She will hate me for this.
Anxiety swells beneath my ribs as I stare at the ceiling, my heart pounding. I understand now in a way I didn't before. This isn't a quick rescue. This is a war, and Hope is the bait drawing both sides toward a confrontation that will end in blood, no matter what happens. Luka knows it. Misha knows it. And now I know it too.
Luka's world doesn't move in days or weeks. It moves in blood and patience, in calculated strikes and careful planning. He's not going to rush in blindly to save Hope because rushing gets people killed. He's going to hunt Ray the way a predator hunts prey, methodical and relentless, until there's nowhere left for the man to hide. Yet patience requires time, and I don't know how much time Hope has.
The helplessness I feel is suffocating. But I know Luka will keep hunting, using every resource at his disposal to find my sister. I have to believe he'll succeed. I have to trust him because I have no other choice.
I turn onto my side carefully, mindful of the pain. An image of Vega flashes in my mind. He will recover. It should be enough, but I miss the press of him at my side, the warmth that always manages to chase the fear away.
I force myself to breathe slowly, counting each inhale and exhale until the anxiety subsides to something manageable. Luka will find her. He has resources I can't even imagine, connections that span states and, probably, countries. He has men who are trained for exactly this situation. People who know how to track, hunt, and fight. And he’s motivated not just by obligation but by what I saw in his eyes when he looked at me earlier.
He cares about Hope because she matters to me. And whatever is developing between us, whatever this complicated thing is that's grown from attraction into something deeper and more dangerous, it means he'll move heaven and earth to bring my sister back safely.
“We’re coming for you,” I whisper into the dark, speaking to Hope even though she can't hear me. “No matter what it costs. No matter how long it takes. I'm going to bring you home.”
The monitor beside me keeps its steady rhythm. I focus on it until sleep finally drags me under, not gentle or peaceful, but enough to carry me into whatever comes next. The dreams that follow are a tangle of fragments: Hope’s smile, the ghost of our childhood, Vega’s blood on my skin, and Luka’s face when the hardness gives way for a heartbeat meant for me alone.
When I wake again, the room is dark. The window shows nothing but blackness, the mountains invisible against the night sky. But I feel different somehow, stronger despite the pain. The panic has receded enough for me to think clearly, to plan instead of just react.
Luka will hunt Ray. I’ll heal, and when Hope is found, I won’t just wait on the sidelines. I’ll be there, stronger, smarter, and unafraid to face whatever comes next. Because love demands more than survival. It demands action.
24
SAGE
Late fall wraps Aspen Ridge in a kind of quiet that never quite relaxes. The night air drifts through the cracked window with a clean bite of pine and fallen leaves. The stone hearth sends up a small, steady flame that licks at the dry logs. Three days isn’t enough to turn hospital walls into a memory. It’s just long enough for the bruises to fade from purple to yellow, but not long enough for the ache underneath to let go.
Luka moves through the bedroom like he’s handling a crisis he’s already rehearsed a hundred times. He smooths the edge of the quilt where it already lies smooth. He turns up the thermostat two degrees, waits, then sets it back down one, as if precision could coax my body to heal faster. He refills my water and slides a thin slice of lemon into the glass. He’s left a bowl of broth on the nightstand, the steam curling up lazily. I can’t tell if I want to drink it or hide under the quilt until it gets cold.
Vega lifts his head from the rug when Luka passes. The dog’s ears tip toward him and then toward me, a quiet triangle of concern. He pushes himself to stand with effort and a soft intake of breath. His back leg moves in a careful arc. The wound at hiship has made him slow and stubborn at the same time. When he reaches the bed, he leans his weight against the mattress, so he won’t strain anything else. He rests his chin on the quilt near my knee and watches me, as if watching is medicine.
“Drink,” Luka instructs with a small nod toward the glass as if that might get me to comply. He is all clean lines and restrained movement. He removed his jacket but left the shoulder holster on, a concession to the hour and truth of our lives. His tie is loosened enough to show a strip of throat I won’t let myself think about right now.
I lift the mug carefully. The heat works between my palms and along the ache in my wrist. The first swallow sits warm and patient in my chest.
“You fuss,” I murmur, because it’s easier than thanking him and harder than pretending I don’t notice.
“I organize,” he counters, his mouth flattening a fraction. “It calms me.”
He returns to the side of the bed and checks the pillow behind my back with two fingers. He’s not hovering. He’s auditing. A laugh tries to climb up my throat, the kind that doesn’t belong to humor at all. I swallow it back, knowing it would twist into something closer to a sob.
“How bad is it?” I ask, the words small in the room that contains too much unsaid. “With Ray. With the Sokolovs. And finding Hope.”
Luka lowers onto the edge of the mattress near my hip, careful not to jostle anything. His knee angles toward me.
“We chased three leads,” he tells me, watching my face like he’s deciding if I can handle the truth without breaking. “Two went nowhere. The warehouse was cleared out before we got there. The car yard off Route 9 had a few men who knew better than to talk.”
“So, they kept their mouths shut and called it loyalty,” I mutter, rubbing my thumb along the curve of the mug.
“Calculation dressed as fear,” he corrects. “The third holds. A contact in the rail district claims he saw Hope on Tuesday night. He wants cash to remember what color the truck was.”
“We pay him,” I answer without room for debate. The mug trembles, even though I’m trying hard to keep my hands still.
“We already paid him,” Luka returns, finally letting his knuckles touch the blanket above my leg, the pressure no heavier than a thought. “A truck tied to the Sokolovs left not long after he claimed to see her. The route split near the mills, and two cameras went dark. Misha is meeting a guy who used to handle security there. Money should make his memory better.”
“You trust him?” I press, because I want a yes even when I know better.
“I trust leverage,” he answers. “And I trust that everyone sells to someone. We bought him for one night.”
