I sit back in the chair and let the leather cool my shoulders through my shirt. “Say what you want to say.”
Misha leans in, the lamplight highlighting the pale line that runs from his ear to his jaw, an old fight that he won because he always wins. “Your attachment is not my concern until it becomes my problem. I think it already has. I do not know if I can trust you to make the brutal call if she is in the middle of it.”
“I make brutal calls every hour of my life,” I remind him, even as heat lifts along the back of my neck. “You have watched me do it.”
“Not like this,” he returns. “You are clever when you do not care. When you care this much, you are not clever, you are nuclear. You destroy the target, yes, but the earth under your own feet shakes and your balance changes.” His focus doesn’t falter. “I need to know if you will let this ambush come to you just to pull Ray from whatever rock he crawls under.”
The truth is simple. “Yes.”
Kolya mutters a prayer under his breath in Russian. “At least he is honest.”
Misha’s eyes narrow. “Then I will make my own plan behind yours, in case honesty turns to smoke.”
“Do it,” I say. “Hide it even from me.”
Kolya slips out, but Misha holds his ground. His eyes stay on me, silent and assessing. “You are not your father,” he says finally. “You do not need to pretend you are made of steel. But if you let this woman pull you off balance, I cannot fix what will happen.”
“I do not ask you to fix me,” I admit. “I ask you to keep me honest.”
“I am trying.” His voice lowers without losing its strength. “If the primary is pinned and you are forced to choose between the sister and your men, you will remember this conversation.”
“I will choose what must be chosen,” I state, my hand closing around the edge of the desk until the wood groans.
He studies me for a moment longer. “Then remember whatmustdemands.”
“Go,” I tell him. “Check the units. Wake Ivan and put him on external screens. If a rabbit moves near the south fence, I want to know.”
He gives a short nod and walks out, leaving the air charged with everything he didn’t say.
I am alone with the low hum of the security feeds and the soft click of the clock. The office smells like leather, paper, and a faint trace of smoke from the cedar logs banked in the hearth. I could force sleep. I could lie on top of the quilt and pretend ten minutes of stillness might quiet me, but it would be a lie. My pulse hammers on, unbothered by my pretense.
“Idi.” I instruct Vega to come, and he moves without hesitation. His nails tick on the floorboards as he moves to my side with an expectation that I will issue a command. He sits, head up, and ears forward. I rub the ridge behind his ear and feel the steadyacceptance in his muscles. He would walk into fire if I told him to. Unlike men, he would not ask why. The loyalty does not soothe me. It hardens me.
“Snaruzhi,” I tell him.Outside.
We step out into the night. The mountain air slips across my face, cold and clean, with a taste of pine and distant water. The lawn runs long and dark toward the tree line, and the drive cuts a pale curve toward the gates where my men will change out at midnight. The house sits quietly behind me, a body at rest, ribs lifting and falling with the slow breath of sleeping rooms. Vega trots a pace ahead, nose to the wind, pausing to read the night before he looks back for my permission to roam. I give a small hand signal, and he moves out along the gravel, a ghost of movement that disappears and returns, always within my reach.
I walk the perimeter watching the cameras pivot like patient eyes. I count the beats between the sweep of the motion lights. I listen for sounds that should not be there.
My control used to fit without thought. Now it hangs wrong, like a coat that won’t close, or a collar that doesn’t sit right. I want Ray to come. I want him to crawl from whatever loyalty he rented from the Sokolovs and offer me his throat. I want to take his plans and grind them into the mountain until nothing remains but the scrape of boots and the scent of burnt rubber.
I think of Sage in my house, walking through rooms with a composure that is not false courage but a decision she makes in every breath. I think of the way her voice remained steady when she said she would bring her sister home. She doesn’t understand men like Ray. She understands what’s worse: how a family shapes its own monsters and then learns to live with them.
When the circuits are done, and my muscles have quieted enough to pass for calm, I go back inside. Vega leads me toward the front hall, then veers off without waiting, drawn by something familiar. I know where he is going before I hear the kettle.
The kitchen lights are dimmed to a soft glow. Sage stands by the stove, barefoot, wearing one of my dress shirts. It hangs to mid-thigh on her, sleeves rolled up, and the collar open at the throat. Her hair hangs loose around her shoulders. She pours hot water over a tea sachet, the steam drifting over her face as she waits for the cup to fill. Her profile is intent and unguarded, the way people look when they think no one is watching and there is no need to pretend.
Vega pads in, his tail giving a quiet arc. He sits near her feet as if he has been doing this for years. She glances down and smiles, a small, natural curve, her hand brushing the bridge of his nose. The room suddenly feels too bright, then not bright enough. It is nothing and it is everything at the same time.
I step farther into the room. “Are you stealing my shirts,” I ask, “or am I lending them without remembering?”
She turns, her smile lingering, then fading. “Borrowing,” she replies. “If you intend to punish me for it, you’ll have to stand in line.”
“I do not punish,” I answer. “I collect.”
She studies me over the rim of the cup. “That sounds like a threat.”
“It is a promise,” I admit, and I do not pretend it is only about silk and buttons.
