For months, I’ve refused to think about it. The war doesn’t give me the luxury of imagining a future where I hand it all back to him. And yet the question lingers, sharp and unwelcome.
Would he demand his throne back from me?
Would he thank me or treat me like a usurper?
If it served to end the war, would he give Sima back to her family?
I push it all aside. Not tonight. My mind is too tangled for this. Right now, I don’t need to pile up more hypotheticals on my plate. I need clarity.
Most of all, I need to see her.
I climb the last steps and pause at the landing. The hallway stretches long, lined with closed doors, shadows heavy at the edges.
My feet carry me toward Sima’s door.
The lock is solid, the key cool against my palm. I stand there a moment and listen. The silence behind it is thick.
She’s in there, close enough to touch, yet always at a distance I can’t cross. Even when I do.
I breathe in, deep and steady. The anger from Misha’s remarks still pulses in me, but what sits heavier is something else. That same unease I drove back home with.
Nikolai. The Danilos. Whatever plan they hatched to get Sima back.
Over my dead fucking body.
I fit the key into the lock and turn it. The bolt slides back with a dull click.
My hand lingers on the knob for a second. Two.
Then I twist it open.
The door gives way with a low groan. I step inside, strain my eyes in the dim orange glow of the fireplace across the room. The air is warmer here, heavy with burnt wood and the faint trace of her perfume.
I expect to see her in bed. I cross the floor slowly, eyes fixed on the covers.
But when I reach there, the sheets are flat.
A jolt of panic spikes through me. My hand shoots to the bedframe. My mind spins. I twist my head around, but she’s nowhere.
She’s gone.
My chest pounds. My throat feels dry, and the pressure in my head builds until I can barely think. Fury and fear twist together.
I fucking knew it. I wasn’t here to watch over her, and now, she’s on the run again. I told myself this would happen. And now, I’ve proven myself right.
I’m about to yell for the guards when?—
“Lose something?”
I whip my head toward the sound…
… and there she is.
Sima.
She’s curled into the chair by the fire, knees drawn up. Her e-reader glows faintly in her hands.
The relief that hits me is violent. I cover it fast and force my face back into a neutral expression. I won’t let her see me shaken.
