint while I’m drowning in my own shit. You wanna forgive me? Fine. But you’re gonna make me earn it. Every. Fucking. Step. Of the way.”
His eyes widened at the sudden shift in her tone, a flush creeping up his neck as he stumbled over his words. “Uh, Zara, what’re you—?”
“Shut up,” she snapped, her hand sliding up to grip his chin, forcing him to meet her gaze. Her dark eyes burned with something new now—something hungry, something that made the air between them crackle with heat. “You think I’m just gonna walk away after spilling my guts like that? No, Pashka. I owe you. And I pay my debts. One way or another.”
Pashka swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he tried to laugh it off, though his voice came out shaky. “You, uh, you don’t owe me anything, warlord. We’re good. Really.”
“We’re not good,” she growled, her grip tightening, her other hand pressing against his chest now, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat. “Not yet. But we will be. I’m gonna make damn sure of it. So stop stammering like a scared little boy and let me show you how a real woman fixes her mistakes.”
The room seemed to shrink around them, the tension morphing into something primal, electric. Zara’s lips curled into a predatory smirk, her control snapping back into place like a whip. Whatever happened next, she was taking the reins. Pashka didn’t stand a chance.
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