The praise made something warm bloom in my chest. Dangerous. I shouldn't care about his approval. Shouldn't want recognition from my captor.
But I did. God help me, I did.
"It’s just my memory," I said. Deflecting. Making it about genetics rather than skill.
He snorted. "Your memory is just a tool. What you did with it is analysis. Pattern recognition. Intelligence work." His eyes held mine. "You saw connections I would have missed. You're exactly as brilliant as I thought you were."
My throat went tight. I wanted to thank him, but I didn’t.
Irina returned with a tray. Soup—something with vegetables and beef. Thick bread. Water. Tea. She set it on the coffee table between us and left quickly.
Nikolai served me first. Ladled soup into a bowl, added bread, poured tea. Set it all on a small tray and handed it to me.
"Eat," he said. Not harsh. Just certain. "All of it."
I ate. The soup was good—hearty and warm, the kind that settled in your stomach and made you feel cared for. The bread was fresh. The tea was strong and sweet.
He ate too. But mostly he watched me. Making sure I actually consumed food rather than pushing it around.
When I finished, he took the tray. Set it aside. "Better?"
I nodded. I did feel better. More solid. Less likely to shake apart.
“Tonight,” he said. “You’ll sleep better than you have for years.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you have everything you need. Safety, and purpose. You and I together, will get to the bottom of this. I feel it in my bones—there’s more going on here than we know.”
Safety and purpose. Would that really help me sleep.
To my surprise, it did.
Almost.
Chapter 7
Nikolai
Thefinancialreportsblurredtogether around 2:47 AM. I'd been staring at the same column of numbers for twenty minutes, my eyes tracking the figures without actually processing them. Revenue from construction sites all over the city. Expenses for the legitimate shipping operation. The kind of work I should have delegated to Maks weeks ago but couldn't because delegating meant trusting someone else with control and control was the only thing keeping my hands from shaking.
My office was quiet except for the hum of the security monitors mounted on the wall to my left. Three screens showing live feeds from various points around the compound. The front gate. The perimeter walls. The main entrance. The hallways. The guest rooms.
I told myself I was working. Told myself the reports needed my personal attention. Told myself that staying up until my eyes burned and my medication wore off was productive rather than avoidance.
The truth was simpler and more pathetic: I couldn't sleep knowing Sophie was three floors up, alone in that guest room. I felt like I had to watch over her, to make sure she was safe.
Movement on monitor three caught my attention. Sophie's room—the camera mounted in the upper corner near the ceiling, angled to cover the door and most of the bedroom. Standard security protocol. I'd installed cameras in all guest rooms years ago after a Morozov associate tried to plant a listening device during a family dinner. We'd caught it on video, handled the situation quietly, and I'd upgraded the system.
Practical. Necessary. The kind of security measure any competent Pakhan would implement.
That I checked Sophie's feed more than the others was just . . . thoroughness. She was a high-value asset. The Belyaevs wanted her. I needed to ensure she was safe, that no one had breached her room, that she wasn't in distress.
I was lying to myself. I knew I was lying to myself. Didn't stop me from switching my primary attention to monitor three, the financial reports forgotten.
I’d told her that she’d sleep well, but it wasn’t panning out like that. In fact, she’d been restless all night. I'd checked the feed at midnight and found her pacing, wearing the grey sleep shirt and black shorts I'd left in her bathroom. At one AM she'd been at the window, her forehead pressed against the glass, her lips moving like she was counting. At two AM she'd finally gotten into bed, but the way she'd tangled in the sheets told me sleep wasn't coming easily.
Now, at 2:47 AM, she was thrashing.
