"Get some sleep, Kolya," Kostya said finally. He stood, wincing as his shoulder protested. "You look like hell. Whatever else needs planning can wait until morning."
"Medical," I said, pointing at his shoulder. "Actual medical. Not field dressing."
"It's fine."
"It's bleeding through the gauze. Medical. Now."
He glared. But he went. That was Kostya—would argue about everything except direct orders. The Pakhan voice still worked on him.
Maks lingered. Gathered his tablet and the papers we'd spread across the table. His movements were efficient, practiced. But he was watching me too carefully.
"What?" I asked.
"Nothing." He paused at the door. "Just . . . be careful, Kolya. With her. With this."
"I'm always careful."
"That's what worries me." He smiled slightly. Sad. Understanding. "You're too careful about everything except the things that actually matter."
He left before I could ask what he meant. The door closed. Locked automatically.
I sat in the silent war room with my monitors and my maps and my carefully constructed logic that was really just emotion wearing strategy's clothes.
Sleep. I should sleep. Kostya was right—I looked like hell because I felt like hell. Exhaustion was making my hands shake worse. Making the anxiety harder to suppress.
But my body wouldn't cooperate. Couldn't shut down. Couldn't stop running scenarios and calculating threats and circling back to the same central question:
Was Sophie sleeping? Was she comfortable? Was she scared?
I stood. Moved to the door before I could second-guess the decision.
The compound was quiet at this hour. Early morning, technically. Maybe 3 AM. Most of the soldiers were asleep. The night shift guards were outside, patrolling perimeter.
I climbed the stairs. Second floor held offices and briefing rooms, all empty. Third floor was residential. My room at the west end. Guest rooms along the hallway. Sophie's at the east end.
Maximum distance. Maximum privacy. Maximum separation between us.
Except I was standing outside her door like a stalker.
The wood was solid under my hand. Expensive. Soundproofed. But not completely. I could hear breathing on the other side if I listened carefully.
Steady. Deep. Even.
She was asleep. Finally. After hours of being awake and terrified.
Something in my chest loosened. She was safe. Resting. The fear that had been tight around her shoulders on the auction stage was gone, at least temporarily.
I pressed my forehead against the door. Just for a moment. Just to be close.
This was insane. Irrational. The kind of behavior that would horrify me if I saw someone else doing it.
But I couldn't seem to stop.
Sophie Volkov. Twenty-four years old. Brilliant and scared and small. A Little who'd forgotten how to be vulnerable.
Mine.
The possessiveness should terrify me. Should send me running back to my room and my control and my carefully maintained emotional distance.
