Claimed by My Mafia Alpha King Chapter 56

Irina’s POV

I looked up.

And the world stopped. Again. For the second ti today. Twice in one day, and each ti it was worse than the last.

My father.

Mikhail.

He was standing right there. Two feet away. His hands were still on my arms from when he’d caught —steadied —and his face was doing sothing I hadn’t seen it do in a very long ti. Sothing cracked open and raw and absolutely unprepared.

He looked shocked.

So did I.

Neither of us moved.

He was older. That was the first thing my brain registered, stupidly, uselessly. More gray in his hair. Lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there before, or maybe I just hadn’t been looking. He was wearing the sa kind of clothes he always wore—dark, practical, beta’s clothes, nothing that announced itself. He looked like he’d just stepped out of Iron Thorn and walked straight into .

Which was, apparently, exactly what had happened.

"Irina." His voice ca out quiet. Rougher than I expected.

My chest did sothing complicated.

I pulled back.

His hands dropped. He let go—imdiately, no resistance—and I took one step back, then another, and my heel hit the grass and I nearly went down and caught myself and stood there breathing hard and staring at his face.

I didn’t know what I was supposed to feel.

What I actually felt was the specific, airless panic of soone whose escape route has just been completely destroyed.

"Irina—"

I turned.

A hand closed around my arm.

Not my father’s hand.

Different grip entirely. Harder. Fingers digging in like they had every right to be there, like they’d been there before and knew exactly where to press.

I knew that grip.

I’d know that grip in the dark. In a crowd. At the bottom of the ocean.

Everything in went cold.

I turned my head.

Maxim.

He was standing just behind my father. How had I not seen him? He’d been right there—he’d been there the whole ti, just slightly back, just enough that my father’s body had blocked him, and I’d looked right at my father’s face and never—

He was smiling.

That smile.

I’d seen that smile a thousand tis and every single ti it ant the sa thing. It ant *I have you.* It ant *you thought you had a choice and you were wrong.* It ant *this is exactly where I wanted you and I’ve been patient enough to wait.*

"Well," he said.

Just that. One word. Like he had all the ti in the world.

"Let go." My voice ca out flat. Not scared. I wasn’t going to sound scared in front of him. I’d made myself that promise a long ti ago and I was keeping it even now, even here, even with his hand on my arm and the wall fifteen feet behind and every escape route I’d planned quietly disintegrating.

"Let go of ."

Maxim tilted his head. That small, considering movent I rembered. Like he was weighing sothing. Like I was sothing being weighed.

"You look terrible," he said. Conversational. Almost gentle. "Has he not been feeding you?"

I pulled.

He didn’t budge.

"Irina—" My father’s voice. Sowhere behind Maxim. Careful. Cautious.

"Hey." Maxim said it without looking away from . "Why don’t you give us a minute."

My father went quiet.

Of course he did.

I pulled again, harder, my whole body twisting into it.

Maxim’s grip tightened.

"The alpha king." He said the title slowly. Like he was tasting it. "I’ve been wondering. What’s it like? Living in his palace?" His eyes moved over my face. Looking for sothing. "He treat you well?"

I didn’t answer.

"You were running," he said. "That’s interesting, isn’t it. Running away from the alpha king’s palace in the middle of the evening with a bag on your shoulder." His eyes dropped to the canvas bag, then ca back up. "Doesn’t sound like soone who’s being treated particularly well."

"Let. Go."

"So he’s not good to you either." His smile didn’t change. "What a sha. All that trouble—marking you in front of everyone, the whole dramatic display—and still, here you are. Running." He clicked his tongue. Like I was a mild disappointnt. Like I was sothing that kept failing to work properly. "You never could sit still. That was always your problem."

My free hand was shaking.

I made it stop.

"I’m not going back," I said.

"Back where?"

"With you. To Iron Thorn." I looked him in the eye and I didn’t let myself blink. "I’m not going."

Maxim looked at for a long mont.

Then he said: "You don’t really get a vote on that."

I threw my elbow into his ribs.

He wasn’t expecting it. That was the only reason it landed—he’d had in that grip for long enough to start relaxing, and I’d been still long enough for him to stop watching my arms. His breath went out. His grip on my arm stuttered.

I wrenched free.

One step. Two.

He caught .

Both hands this ti. He spun around and his face had changed—the smile was still there but it was different now, thinner, with sothing ugly underneath it, and I knew that face too. I knew exactly what ca after that face.

I didn’t let him get there.

I brought my knee up.

He twisted sideways, took it on the hip instead of where I’d aid. Swore. His hands tightened and I clawed at them, nails dragging across the back of his hand, and he swore again, louder, and I stomped down hard on his instep.

"Stop—"

I didn’t stop.

I shoved both palms into his chest. He stumbled back. I turned to run and he grabbed the strap of my bag and yanked and I went sideways and down to one knee on the grass and I was up again imdiately, up and turning, and I didn’t think about it, I just—

I hit him.

My fist connected with his jaw. Badly. Wrong angle. My knuckles exploded in pain and his head snapped sideways and neither of us was prepared for that—not him, not , not my father sowhere behind us making a strangled sound.

Maxim turned back to .

His smile was completely gone.

"Okay." He said it quietly. Like a door closing.

The slap ca so fast I didn’t track it.

Just—sound. Impact. My whole head snapping sideways. The sky and the grass and the palace wall swapping places. The ground coming up to et before I understood I was falling, my palms hitting the grass, my bag coming down half-across my back.

Ringing. Just ringing, and the cold of the grass against my hands, and the particular taste of sothing copper in the back of my throat.

I lay there for one second.

Just one.

*Get up.*

I got my hands under . Started to push.

"Don’t." Maxim’s shoe ca down on my bag. Pinning it. Pinning by extension. "Just—stay there for a second."

I kept pushing.

"Irina." His voice had gone very quiet. Very flat. The voice he used when he was done performing for anyone else and was just talking to . The voice that used to an *this is going to hurt.* "I said stay."

My arms were shaking.

I was going to get up. I was going to get up if it was the last—

My father said: "Maxim."

One word.

Maxim didn’t move his foot.

"She’s—"

"She’s fine." Still quiet. Still looking down at . "She just needs a minute."

I pressed my forehead against the grass. Just for one second. Let the cold of it settle against my skin. Let the ringing start to die down.

*Get up. Get up. Get up.*

"I’m not going back," I said into the grass.

Nobody answered.

I turned my head. Got one elbow under . Looked up at Maxim’s face from the ground and felt the specific, familiar weight of being down here while he stood up there, and I thought: *not again. Not again. Not ever again.*

"I’m not going—"

"Irina."

My father’s voice. Different this ti. Sothing in it I couldn’t place. He had moved—not between and Maxim, not doing anything useful, but he’d moved to the side and he was looking at sothing beyond us, his face gone pale and strange.

"Maxim," he said again.

And then—

From sowhere across the grounds. Not close. But not far either.

A voice.

Roman’s voice.

"There." Sharp. Certain. Carrying in the cold evening air. "I see them. *Over there.*"