Colorado shrinks below us, the wilderness reducing to a smear of green and white. I press my hand against the window, watching the mountains disappear. The ranges that dominated the landscape become wrinkles in the earth, then barely visible bumps.
Clouds swallow us whole moments later, white mist obscuring the view. The world outside becomes nothing but gray fog, endless in every direction. The plane tilts higher, cutting through gray sky and carrying me toward whatever comes next. And away from the girl I used to be.
8
LUKA
The jet touches down through low clouds and rain, tires hitting the runway with a heavy jolt that rolls through the cabin. Outside the oval window, the world is gray and wet, the pavement shining under rows of blue lights. The city glows beyond the fence, reflected in slick tarmac and puddles that distort everything into streaks of color.
My men move as soon as we come to a stop. Seats unbuckle, bodies rise, and the quiet murmur of Russian and English blends into the familiar hum of returning to home territory. I finish a low conversation with Misha and Kolya near the galley. We run through the last pieces of information that came in before landing: a payment that cleared, a name that resurfaced in a shipment manifest where it does not belong, and a contact who suddenly went silent. I speak softly, aware of Sage sitting further up, buckled into her seat.
She has not interrupted once. On the plane from Aspen Ridge, she spent most of the flight staring at nothing, her fingers worrying the edge of the blanket I forced on her. Her phonenever left her hand, her thumb drifting over the screen again and again without truly using it.
I watched her more than I should have. I watched her turn her face toward the dark window when she thought no one was paying attention. I watched the little lines around her mouth deepen, and her eyes go distant in a way that tells me her mind is somewhere I cannot follow.
Now she stands slowly as if any sudden jolt might crack whatever fragile shell is keeping her together. She smooths her hands over her jeans, then the hem of her sweater, a nervous ritual she repeats twice before she reaches for her backpack.
“Ten minutes,” I remind my men, my tone quiet but firm. “Same formation. Same protocol.”
They nod. No questions or hesitation.
The door lowers with a hydraulic hiss. Air rushes in, cold and laced with rain, carrying the scent of jet fuel and the city beyond. Vega moves before anyone else, his nails clicking on the stairs as he descends in a fluid line of muscle and focus, his nose lifted to sniff the damp air.
I follow him down into the rain. Wet pavement reflects the hangar lights like a mirror, broken only by the dark lines of tire tracks and footprints. Two rows of black SUVs wait in perfect alignment, idling like a small battalion ready for deployment. The men standing beside them straighten when my shoes hit the ground. Backs lengthen, shoulders pull back, and conversations cut off mid-sentence.
A brief greeting passes between them in Russian, low and respectful. I nod once.
Behind me, Sage steps out into the rain. I turn my head enough to watch her without making it obvious. She pauses for a breath at the top of the stairs, her knuckles white around the strap of her backpack. The wind tugs her hair, pulling honey-blonde strands free from the knot at the back of her head. Her face looks even paler in the washed-out light, her freckles standing out even more.
The rain dots her cheeks and lashes. She does not wipe it away. Her eyes sweep the hangar, taking in the SUVs, the armed men, and the way they align themselves with unconscious precision around me. Now she steps fully into my world. There is no coffee counter or town square between us and what I am.
For a moment, she looks like she might turn back toward the jet. Then she squares her shoulders and descends, one hand wrapping tighter around the backpack strap, the other held close to her body as if she is bracing for impact.
Misha falls into position a step behind my right shoulder. Kolya and Albert move toward the SUVs, scanning the perimeter, checking corners that have already been cleared twice. The routine calms them. It calms me too.
As Sage reaches the bottom of the stairs, two of my men pass behind her, their voices low as they exchange a quick remark in Russian about the weather and the drive ahead. She jerks at the sound, her shoulders snapping tense, the reaction quick and involuntary. Her breath hitches audibly. She looks over her shoulder as if expecting an attack.
My attention narrows, not on the words, but on her response. She hears Russian and her body locks. Her fingers tighten on the strap until the knuckles go even whiter. She does not understandwhat they mention. She only hears the language and reacts like someone touched a bruise.
Interesting. I could pretend not to notice. Instead, I tuck the reaction away, another piece in the picture I am assembling. She thinks she hides it when she takes a slow breath and forces her hand to relax. She lifts her chin, trying to smooth the fear from her features before she looks at me. She manages polite neutrality, but the tremor in her fingers betrays her.
“Cold?” I ask, stepping to her side and taking her backpack from her before she can refuse.
Her eyes flash to mine. “Just tired.”
The lie is small and easy. She hands it to me like a paper cup, hoping I will accept it and walk away. I place her bag in the rear of the lead SUV and gesture toward the open door. She hesitates only a second before climbing inside. Vega jumps in after her, taking the place at her feet.
The convoy pulls out as one body, engines humming in unison, tires hissing over wet concrete. The hangar rolls away, replaced by the high fence line, then the streets that lead toward the heart of the city. Seattle at night in the rain is all reflections. Headlights smear across the pavement in long streaks. Neon signs blur into blocks of color that flash in puddles and vanish. Skyscrapers rise on the horizon, glass and steel reflecting what little light can escape the low clouds.
Sage presses her knees together, her hands folded over them. Every few seconds, her fingers twitch toward her pocket where her phone rests, then she stops herself and laces them together again. She stares out the window, but her eyes are not on the view. They are somewhere farther away that I cannot see.
“You will like the view from the house,” I remark, more to cut the pressure inside the SUV than because I believe in small talk. “Water on three sides. City on the fourth.”
She nods once, barely moving her head. “You have a lot of views.”
It is a neutral comment, but the way she delivers it feels like an accusation. I consider pushing, asking what she means, and forcing eye contact. Instead, I let it pass. There are bigger questions between us than whether she resents the size of my estate.
The city gives way to a more secluded road that winds along the coastline. Trees rise on one side, dark and dripping. On the other, the sound of the water grows louder, waves slapping against rock, and the occasional glimpse of white foam visible through breaks in the barrier. After twenty minutes, the gate looms ahead, iron and steel woven into a design that looks almost decorative until you see the way it is reinforced. Two guard towers stand on either side, their windows lit from within.
