The gate opens as our convoy approaches, rolling aside on silent tracks. No one steps out to check who we are. They already know. Cameras and scanners have fed them license plates and thermal signatures. They spotted us before we reached the gate.
Sage leans forward slightly, her eyes widening as the perimeter walls come into focus. They encircle the estate completely, stone, steel, and tech hidden in the seams. Floodlights sweep across the ground in timed arcs that never overlap but never leave a blind spot.
The driveway curves through manicured grounds. Everything is designed with purpose. Hedges that conceal cameras, stonesthat hide motion sensors, and paths wide enough for vehicles, even where they look decorative.
The house comes into view as we crest the slight rise before the main entrance. Calling it a house feels wrong. It is a compound shaped like a mansion, with old-world Russian influence in the stonework and rooflines, and modern steel and glass cutting through it in clean lines. Warm light spills from tall windows, reflecting off the rain and the black surface of the circular drive.
For a moment, I see it through her eyes. The way it rises out of the night like it belongs in a story, not in the same world as her little yellow cottage and creaking coffee machines.
The SUV stops beneath the covered entrance. The staff wait, arranged in a casual pose, but I know exactly which carry weapons beneath their suits and dresses, and which do not. Each one is trained and passes through my security checks regularly.
I step out, and the rain kisses my face, cold and thin. I move to Sage's door and open it before any of the staff have the chance. She slides out slowly, her eyes never leaving the mansion. Her backpack remains in the car. I nod at Albert, and he takes it, slinging it over one broad shoulder.
Sage hugs her arms around herself, more out of reflex than from the temperature. The front doors open before we reach the steps. Anya stands in the doorway, her posture elegant as always, her dark hair falling over her shoulders in soft waves. The glow from the entry lights warms her features. When her eyes land on Sage, her expression brightens with unmistakable fondness.
“Sage,” she greets with a smile that actually reaches her eyes. “Welcome to Seattle.”
The relief that washes through Sage is small but visible. Her shoulders loosen a fraction, and the tension in her jaw eases. She steps forward as Anya takes one step down and opens her arms. The hug is gentle and brief, but Sage melts into it with a familiarity that tells me she needed this more than she realizes.
“It's good to see you,” Sage murmurs.
“And you.” Anya pulls back, still smiling warmly.
Sage nods, and the gratitude in her eyes is real, not forced or masked. Only then does she notice the man standing slightly behind Anya.
Nikolay.
He watches Sage with open curiosity, his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his tailored jacket. His dark hair is slightly mussed, like he ran a hand through it on his way downstairs. His green eyes settle on Sage with a stare that evaluates and questions at the same time.
He has never met her, not even during his trips to Colorado. All he knows of her came from fragments, half-formed details, and whatever I chose to share. He gives her a slow once-over, not rude, but penetrating enough that Sage straightens instinctively.
Anya gestures between them. “Sage, this is my brother, Nikolay.”
Sage offers a polite nod, her fingers toying with the hem of her sweater. “Nice to finally meet you.”
Nikolay tilts his head slightly, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Likewise. Welcome to Seattle.”
Sage adjusts her posture, just enough for me to notice, and I step closer by instinct. She glances up at me, reassuring herself with proximity before facing Nikolay again.
Anya senses the tension immediately. “Nikolay,” she chides with a soft elbow to his side, “stop staring at her like she's part of a report.”
He raises both eyebrows, unbothered. “I stare at everyone like that.”
“It's not helping,” Anya hisses quietly before turning back to Sage with another warm smile. “Ignore him. He forgets he has a face.”
Sage laughs quietly, tight, but genuine. The sound softens the tension knotted in my chest.
Nikolay lifts a hand in mock surrender but does not look away from Sage until Anya steps forward to guide her inside.
“Come,” she urges gently. “You must be exhausted. The house is warmer than the weather, I promise.”
Sage follows her into the foyer, visibly comforted by Anya's presence but still wary under Nikolay's lingering glance. Vega stays glued to her side, brushing against her leg as they cross the threshold.
Nikolay falls into step beside me, lowering his voice. “She's nervous.”
“She just traveled across the country with her life in pieces,” I reply.
His eyes narrow in thought. “Maybe. Or maybe something else is pulling her tight.”
