I do not answer. The words fall somewhere deep but never reach bottom, disappearing into the vast emptiness that has opened up inside my chest since I saw Sage's broken body being loaded into the helicopter.
The door to Sage's room opens with a soft click that somehow cuts through all other sound. A nurse steps out, clipboard clutched in her hand, her expression cautious in the way medical professionals get when they're dealing with dangerous men who are barely holding themselves together. She is young, maybe mid-twenties, with red hair pulled back in a practical bun and freckles scattered across her nose.
“She's stable,” she announces, her voice professional despite the tremor I can hear underneath. “You can go in for a few minutes but keep your voice low. She's sedated, and we need to let her body rest without stimulation.”
I nod, not trusting myself to form words that won't come out as commands or threats.
Inside, the air hums with the soft rhythm of machines that measure and monitor every aspect of Sage's fragile existence. A faint beep marks the cadence of her heartbeat, each tone a reminder that she is still alive despite everything that tried to steal her from me. The blinds are drawn against the setting sun, the last traces of daylight bleeding through the slats and painting faint lines across the wall. The room stays dim, lit only by the green glow of the monitor and the soft amber light from a single lamp in the corner.
Sage lies beneath a thin blanket, the fabric rising and falling with each shallow breath. A bandage wraps around her temple, pristine white against the honey-blonde of her hair, covering the injury there. An IV line runs from her wrist to a bag of clear fluid hanging from a metal stand, the drip steady and methodical. Her skin is pale, the freckles across her nose faint under the sterile glow of medical equipment. Her hair spills across the pillow in tangles, strands dulled by dried blood that the nurses haven't fully cleaned away yet. I cannot look away from her or force my eyes to focus on anything else in this small, suffocating room.
I sit in the chair beside her bed, the cushion thin and uncomfortable beneath me. My elbows brace on my knees, my hands clasped together to keep them from shaking with the adrenaline that refuses to drain from my system. I should not touch her. Everything I touch breaks eventually. Everyone I try to protect ends up bleeding. But the need is stronger than the voice in my head that screams warnings about what happens to people who get too close to the darkness I carry.
My fingers brush a strand of hair from her cheek with a gentleness I did not know I was still capable of. “You should nothave run,” I murmur, the sound barely leaving my throat. The words scrape out rough and broken.
She does not move. I lean back in the chair, the plastic creaking under my movements. “You make me forget the rules I built my life on,” I whisper into the quiet room, knowing she cannot hear but needing to say the words anyway. “You make me want what I swore I would never reach for. The belief that something good could survive in my world without being corrupted or destroyed.”
For a moment, the world narrows to just this room, to the soft breath escaping her lips, and the sound of her heartbeat mingling with mine until I can't tell them apart. My thumb slides over her palm, following the delicate lines etched there, tracing the lifeline that the fortune tellers claim predicts longevity. I need that line to be right. I need her to survive what I have brought into her life.
“You will wake up soon,” I tell her quietly. “And when you do, Hope will be safe. I will make sure of it. I will burn every bridge, call in every favor, and sacrifice whatever needs to be sacrificed to bring your sister home.”
My voice drops lower, shifting into Russian because some truths are easier to speak in the language of my childhood. The words come from somewhere deep, from the part of me that still remembers what it felt like to be human before the Bratva shaped me into a weapon.
“Ya najdu yeye, klyanus' tebe krovyu.” I will find her, I swear it in blood.
The vow burns as it leaves my mouth, the syllables carrying the full cost of what I'm promising. In my family, promises arecurrency more valuable than gold or territory. They demand payment, usually in blood and sacrifice, and the universe has a way of collecting debts made in moments of desperation. Tonight, I've signed my life over to this oath and bound myself to it with chains stronger than steel.
A knock breaks the quiet, three taps that cut through the hush around Sage’s bed. I rise slowly, my shoulders tight from hours of tension, every movement protesting. My hand lifts toward the gun at my hip before I force it back, reminding myself where I am and who I am with.
Anya slips inside first, her coat buttoned and her hair neatly pinned. She moves with the same composed certainty she always had when our mother put her in charge of untidy family things. Her presence tempers the room in a way the machines never could.
Nikolay follows a step behind. He gives me a nod that’s both greeting and assessment, his gaze sweeping over Sage before returning to me. There’s no aggression in him tonight, only focus.
“Brat,” he says quietly. “How bad?”
“She is stable. The doctors think she will wake by morning.” My voice comes out steadier than it feels.
He exhales, his shoulders easing slightly. “Good. Then we work. Misha sent the last coordinates but there is a gap east of the ridge line. I can have our people in Cheyenne start combing through footage and gas station cameras. Someone had to fuel the Sokolov’s vehicles.”
“Do it,” I tell him. “And get word to our contacts in the border towns. If Hope is being moved, she is either headed north or underground. Either way, we will need eyes on both routes.”
Anya moves to the side of the bed, her face softening for only a moment as she looks at Sage. Then she turns to me, her composure intact. “Do we know if Hope is hurt?”
“Not yet,” I answer. “But she is fragile. She has seizures. The doctors at the rehab center were regulating her meds before Ray took her. If they are withholding them, or even delaying a dose…” My jaw tightens, the words grinding out between my teeth. “We do not have much time.”
Anya’s eyes darken, the calculation behind them immediate. “So, we assume her condition is worsening by the hour.”
“Yes,” I say. “Which means when we find her, we will need medical transport ready.”
Nikolay’s expression hardens into focus. “Then we hit it fast. I will put people on standby in case we need an emergency handoff to one of our clinics.”
“Good,” I reply. “If she is moved again, she might not make it far. Ray does not understand the risk he has taken.”
Anya crosses her arms, her tone calm but firm. “You will bring her back, Luka. But remember, this is about more than vengeance. She is a patient, not a pawn. Treat her like one.”
“I will,” I tell her, and mean it.
Nikolay remains standing, posture taut with purpose. “You will need to hit the storage yards first,” he states. “The Sokolovs keep holding sites near the freight line. If they are moving throughstandard routes, we can intercept. I will coordinate from here and feed Misha updates every thirty minutes.”
