"January," I said, pointing to the first email. "First reference to 'the Volkov asset.' They knew my father died. Knew about the debt. Started tracking me immediately."
He leaned down, reading over my shoulder. I could smell cedar and something clean, soap maybe. The heat of his body close to mine.
"April," I continued, moving to the next document. "Confirmed my location. They found the storage unit. Knew I was photographing my father's things. Someone told them about my photographic memory."
"West Coast contact," Nikolai murmured. "Someone your father worked with. They sold you out."
The casual certainty in his voice should have bothered me. Instead it felt like validation. I wasn't being paranoid. The danger was real.
"June," I said. "They learned about the auction. Made their bid plan. And when they realized they might lose the bidding—"
"They planned to take you by force." He straightened. His hand came to rest on the back of my chair, not touching me but close. Protective. "They authorized killing Yevgeny Sidorov. Violated sacred ground. Started a war. For you."
"For what's in my head," I corrected.
"Same thing."
His voice had gone quiet. That dangerous quiet that meant violence was close to the surface. But it wasn't directed at me. It was directed at the men who'd hunted me. Who'd planned to drug information out of me if I wouldn't cooperate.
I should have been scared of him. Should have remembered that he'd bought me, that I was bound to him for four years, that he was just as dangerous as the Belyaevs.
But when Nikolai moved around the desk and sat in the leather chair beside mine—close enough that our knees almosttouched, close enough that I could see the silver flecks in his grey eyes—all I felt was safer.
"Chemical extraction options," he said, reading the memo I'd flagged. "That means rohypnol or scopolamine. Truth serums. They would have drugged you and extracted everything your father ever told you about West Coast operations."
"And then?"
"Killed you." He said it matter-of-factly. "You'd have no value once they had the information. You'd be a liability."
The words should have made me panic. Should have sent me spiraling into terror about what almost happened.
Instead they made me understand. Finally. Completely. Why Nikolai had bid so high. Why he'd killed three men. Why he'd brought me here and locked me in and fed me borscht and given me a contract that overpaid my labor by three-quarters of a million dollars.
I wasn't just debt he'd purchased. I was someone he'd saved.
"Thank you," I whispered.
The words felt inadequate. How do you thank someone for preventing your torture and murder? How do you quantify that kind of debt?
Nikolai leaned forward. His elbows rested on his knees, closing the distance between us. "You don't have to thank me for keeping you alive, Sophie. That's baseline. That's the minimum."
The library was quiet. Sunlight streamed through the windows, illuminating dust motes that drifted lazy and aimless. The Belyaev communications sat on the desk between us, proof of how close I'd come to being destroyed.
And Nikolai sat beside me, close enough to touch, looking at me like keeping me safe was the most important thing he'd ever done.
Something in my chest cracked. Some wall I'd been maintaining since Sergei died. Since my father died. Since survival became my only skill.
I didn't know what to do with the crack. Didn't know how to want protection without it feeling like weakness. Didn't know how to accept care without expecting it to get someone killed.
But I knew I was tired. So tired of carrying everything alone. So tired of being strong every single minute of every single day.
Nikolai's hand moved. Slow enough I could stop him. Gentle enough that it didn't feel threatening. His fingers brushed my knee—just a light touch, barely there, asking permission.
I didn't pull away.
His hand settled. Warm and solid and real. Grounding me the way counting to four never could.
"You're safe here," he said quietly. "I promise. They won't get to you."
