But I know better now. She's fire contained in glass, waiting for the first crack to escape. She proved that when she shoved at my chest and hissed her hatred while her body contradicted every word. She proved it when she kissed me back with the same fury she used to push me away.
Vega settles against her side and sighs. My father's warning echoes through the static hum.Bellamy blood is poison.
Maybe. But poison has uses. It kills your enemies faster than a bullet, and sometimes it teaches you what antidote your heart still lacks.
I zoom the camera closer. Her eyes are closed, her lashes resting against her cheeks. She appears peaceful, unaware of the chaos circling her name. The innocence in her expression is the same innocence I stopped believing existed long ago.
If Ray Bellamy's betrayal bled into her generation, she's the key to finding him. If it didn't, and she's just a woman who stumbled too close to my world through random chance and bad luck, then I've already done enough damage to ruin whatever life she built in this small town with its tourist cafés and mountain views.
Lightning flashes again, painting her face in silver. My reflection stares back from the monitor, a man carved from control and exhaustion.
Somewhere beyond these mountains, Ray Bellamy might still be alive, laughing at the ghosts he left behind, living under a new name with new allegiances. If he is, I'll find him. And when I do, he'll learn that the Barinovs never forget a debt, forgive betrayal, or stop hunting until blood balances the scales.
But tonight, my eyes remain on Sage. Her fingers twitch in sleep, reaching for Vega's warmth. The dog lifts his head as if answering a call only he can hear, his loyalty simpler and more honest than anything humans manage in this world of uncertain allegiances.
I whisper into the hum of machines, low enough that no one else can hear. “You don't know it yet,printsessa, but you're already inside my war.”
9
SAGE
The air feels charged, as if the storm that raged through the night left its presence behind in every corner of the cabin. Vega walks beside me without a sound, his steps silent on the thick carpet as Albert leads me toward the lounge. Each footfall brings me closer to another confrontation with Luka, and my stomach twists with equal parts dread and fascination. I half expect to find him waiting in another interrogation room, all steel and shadows, ready to dismantle whatever's left of my defenses. Instead, when Albert opens the door, the glow of firelight spills into the hallway, warm and golden. For the briefest moment, I forget to breathe.
The room isn't what I expect from a man like Luka Barinov. It's beautiful, quiet, and strangely intimate. Flames crackle inside a stone fireplace, spilling light across dark wood and leather furniture that looks expensive but lived in. Shelves line the far wall, filled with books whose spines are stamped in gold Cyrillic lettering I can't read. Everything smells faintly of smoke and pine with the ghost of whiskey lingering in the air.
Luka sits in the chair near the fire. His black hair draws the light, revealing streaks of brown I hadn't noticed before, as if the flames are determined to find something softer in him. The suit jacket he wears fits perfectly, every line tailored to his broad shoulders and muscular frame, but the top button of his shirt is undone, exposing a hint of the tattoo that winds up his throat. The sight shouldn't make me nervous, but it does. Everything about him makes me anxious in ways I can't control.
“Sit,” he instructs, his voice low enough that it blends with the fire's soft hiss.
The command falls the way everything he utters does, absolute and leaving no space for refusal or negotiation. Vega nudges my leg, urging me forward, his warm body brushing mine as if he knows I'm thinking about bolting back through that door. I cross the room and lower myself onto the sofa opposite Luka. The cushions are buttery leather that sighs under my weight, and I realize with a start that this might be the most comfortable surface I've touched since arriving here. My pulse pounds so hard I can hear it echoing in my ears.
A tray sits on the low table between us, holding fruit, bread, a wedge of cheese, and a steaming mug that smells of rich coffee. Beside it, a glass of water catches the firelight, refracting it into tiny stars across the ceiling. The sight catches me off guard. It’s so ordinary, so human, that it almost feels wrong in this place built on control and unspoken threats.
“Eat,” Luka instructs, taking a slow sip from his own mug.
His tone leaves no room for protest. I should resist out of principle, but the reminder of how long it’s been since I last ate makes the scent of food impossible to ignore. My stomachbetrays me with a quiet rumble, and for a moment, the war between pride and hunger feels like one I’m destined to lose.
Vega settles at my feet with a contented sigh that suggests he's perfectly at home here. I take a long sip of coffee, the warmth chasing away the hollow ache in my stomach, and reach for the cheese and fruit. I eat too fast at first, hunger overruling pride, then slow when I realize it, embarrassment prickling at the back of my neck.
Luka watches in silence. His gaze feels like an invisible touch, never quite landing but never really leaving either. When he finally speaks, his voice isn’t sharp. It’s quieter, rougher, stripped of the control that usually cuts through every word he delivers.
“My mother used to sit by the fire during the evenings,” he begins, almost to himself. “Even in summer when the heat made the rest of the house unbearable. She claimed the sound of it reminded her of home.”
The words take me off guard. Luka doesn't talk about himself. Not when he's threatening, questioning, or silently measuring every breath I take as if cataloging my weaknesses. I study him carefully, waiting for the trap I know must be hidden in this sudden softness. There's always a trap with men who hold this much power.
“She was Russian?” I ask cautiously.
He nods once, his profile caught in the flickering light that paints half his face in gold and leaves the other half in shadow. “Dasha. Elegant, gentle, stronger than any man I've ever known, though she never raised her voice or her hand. She had a way of making this life seem… quieter. More bearable.”
There's something raw in his expression when he utters her name that flashes across his face and disappears before I can properly identify it. He looks away, his jaw tightening as if he's swallowing words that want to escape. “Cancer took her when I was twenty-seven. Two years of fighting before it won. Two years of watching her fade while doctors promised miracles they couldn't deliver.”
The admission sinks into me more than I want it to. He's not telling me this to earn sympathy, I know that much. Luka Barinov doesn't beg for anything, least of all understanding from someone he considers a potential threat. Yet the stillness in his voice feels too real to be manipulation. For the first time since meeting him, Luka sounds less like a machine built from power and control and more like a man carrying wounds that never fully healed.
“I'm sorry,” I murmur before I can stop myself, the words slipping out unbidden.
He doesn't acknowledge the condolence. “She died in Seattle. My father was stillpakhanthen, running everything with an iron fist that left no room for weakness. He buried his grief under meetings, territory disputes, and blood, and I learned to do the same.” His eyes lift to mine, and the heat there makes my chest tighten. “Do you understand what it means to bury something before it kills you?”
I think of my mother's voice fading from strong to a whisper over months that felt like years. I think of Hope's seizures in the middle of the night, her body convulsing while I held her and counted the seconds until they stopped. I think of bills I can't pay stacking on the kitchen counter at home, each one an accusation of my failure to protect the people I love. “Yes,” I whisper.
