He pulled me into his arms, holding me like I was something infinitely precious. "We'll get him back. I promise. Kostya and the Volkovs will handle negotiations. We'll find a way that doesn't put you in danger."
I pressed my face into his neck, breathing in sandalwood and safety, memorizing the feeling of his arms around me. Because this might be the last time for a while. The last time before I did something that would make him furious and terrified and possibly—probably—get me killed.
But it was the right choice. The only choice that actually solved the problem instead of just rearranging casualties.
Anton wanted Sophie Volkov. Wanted Konstantin Belyaev's daughter. Wanted the illegitimate heir who threatened his claim.
So I'd give him exactly what he wanted. Just not the way he expected.
"I love you." The words came out muffled against Nikolai's skin, but clear enough. True enough.
"I love you too, printsessa." He kissed the top of my head, still holding me like letting go would break us both. "We'll figure this out. Together."
Together. Except I was already figuring it out alone, calculating the moves Nikolai couldn't see because his love made him blind.
Little Sophie had made a Big decision.
And tomorrow morning, before he could stop me, I was going to the Belyaevs.
Chapter 16
Nikolai
Iwoke.Ireachedforher. Gone. The sheets were cold. Not just cool from her absence, but actually cold—the kind of temperature that meant she'd been gone at least an hour, maybe more. Sophie radiated warmth like a small furnace when she slept, curled against me with her face pressed into my neck. The bed should still hold traces of that heat. It didn't.
I sat up, my hand automatically reaching for the empty space beside me. Sometimes she got up early—bathroom, water, checking her phone when anxiety woke her at three AM and wouldn't let her go back to sleep. But something felt wrong. The wrongness lived in my chest like a stone, growing heavier with each second of silence.
"Sophie?" My voice echoed off the high ceilings, too loud in the pre-dawn quiet.
Nothing.
I checked the bathroom. Her toothbrush was dry, the bristles perfectly aligned the way they'd been when she'd put it awaylast night. No water droplets in the sink. The towels hung undisturbed on their warming rack. The space smelled like the lavender bath products I kept stocked for her, but underneath that was absence. Air that hadn't been disturbed by breathing, by movement, by life.
The chair where she'd draped her clothes last night was empty. Jeans, grey sweater, the soft cotton underwear she'd changed into after we'd gotten home from the warehouse—all gone. My clothes from yesterday were still there. Just hers were missing.
My hands started shaking. I pressed them flat against the marble vanity, counting. One two three four. One two three four. The numbers didn't help. The structure I usually imposed on panic wasn't working because the panic was right—something was wrong, something was very fucking wrong, and my anxiety disorder was actually correct for once instead of just catastrophizing normal situations.
I moved through the compound methodically, checking rooms in order of probability. The library first, where she worked on intelligence reports. The lights were off.
Guest bathroom. Empty.
The sitting room where we'd watched a movie two nights ago, her curled in my lap while I read subtitles aloud because she liked hearing my voice. Empty.
The secondary kitchen on the second floor. Empty.
Each room I checked made my breathing faster, shallower. My chest was getting tight, that familiar band of anxiety wrapping around my ribs and squeezing.
The main kitchen was warm and bright, Irina already at the stove preparing breakfast. The smell of fresh bread and coffee hit me like a physical thing, normal and domestic and completely wrong because Sophie wasn't here to eat it.
"Good morning, Nikolai Dmitrievich," Irina said without turning, her hands busy with something involving eggs and butter. "You're up early. Would you like—"
"Have you seen Sophie?"
My voice came out wrong. Too sharp, too desperate. Irina turned, her kind face creasing with concern when she saw whatever expression I was wearing.
"No, I haven't seen her this morning." She wiped her hands on her apron. "Is everything alright?"
Everything was not alright. Everything was the opposite of alright. But I couldn't say that to Irina, couldn't let the staff see the Pakhan losing his mind over his girlfriend being temporarily unaccounted for.
