UNLEASHED — His Tsaritsa

The humidity clung to her skin like sweat and secrets.

Deep in the hills of northern Georgia, somewhere outside Dahlonega, Anika Valeriya Carter walked the perimeter of a gated estate tucked beneath towering pines. Her boots crunched over pine needles as twilight bled orange across the sky, casting jagged shadows over gravel and steel fencing. The trees whispered with wind and memory.

Inside the training pen, two high-drive German Shepherds stood alert — lean muscle and raw potential. Anika gave a single command, voice low, sharp. They obeyed instantly, no hesitation. No challenge.

They knew who was in control now.

Her phone buzzed again in her pocket. She glanced at her smart watch.

Blocked number. Again.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t spare more than a glance. Just latched the pen and dusted her hands off on her black cargo pants. She had better things to do than indulge ghosts who couldn’t leave a voicemail.

“Damn impressive,” said a voice behind her — the client.

Ex-military. Old money. The type that mentioned his connections every third sentence like it was currency.

Anika nodded once. “They’re solid now. Just don’t let your handler undo it.”

He chuckled like she’d made a joke. She hadn’t.

She checked the phone once more. Ten missed calls. No messages. No texts.

Same blocked  number. Same slow creep of irritation under her skin.

She powered it off.

If it mattered, they’d show up, or at least leave a message.

By the time she rolled out, the sun was gone, swallowed by the tree line. Shadows stretched long across the highway as she zipped up her black riding jacket and slid her helmet on as she shifted her rose gold BMW M 1000 RR into gear. The engine purred like a panther as she twisted the throttle and peeled out of the estate.

Home was two and a half hours northeast.

The road ahead was nothing but asphalt and moonlight, winding through dense forest and empty farmland. Her estate — 120 acres carved from the edge of the Chattahoochee National Forest — waited like a fortress in the trees.

No neighbors. No traffic.

Just her. And the dogs.

She didn’t even make it twenty minutes before the unease started.

Headlights.

Too close.

She merged lanes. The vehicle followed.

She slowed. It slowed.

Two minutes. Five. Ten.

Still there. No passing. No backing off.

She angled her side mirror.

Blacked-out SUV. No tags. No chrome. No mistakes.

Then came the second set of headlights. Another SUV. Identical.

The low chill down her spine turned to frost.

She didn’t panic. Didn’t accelerate. Didn’t call for help.

She turned off the main road instead — veering onto a back route only locals and moonshiners knew. A tight, tree-laced route with zero visibility and plenty of opportunity to make someone regret following her.

They took the bait.

She didn’t brake-check. Didn’t speed up. She just rode — letting them commit.

Cool air knifed through her jacket as she cut clean through the curves, mapping every ditch, every blind bend, every ambush point. She wasn’t just riding. She was hunting.

By the time she reached the road leading to her property, the trees closed in like sentinels. She pressed a hidden switch beneath her left grip.

Silent signal.

The security gate ahead would open. The perimeter sensors would light up. The cameras were already recording.

And the dogs?

The dogs would be ready.

The twin SUVs followed her all the way to the top of the drive.

Good.

She parked the bike just outside the garage, unhooked her helmet, and let her platinum hair spill down in sleek waves. Her expression was calm, but the Glock 43x on her hip was a quiet warning.

Rose gold slide. Hollow points. Custom grip.

Her boots barely touched the ground before Nyx appeared — one of her Cani Corsi, lithe and silent, a black colored phantom wrapped in muscle and menace.

Ares followed — fawn-coated and heavier, all coiled power and calm judgment.

Neither barked. Neither lunged.

But both stared.

They knew.

The first SUV door opened slowly. A man stepped out — sharp suit, clean lines, no local dirt on his boots. His hands were visible. Smart.

He wasn’t armed. Or he didn’t want her to see it.

Still, he wasn’t the threat here.

She was.

“Ms. Carter,” he said. “I come on behalf of a client—”

She didn’t let him finish. “He’s missing product. And men.”

He blinked. Hesitated. She saw it — that half-second stutter in his eyes.

She stepped forward. Nyx mirrored the move. Ares didn’t even flinch.

“I didn’t train those dogs,” she said. “But the man who did? He trained with me. There’s a difference.”

He recovered. “Regardless. My client has questions. And an offer.”

Her gaze turned to ice. “Then he should’ve sent someone worth talking to.”

His jaw flexed. “This isn’t a threat—”

“It’s an insult.” Her voice was razor-edged. “No ID. No name. No manners.”

She took another step forward. The dogs shifted with her like shadows.

Her hand hovered near her hip. Not touching. Not yet.

“Leave,” she said. “While I’m still being polite.”

Silence. Then a nod.

He backed away slowly. Got into the SUV. The second vehicle turned with him and they disappeared into the dark.

Anika didn’t move. Not right away.

Nyx let out a single breath. Ares shifted.

Only then did Anika speak.

“He’ll come next time,” she murmured. “Or someone that matters will.”

She turned toward the house, dogs at her side, ghosts at her heels.

The night pressed in around her — thick with promises and unfinished business.

Because now?

They had her name.

And she had their attention.

She’d heard the whispers — quiet rumors spoken with wide eyes and lowered voices.

A string of Bratva stash houses hit. Men dead. Some mauled. One torn apart.

No bullets. No footprints. Only the echo of trained war dogs and silence.

And her name was being tossed around.

She hadn’t trained those animals, but she’d trained the one who had. Briefly. Before she cut ties.

It didn’t matter.

She knew this kind of heat would come knocking eventually.

And she knew exactly whose name would be behind it.

Nikolai Ivanovich Volkov.

Pakhan of the Bratva. Ruthless. Untouchable. Cold-blooded.

She’d heard the stories. Everyone had.

But she wasn’t scared.

Not because she didn’t believe the stories.

But because she was ready.

Let them come.

The game had just begun.

And she played to win.