“First he will try to remind old men who you are related to,” Luka explains. “He will spin a story about loyalty, bloodlines, and respect. If that does not open doors, he will take you to the men who only open doors for pain.”
I bring the cup to my lips, the tremor in my hand betraying what I won’t say aloud. “So, what now,” I ask, the question filling the room like a tide. “Do I stare at your folder until I forget my father reading bedtime stories? Do you put me behind another locked door and tell me it’s for my safety?”
“You are here because you chose it,” he points out. “You could have gone to Denver, sat beside your sister, and pretended the outside world couldn’t reach you. But you came here because you want to understand the man who won’t stop.”
“I came here because you make it sound like not choosing you is the same as choosing death,” I fire back.
His jaw goes tight, and a muscle ticks in his cheek. “Not choosing the truth is choosing death,” he corrects. “I am not your truth, Sage. I am the one pointing at it.”
The words feel too close to a confession. I bite down on a reply that might be crueler than I mean it to be. “Tell me what you intend to do with Ray,” I demand at last.
“What I always intended,” he answers. “Remove him.”
The simplicity is terrifying. “You mean kill him.”
“Remove him,” Luka repeats, colder now. “You do not need the details.”
“I need everything,” I insist. “If you want me to accept this story of my father and my life, then you don’t get to decide how many pages I can read.”
He stares at me as if I’ve just set a boundary he didn’t expect me to set tonight. He doesn’t argue. He picks up the folder and adds a second file to it that I didn’t notice before. The second is thinner. He places both in front of me.
“You will read these,” he instructs. “You will ask questions. You will not leave the cabin alone. You will not call anyone from your old life without telling me first, and you will listen when I direct you to move.”
“I’m not your soldier," I huff. My chin lifts before I can stop it, the motion small but full of challenge.
“No,” he agrees. “You’re the woman who protects your sister, the one person you’d burn the world for. That gives you rank.”
Vega rolls onto his side by the door and sighs, the sound achingly domestic in a kitchen that doesn’t know comfort.
For a brief, impossible second, I want to close the distance between us and rest my forehead against Luka’s chest, just to feel the heat of him beneath his calm. The thought startles me. I swallow it back, locking it behind my teeth before it can turn into action.
“What did my father do that you can’t forgive,” I ask, and the question feels like the final key I have avoided turning.
Luka’s gaze drifts past me, fixed on a memory he has no intention of sharing. I can see the calculation in his eyes, the quiet act of deciding what to tell me and what to bury. When he finally speaks, his voice carries the burden of something older than both of us.
“He thought he could walk away,” he says carefully. “But there’s always a price for that. Men died because of his choices. Itdoesn’t matter that he wanted to protect you. In this world, intent doesn’t stop the bullet once it’s been fired.”
I stare at him, the words sinking in like anchors I can’t pull free. “You talk about him like he was one of your soldiers,” I say quietly. “He was a father trying to protect his family. Maybe he failed, but at least he tried to leave your world behind.”
He exhales through his nose, a sound close to regret. “You keep looking for a version of your father that never existed,” he says. “I’m not the one taking him from you, Sage. The truth already did that.”
His words don’t chase me, but they don’t have to. I reach for my mug just to have something to hold, but the tea’s gone cold. The urge to say something burns at the back of my throat, to deny him, and ask if any of this was meant to help. Nothing comes out.
Vega stirs near the door, a soft presence that reminds me I’m not as alone as I feel.
I turn away before he can see what he’s managed to strip away from me. My footsteps strike the floor in even beats, a small act of control when everything else feels like loss. Luka doesn’t stop me. He doesn’t have to. The silence says enough.
14
LUKA
I wake before the house does. Cold mountain air slips through the bedroom window I cracked open last night. The sky holds that thin, pale blue that only exists this high up, where the land scrapes against heaven. Aspen Ridge sleeps in silence. Even the pines seem suspended in silence. Below, a stream rushes with its endless whisper.
I button a charcoal suit jacket over a pressed black shirt, the fabric cool against my skin. As I reach for my watch, the faint click of claws on hardwood signals Vega’s approach, unhurried and familiar.
Vega appears, his nose low, tail down, on his morning patrol. He circles my legs and leans in, checking that everything remains as it should be. I scratch behind his ear before heading down the hallway to my office. Thoughts stack like files in my head, each demanding attention. Coffee would help. My secured tablet waits with updates from Seattle, notes from Kolya on surveillance along the county road, and a brief from Misha about the men we pulled off a motel parking lot two towns over.
None of it matters once I step out of my office and follow the faint scent of roasted beans down the hall. The kitchen lights glow warm as one of the maids measures the grounds and pours water into the machine.
