The Deficit of Time

Mikhail looked at him with terrifying seriousness.

"Give Nikolai a child. Do this for my family, and your entire life will be taken care of. You will never want for anything again."

Sasha’s breath hitched. The room felt entirely too small, his mind spinning at the sheer insanity of the proposition. A grandchild? For a man like Nikolai Volkov?

Sasha looked up at the oil painting of the cold, ruthless mafia Don, his heart hammering violently against his ribs. To the outside world, Sasha looked paralyzed by fear and desperation.

"I..." Sasha swallowed hard, his fingers gripping the edges of his worn manila envelope. He looked down at his shoes, hiding the sudden, intense heat blooming in his chest.

"If... if I agree to this..."

"Speak up, boy," Mikhail commanded gently.

Sasha lifted his head, his eyes wide and completely resolute, though his voice still trembled.

"You can never tell him. Nikolai can never know that I agreed to this. He can never know about this deal."

Mikhail raised an eyebrow, leaning forward on his cane, intrigued. "Oh? Most people would want the credit. Why keep it a secret?"

"Because he is a dangerous, proud man," Sasha whispered, playing into the old man's understanding of his grandson. "If he thinks I did this intentionally, or that I bargained for his family's bloodline just to get a scholarship... he will despise me. He will think I'm a parasite who trapped him. If this happens, it must seem to Nikolai like a complete, unavoidable accident.

Please, Mr. Volkov. You must swear to me that you will take this secret to your grave."

Mikhail stared at the young student. He had expected greed, or perhaps tears, but instead, he found a fierce, protective determination in the boy's eyes. The old man let out a slow, satisfied smile.

"You have a deal, Sasha. The scholarship is yours. And my grandson will remain entirely in the dark."

Three days later, the trap was sprung.

Nikolai Volkov returned to his secluded estate in the dead of night, bleeding, furious, and operating on pure, lethal instinct. A brutal turf war with a rival syndicate had pushed him to his absolute physical limit—and the extreme stress had triggered his biological rut early.

His vision was swimming in a haze of heat and aggression. He had locked himself in his private wing, tearing off his blood-stained suit jacket, his heavy breathing echoing in the dark room.

Downstairs, Mikhail Volkov handed a tray of linen and a specific suppressant tea to a trembling Sasha.

"He is in his private quarters upstairs," Mikhail murmured, his voice cold but heavy with anticipation. "The fever has taken over his mind. Go. Remember your promise, Sasha. Don't look back."

Sasha took the heavy silver tray, his knuckles turning white. He didn't look back. As he walked up the grand, dimly lit staircase of the Volkov mansion, his heart pounded so loudly he was certain the entire house could hear it.

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