I'd positioned my chair between Mishka and the door—a protective stance I wasn't even conscious of taking until Yuri had pointed it out with a knowing look that I promptly ignored.
I ran my thumb over Mishka's knuckles, studying the contrast of our hands—mine weathered by a century of life, his young and still somehow delicate despite the power they contained.
The electronic signature that marked him as uniquely himself had strengthened over the past weeks, a faint green glow visible only to my enhanced senses. It pulsed more steadily now than it had that first desperate night, but still not with the vibrant energy I'd grown accustomed to.
"O'Rourke's Ukrainian lab fell yesterday," I said, continuing the one-sided conversation I'd maintained for weeks. "That makes seven facilities destroyed, three research teams captured, and approximately sixty million in assets seized."
The monitors beeped their steady response.
"We found another electronic manipulator at the Kyiv location, a girl, no older than sixteen." My jaw tightened at the memory of the terrified child we'd discovered in a reinforced containment cell. "She's safe now, recovering at one of our secure locations outside the city."
I reached for the top folder on the stack, flipping it open to reveal surveillance photos of a man with salt-and-pepper hair and cold eyes. Patty O'Rourke himself, looking considerably more haggard than when I'd last seen him.
"He's running scared now," I continued, allowing a satisfied rumble to surface from my chest. "His investors are pulling out. His security teams are deserting. The loyal ones I haven't picked off yet are demanding triple their usual rate."
I closed the folder, adding it to the "completed" pile that had grown steadily over the past month. The routine brought a hollow comfort—each piece of O'Rourke's empire I tore down felt like a small offering to the unconscious man before me. A pound of flesh for every drop of blood Mishka had shed to save me.
"You know," I said, attempting to keep my tone light, "this is a rather extreme way to get out of our dinner reservation."
The joke fell flat in the quiet room. I waited anyway, some foolish part of me half-expecting Mishka to open his eyes with asarcastic retort, that defiant spark lighting up his face as he told me my sense of humor needed serious work.
Instead, the monitors beeped their steady, unchanging rhythm. My ears flicked backward in irritation at the sound, a low growl escaping before I could stop it.
"They say your hearing is the last thing to go," I muttered, shifting closer to the bed. "That you can hear everything happening around you, even in this state."
I studied his face—too pale, too still, but free of the pain that had contorted it the night of the rescue. The doctors had removed the breathing tube two weeks ago when he started breathing reliably on his own. A positive sign, they'd said, progress.
It didn't feel like progress, watching day after day as he remained suspended between life and death. The electronic signature that was uniquely his pulsed a little stronger each day, but the doctors couldn't tell me if that meant recovery or simply his body adapting to a new normal—one where consciousness remained elusive.
A century of life had taught me patience. I'd outlived enemies, waited decades for opportunities to present themselves, built a criminal empire through careful, methodical planning. But this—this helpless waiting while Mishka fought a battle I couldn't join—tested the limits of that patience.
"I'm becoming sentimental in my old age," I admitted to the quiet room, my voice rougher than I intended. "A weakness I can ill afford."
My bear huffed at that, as if disagreeing. The animal had grown increasingly vocal in recent weeks, closer to the surface than it had been in decades.
It recognized Mishka as ours in a way that transcended human understanding—not as territory or possession, but as essential.
As mate.
"Yuri thinks I've lost my mind," I continued, shifting to more comfortable ground. "He doesn't say it, of course, but I see it in his eyes when he brings me reports that could be handled by a phone call."
The monitor tracking Mishka's heart rate beeped irregularly for a moment, and I was on my feet before conscious thought intervened, a threatening growl rumbling from my chest as I scanned the room for potential threats.
The rhythm stabilized almost immediately, but my bear remained alert, protective instincts in overdrive.
I forced myself to sit back down, embarrassed by the primal reaction. A century-old crime boss, feared throughout the underworld, reduced to growling at medical equipment. What would my enemies think if they could see me now?
"This isn't how I expected to spend my May," I said after regaining my composure, my thumb resuming its circles on Mishka's palm. "I had plans, you know. That restaurant in the historic district you mentioned—the one with the pierogies you wouldn't shut up about. I made reservations."
The memory of Mishka's face lighting up as he described the tiny Ukrainian restaurant brought an ache to my chest. He'd been so animated, gesturing with his hands as he insisted they made the best pierogies outside of Kyiv.
"I even brushed up on my Ukrainian," I admitted. "Though I suspect my accent would have made you laugh."
The constant beeping of the monitors seemed to mock the confession, reminding me that such small, human moments might remain nothing more than unfulfilled plans.
My mind drifted back to that night—the frantic race from O'Rourke's facility, Mishka's broken body cradled in my arms, his blood soaking my clothes. The terror I'd felt as his electronicsignature flickered and faded, nearly winking out entirely before Dr. Petrov stabilized him.
I'd lived through wars, survived betrayals and assassination attempts, built and rebuilt my empire through sheer force of will. Yet nothing had prepared me for the gut-wrenching fear of watching Mishka's life hang by a thread because he'd risked everything to save me.
