A breath slides out of me and returns as a feeling that’s almost like balance. I look past him at the window where the night pools black and calm beyond the glass. Leaves shiver across the deck. The air is crisp enough to tighten your lungs if you forget to breathe through your nose.
“You should rest,” Luka murmurs, leaning in, his hand lifting to my face. He brushes his fingers along my cheekbone, the touch gentle and burning all at once. He leans in, kissing me with a tenderness that feels like a secret meant only for me, then pulls back to search my eyes. “I will not be far. Kolya and Albert are on the property. Anya made sure the upstairs is staffed the way you like it, quiet and near.”
“You do that,” I murmur, glancing down at Vega, who’s settled into his watchful stance, a faint wince tugging at his eyes. “Make me think I don’t have to be afraid for a while.”
“Good,” he replies, lowering his gaze to Vega’s hip. “That’s how it should be.”
He crouches beside Vega, his hand gliding over the shaved patch of fur with a care that doesn’t fit the man everyone fears. “You’re a fool, old friend,” he murmurs, the words quiet, almost tender. “But I couldn’t do this without you.”
Vega huffs, tolerates the check, and licks Luka’s wrist once. The small sound that leaves me surprises me with its softness. Luka’s eyes find mine as he stands.
“I will meet Misha at the ridge and be back within a few hours,” he tells me, reaching for his jacket. He slides it on, straightens the collar, and checks his phone. “If he gives me what I need, I will come through that door with something solid.”
“No more half-trails,” I breathe, my throat tight enough to sting.
He nods once, quiet and sure, a promise that doesn’t need words. At the doorway, he glances back, a trace of something raw crossing his face before it hardens again. When he speaks, his voice holds the kind of truth that lodges deep and refuses to leave.
“I do not make promises,” he says, calmly. “I make outcomes.”
The corner of my mouth lifts because there’s something almost comforting about the certainty of it. “Bring me one,” I reply, a plea hiding behind permission.
He nods again, softer this time, and leaves. The door closes with a quiet finality that the room seems to notice. Voices move in the hallway, low and careful, filling the space without drawing attention. Outside, an engine starts, gravel crunches, and then the sound fades into the hillside until it’s gone.
Vega lowers himself beside the bed, easing down in small motions to protect his hip. He stretches until one paw rests against the quilt. His eyes stay on me, steady and patient, like he’s decided the rest of the house can look after itself, but I still need guarding.
The fire paints the walls in soft gold, the stones breathing with light. I listen to the house. I think of Hope at twelve, our kitchen thick with the smell of cinnamon and apples because we couldn’t afford a bakery pie. I hear the faint echo of a hospital monitor, the kind that leaves a ghost in your head long after it stops. I breathe slowly and carefully, my ribs aching in a rhythm I try to respect. I sip the broth Luka left, simple and salty, and taste more of him than the soup.
My phone rests by the glass of water, face down and silent. I don’t reach for it. I don’t want another demand, or another voice that asks for what I can’t give. The quiet would almost be peaceful if not for the dread threading along its edges like a blade.
The phone lights up. I stare at the ceiling and pretend I don’t see the glow. Vega lifts his head, his ears pricked towardthe nightstand. The light brightens, then the buzz. Unknown number.
Cold runs across my scalp in a slow crawl. My thumb hovers, then presses, because not choosing has never been an option I understand.
“Hello,” I answer, my voice low, my other hand pressed against the quilt to keep it from shaking.
“Ah,” a man croons, the sound shaped like a smile that doesn’t belong to a face you can trust. “There she is. My long-lost niece.”
Pain pulls under my ribs as I sit up. Vega braces his paws on the bed’s edge, his eyes bright with worry. I keep one hand on his ear, steadying myself with the feel of him.
“Ray,” I manage. The name tastes like metal. “You earned the silence you got. You don’t get to call me family.”
“Family is a word for utility,” he replies. “And you are useful. So yes, family. I heard about the little commotion at the hospital. The Sokolovs were overeager. I corrected their aim.”
“You corrected it,” I echo, the words coming out flat because my body wants to panic, and I won’t let it.
“I convinced them that you alive is more valuable than you otherwise,” he continues, like he’s talking business. “A dead niece is good for funerals. A living one opens doors. We’re pivoting strategy.”
“What have you done with Hope.” I don’t bother with a question mark. “Where is she.”
“Safe,” he replies, his voice soft as velvet over glass.
“Safe with who,” I demand, my nails digging into my palm where I can’t feel it. “She has epilepsy. She needs medication. She needs calm. She needs her sister.”
“You are thorough,” he says, indulgence hardening in his tone. “Her needs are being met. I’m practical, Sage. Value declines when maintenance is neglected.”
“She’s not inventory,”
“Language,” he chides. “Would you like a little assurance before bed? A voice to tuck you in?”
