The word hangs between us, heavy as the dead men cooling on the concrete. The words pile up in my throat like broken glass. I chose Mikhail over my father. I let all those people die. I'm the reason for everything.
But I see Marco's face again, the way love turned to disgust in his eyes. I can't watch that happen with Alexei. Can't lose him too, even if I've already lost him by running.
"I can't."
"Can't or won't?"
"I just… can't explain. Not now. Not like this." Not when you're covered in blood you spilled for me. Not when you look at me like I've already broken your heart.
He releases my chin. Steps back. And the look in his eyes, like I've broken something that can't be fixed, like I've proven every doubt he ever had about trusting someone.
The distance between us feels infinite. Three feet but it might as well be an ocean. This man killed his own people to get tome, is covered in their blood, and all I've given him in return is silence.
He turns to his men, voice shifting to that command tone. Orders clip out in Russian and English. Kaz is to be secured, not killed. Survivors are to be disarmed. Bodies dealt with. The whole thing cleaned up before the cops arrive.
Professional. Efficient. Cold.
When he looks at me again, the fury has cooled into something worse: nothing. Just empty distance where hours ago there was heat that could burn us both alive.
"Can you walk?"
"Yes."
"Then walk."
That's all. No offered hand. No arm around my waist. No checking if I'm really okay despite my answer. He just turns and walks, expecting me to follow.
Which I do. On unsteady legs that remember wrapping around his waist, stepping over bodies that are still warm, their blood mixing with industrial grime. One of them moans as I pass. Still alive. Alexei's men will deal with him.
Behind us, Kaz screams from where they're dragging him. "She's poison! She'll destroy you! You'll see! She'll burn everything you touch!"
Alexei doesn't respond. Doesn't even glance back. Just keeps walking, and I follow because I have nowhere else to go.
The night air hits cold when we exit the warehouse, making me shiver after the adrenaline-heated interior. The car idles outside, engine running. I climb in because what else is there to do? The leather seats are pristine, no evidence of the violence inside. Just Alexei and me and the silence that sits between us like a physical wall.
His hands on the wheel are still bloody, leaving rust-colored prints on leather. We drive through Chicago streetswhile normal people live normal lives, having no idea what just happened in that warehouse. Through the tinted windows, I watch couples walking hand in hand, families leaving late dinners, a world that keeps spinning despite mine stopping.
He saved my life. Killed for me. Brought his men to war against his own cousin for me.
And I feel nothing. No relief. No gratitude. No surge of love or tenderness. Just this hollowness that's been eating me from inside since I remembered the truth.
Except that's a lie. I feel him next to me, every breath, every micro-movement. My body notes the space between us, wants to close it even as my mind knows I can't. At the lakehouse he held me while I slept, whispered Russian endearments against my hair. Now he won't even look at me. The whiplash makes my chest tight.
The words pile up in my throat as we drive. I chose Mikhail over my father. But I swallow the truth like broken glass and let it cut me from inside.
His phone buzzes. He ignores it. Buzzes again. Again. He turns it off with one sharp motion that makes me flinch.
"You could have stayed with them." His voice cuts through the silence, flat and emotionless. "Marco. Your family. You could have stayed."
"He doesn't want me."
"But I do?" There's something sharp in the question, hurt disguised as anger. "After you ran? After you chose them?"
I don't have an answer that would make sense. Can't explain that I came back not for him but because I had nowhere else to go. That I'm here because the alternative was dying in that warehouse, and some stupid part of me, the Weapon probably, still wants to live even though I don't deserve to.
"Why did you come for me?" I ask instead.
"Because you're mine." Simple. Flat. Like stating the weather. "Someone took what was mine."
