"I know more than you think." His voice was quiet. Patient. Dangerous. "I know you're brilliant. I know you're scared. I know you've been alone for too long. And I know—"
He paused. His eyes sharpened. Focused.
"I know you're a Little who's terrified of being small."
The world stopped.
My heart slammed against my ribs. My vision tunneled. Couldn't breathe couldn't think couldn't—
"Someone hurt you," he continued, relentless but gentle. "Didn’t they?"
"Stop." My voice was barely a whisper.
"I'm right, aren't I?"
"Stop," I said again. Louder. My hands were shaking. My whole body was shaking.
He stood. Didn't move closer. Just stood there, giving me space, giving me room to run or fight or fall apart.
"I'm not going to hurt you, Sophie," he said quietly. "I'm not going to force you to be something you're not ready to be. But I need you to understand—I see you. Really see you. All of you. The brilliant woman who survived alone. And the Little girl who's scared and tired and needs someone to make the world feel safe again."
"You don't know anything." Tears burned my eyes. I blinked them back. "You don't know what it's like. You don't—"
"You're right. I don't." His voice was impossibly gentle. "But I want to understand. When you're ready to tell me."
The silence was heavy. Suffocating. All the things I couldn't say trapped between us.
"This room is yours. You'll eat three meals a day. You'll tell me if you need anything. I will provide anything you require."
He moved toward the door. Stopped. Looked back. His grey eyes held mine. "I'm a very patient man. I hope you’ll tell me eventually. What happened. About who hurt you. About why you're so scared of being small."
Then, devastating in its gentleness: "And when you do, I'll make sure you're safe enough to be Little again."
He left. The lock clicked.
I stood there, shaking, staring at the closed door. At the empty room. At the safety I couldn't let myself want.
Chapter 5
Nikolai
Thewarroomfeltwrong. I'd sat here hundreds of times over the last six months since becoming Pakhan, calculating threats and running scenarios until my hands stopped shaking. Tonight the calculations wouldn't settle. My mind kept climbing three floors up to where Sophie Volkov slept in my guest room, small and scared and mine in ways I couldn't justify to anyone, including myself.
Kostya paced near the brick wall like a caged bear. His shoulder was freshly bandaged—white gauze visible under his shirt where the bullet had gone through. He'd refused proper medical attention. Said it was a graze. I'd seen the blood. Graze didn't cover it.
He moved with that restless energy that meant violence was close to the surface. Hands flexing. Jaw working. Every few steps he'd roll his good shoulder, testing range of motion, calculating what he could still do with one arm compromised.
Maks sat on the table's edge, legs swinging slightly, tablet glowing in his hands. My youngest brother looked almost normal—suit jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. But the blood on his face from earlier was gone. He'd cleaned up. Made himself presentable. That was Maks. Always composed. Always thinking three moves ahead about appearances.
The chess board sat on the side table where I'd left it yesterday. A thousand years ago. Before the auction. Before Sophie. Before everything went to hell.
"We need to hit them," Kostya said. Not for the first time. He'd been making this argument since I came down from Sophie. "Hard. Fast. Before they regroup and fortify further."
I didn't answer. Just watched the monitors. Live feeds of the newly claimed Belyaev warehouse in Red Hook. Maks had deployed our surveillance drones the moment we returned. Professional paranoia that I'd instilled in him. Always watch the enemy. Always know what they're doing.
The feeds showed exactly what I'd expected and feared. Fortification. Soldiers moving with purpose. Supply trucks arriving. They were digging in.
"Look at this." Maks tapped his tablet. The image appeared on monitor three. Drone footage, thermal imaging overlay. "I count forty-two heat signatures. That's forty-two soldiers. Armed. Organized. They've got heavy weapons on the roof—.50 cal, probably more. Perimeter security is military-grade. Blyat. Muscovite dogs."
