Bear curled in my lap, finally quiet but trembling occasionally, like little aftershocks of fear. His paws were still dirty with blood from the warehouse floor, leaving rusty smears on my jeans that looked like abstract art or evidence, depending on your perspective. I stroked his ears with fingers that wouldn't quite stop shaking, both of us using the other as proof we'd survived.
"Hold still," Ivan said from the front passenger seat, twisted around to reach me with his field medical kit. His hands wereperfectly steady as he cleaned the cut on my cheek, efficient and gentle in a way that seemed at odds with the man who'd stood in a firefight with a laptop. The antiseptic stung, sharp and clean, washing away Chenkov's touch along with the blood.
"This needs proper stitches," he said, applying medical glue with the precision of someone who'd done this too many times. "But this will hold for now."
My wrists were next, the raw skin where zip-ties had cut deep enough to leave marks that would definitely scar. Dmitry's jaw clenched when he saw the damage, his free hand curling into a fist.
"You came for me," I said unnecessarily, still processing the impossibility of it. That he'd walked alone into that warehouse, knowing it was probably suicide, just for the chance to save me.
"You're mine," he responded simply, like that explained everything. And maybe it did. In our world, ownership meant protection, meant violence against anyone who tried to take what belonged to you, meant burning down the whole city if that's what it took.
A phone rang—Alexei's, though he let it ring twice before answering in Russian. The conversation was brief, his responses mostly single syllables, but I could tell from the tension in his shoulders that he was already dealing with the fallout. When he hung up, his eyes found mine in the rearview mirror.
They were calculating eyes, weighing costs and consequences with the kind of cold logic that had built the Volkov empire. I wondered what he saw when he looked at me—the homeless girl who'd stolen a USB and stumbled into their world, now valuable enough that rescuing me had started a war.
"The Morozovs are mobilizing," he said, not sugarcoating it. "Every family in New York will have to choose sides within the week."
The weight of that settled over the SUV like a physical thing.
"Was it worth it?" I asked, needing to hear it again, needing to understand how I'd become precious enough to justify this level of violence.
Alexei's eyes shifted to his brother, something passing between them that I couldn't read. Then he looked back at me with an expression that might have been approval.
"Family is always worth it," he said simply. "And you're family now."
The word hit different this time, carrying the weight of everything that had just happened. Family meant they'd killed for me. Family meant they'd die for me. Family meant I was part of something that transcended normal bonds, held together by blood both shared and spilled.
Dmitry's hand tightened on my shoulder, and when I looked at him, his expression was fierce with a devotion that should have been terrifying.
"You're worth burning the whole city down," he said, and the certainty in his voice made it sound like a promise, a threat, and a declaration of love all at once.
The compound came into view ahead, and I barely recognized it from this morning. What had been routine security was now a fortress preparing for siege. Soldiers everywhere—on rooftops with rifles, at checkpoints with automatic weapons, unloading crates that probably contained things that violated every federal law written. They moved with purpose, with the kind of energy that comes before battle, when violence is certain but not yet arrived.
We pulled through multiple checkpoints, each more heavily armed than the last. Faces I recognized from the compound nodded as we passed, and I realized they all knew what had happened. Knew that their enforcer had walked into death for me. Knew that their Pakhan had authorized an assault that would start a war. Knew that I was the Helen of Troy inthis particular tragedy, valuable enough to launch a thousand bullets.
The SUV stopped in the underground garage, and for a moment none of us moved. We sat in our bubble of leather and tinted glass, postponing the moment when we'd have to face what came next.
"I started this," I said quietly. "By taking that USB. If I hadn't—"
"No, no," Ivan interrupted, clinical but not unkind. "The Morozovs have been pushing boundaries for months, ever since Petrov and the change in the power structure in the city. This was always going to happen. You just determined the timeline."
"And gave us leverage," Alexei added, already opening his door. "That USB's intelligence will help us win what's coming."
But I wasn't thinking about strategic advantages or intelligence assets. I was thinking about the girl who'd slept in a storage unit three weeks ago, stealing to eat, invisible to everyone except as a problem to avoid. That girl could never have imagined being worth a war, being called family by men who built empires on violence, being loved with the kind of intensity that painted warehouses with blood.
Bear stirred in my lap, yawning, and I realized he'd fallen asleep despite everything. The simple trust of it—that he could rest because we were safe now—made my throat tight with emotion I couldn't quite name.
"Home?" I asked, though the word meant something different now. Not just Dmitry's apartment but this compound, these people, this family that had claimed me with violence and love in equal measure.
"Home," Dmitry confirmed, helping me out of the SUV with careful hands, Bear cradled between us.
I felt safe. Protected. Worth protecting.
I felt like family.
Chapter 19
Eva
