When his gaze landed on the clothes and note I'd left, he hesitated before reaching for them. I found myself holding my breath as he read the few lines I'd written. His face betrayed nothing, but his fingers lingered on the paper longer than necessary before he set it aside and reached for the clothes.
Something cracked in my century-old heart. That practiced neutrality spoke of years—perhaps a lifetime—of guarding his reactions, hiding his true feelings as a matter of survival. How many times had he awakened alone? How many times had he been forced to mask disappointment or hurt?
I couldn't recall the last time I'd felt this protective of anyone outside my syndicate, this... invested in another's wellbeing. My bear rumbled beneath my skin, urging me to return to him, to reassure him with touch and presence that he wasn't alone anymore.
But duty held me in place. O'Rourke's specialists were a real and immediate threat, one I couldn't ignore even for the pull I felt toward Mishka.
I pressed the intercom. "Yuri, get back in here."
He appeared moments later, his expression carefully neutral. "Yes, boss?"
"Set up a perimeter," I ordered, my voice deadly calm despite the storm brewing inside me. "No one touches him. I want our best people on rotation, and I want to be notified immediately of any unusual activity near the building."
Yuri nodded, but hesitation lingered in his eyes. "And if he tries to leave?"
My jaw tightened. "He won't." I wasn't entirely sure if that was truth or wishful thinking. "But if he does, he's to be escorted safely, not detained. Understood?"
"Understood." Yuri's tone was professionally neutral, but I caught the flicker of concern in his gaze. "What about O'Rourke's new players?"
"Get me everything," I demanded. "And have Dima trace the server breach—I want to know exactly what they were looking for."
With a nod, Yuri withdrew, leaving me alone with the security feed and my thoughts. I remained staring at themonitor, watching as Mishka pulled on the sweater I'd left him. It hung loose on his smaller frame, the sleeves extending past his wrists. He rolled them up with practiced efficiency before moving toward the bedroom door.
The camera feed switched automatically as he entered the hallway, his movements cautious but purposeful. He wasn't exploring randomly; he seemed to know exactly where he was going.
The realization should have raised suspicion—how did he know the layout of my private residence so well after just one night?—but instead, I felt a strange pride in his resourcefulness.
The kitchen camera activated as he entered, revealing him rummaging through my refrigerator with surprising familiarity. He moved with the efficiency of someone accustomed to making do in unfamiliar environments, quickly locating essentials and preparing what appeared to be coffee and a simple breakfast.
I found myself mesmerized by the domestic scene playing out on my monitor. Mishka in my kitchen, wearing my clothes, his guard momentarily lowered as he focused on the task at hand.
The bear inside me rumbled with satisfaction at the sight. Mine, it insisted. Ours.
I stood, decision made. The syndicate could function without my direct oversight for an hour. O'Rourke's specialists wouldn't move against us immediately—they were still gathering intelligence, setting up their operation. There was time enough for me to check on Mishka, to gauge his state of mind after last night's... revelations.
My hand was reaching for the door handle when the secure line rang. I froze, eyes darting to the phone on my desk. Only three people had access to that particular line, and none of them would use it unless the situation was critical.
The sleek black phone continued ringing, its display illuminated with two words that sent ice through my veins: Agency Director.
My hand remained suspended midway to the door as conflicting imperatives warred within me. The Agency had been a complicated ally for decades, providing certain protections for my syndicate in exchange for information and occasional assistance with matters beyond their official jurisdiction. The Director wouldn't call personally unless something had shifted dramatically in our arrangement.
Or unless they knew about Mishka.
My gaze traveled back to the security feed where Mishka was now sitting at my kitchen island, a mug of coffee cradled between his hands, looking deceptively at ease despite the tension evident in his shoulders.
In that moment, he glanced up toward the camera, his eyes meeting mine through the digital barrier as if he could somehow sense my observation.
Maybe he could.
The phone rang a fourth time. Fifth. The Director would not call again if I failed to answer. Whatever information or warning he intended to convey would be lost, potentially leaving me blindsided in the coming confrontation with O'Rourke's forces.
But answering meant delaying my return to Mishka, leaving him alone longer with his thoughts and doubts. It meant prioritizing syndicate business over the strange, powerful connection that had formed between us.
The bear inside me snarled its displeasure at the choice before us. It recognized no authority beyond its own instincts, and those instincts were screaming to return to Mishka, to ensure his safety personally rather than through proxies and security systems.
Sixth ring. Final ring.
I snatched up the phone, eyes still locked on Mishka's image on the monitor. "Aleksandrovich," I answered, voice betraying none of my inner conflict.
