She startles slightly when she notices me. “Good morning, Mr. Barinov.”
I nod, taking the mug she sets out for me. The first sip sears down my throat, chasing the last remnants of sleep from my veins. Vega stretches out near the stove, his tail thudding once against the tile before he lowers his head to his paws, watching the doorway. He knows who he expects, but it's not Sage who walks in.
Anya doesn’t knock or announce herself. She simply walks into the kitchen as if she’s claimed every inch of it, wrapped in a long charcoal coat that falls to her calves, cheeks pink from the cold, and her dark hair perfectly braided over one shoulder. She leaves her gloves on the table, crosses the space, and kisses my cheek like I didn't spend years keeping her at arm's length because it was safer that way.
“Good morning,brat.” Her voice is warm, touched with a hint of amusement. “You look like hell.”
“Nice to see you, too.” I hand her a mug. “You got in late.”
“Early.” She corrects me like she always does. “I wanted the road to myself.”
She moves to the window and takes in the ridge line, the band of aspen trunks, and the dirt road leading toward the highway. Seattle taught her to love control in small things. She needs to know where she's going and who might follow. She needs to see an exit, even when she plans to stay.
“How is Otets?” I ask, the question scraping out before I can soften it.
Anya doesn’t turn right away. “The same,” she says softly.
Her eyes close briefly. The ache slips through before she smooths it away, her composure settling like ice reforming over a cracked surface. The smile that follows could disarm a room full of enemies, but she doesn’t waste it on me.
“And how isshe?” Anya asks, lighter now. “The woman you have tucked away like a secret.”
“Contained.” I hate the word as soon as I use it. “Not harmed.”
“Contained is a box.” Her voice holds calm judgment. “Don't place a woman like that in one and expect her to thank you when you open the lid.”
“Anya.” I drain my cup. “I'm keeping her alive.”
“I know what you think you're doing,” she says softly. “I also know what it does to a person to breathe air that someone else decided you're allowed to have.”
I don't argue. We both understand that the world I manage is made of levers, doors, and escape routes that exist only because I paid for them in blood. She rests her shoulder against mine for a heartbeat, then pulls away.
“I brought pastries from the bakery in town.” The lightness returns to her tone. “The owner gave me an extra cinnamon roll because I told her I was visiting my difficult brother.”
“Good. We can test them for poison.”
She laughs under her breath. “Spare me the attempt at charm, Luka. It doesn’t suit you before breakfast.”
I refill her mug and slide it across the counter. We don't talk about Ray Bellamy or the fire that took half of Sage's life, while I boxed up the other half and marked it fragile because I wanted it near me.
She studies my face in a way that makes me want to put up a steel wall so she'll stop seeing through me. “You should know,” she continues, “she loves her sister the way I loved our mother.”
My grip on the mug tightens. “I know.”
“Do you?” she questions.
I hold her gaze until she looks away first. A small victory, pointless and old as we are. She hooks a finger under Vega's collar, rubs his neck, and smiles when he leans into her hand. Then she lifts the bag of pastries and moves toward the hallway that leads to the library.
“Where is she?” Anya asks, a knowing curve lifting her brows.
“She’s probably still asleep,” I answer, though Vega’s attention cuts toward the library, ears pricked in quiet warning.
Anya catches it too and smiles. “Then I’ll let her rest,” she replies, already turning down the hall that leads exactly there.
“Anya.”
“I'll be kind.” She promises it like a threat and leaves.
I should review files. I should make a call to move a shipment and approve three decisions that can't wait. Instead, I follow her, not close enough to intrude, but enough to hear if her tone sharpens into something that would require me to step in. Old habits.
