I ignore the implication and keep walking. But I feel it too. Something coils inside Sage, a fear she will not name, waiting for the right moment to bleed through. And Nikolay, damn him, sees it immediately.
Inside, the air is warm and scented faintly with citrus and clean wood. The foyer is wide enough to hold a small orchestra and still have room to walk around them. A staircase curves along one wall, its railing a line of dark wood. Art hangs in various places, including an oil painting of a Russian winter scene across from a framed photograph of Elliott Bay.
Staff move with seamless coordination. One takes our coats. Another disappears with the bags. A third stands near the base of the stairs, tablet in hand, waiting for my next directive.
Near the entrance to the side hall, a subtle panel glows green as one of the guards presses his thumb to it. Biometric scanners are woven into this place's structure so thoroughly that most guests never notice them.
The hallways are wide by design. You can move a small team through them without bumping shoulders, carry an injured man on a stretcher, and deploy cover if gunfire ever rips through these walls. It looks like a home, and it functions as a fortress. To Sage, it must feel like another planet.
She walks slightly ahead of me, her eyes roaming over high ceilings and gleaming floors. I can practically feel her shrinking inward, as if folding herself into a smaller form so the place will not notice her.
“This way,” I murmur, guiding her toward the guest wing on the east side.
She does not answer, and I am not surprised. Her silence tightens the deeper we go into my world. We stop at a door near the end of the corridor. I swipe a keycard, and the lock clicks softly. The suite beyond is one of the nicer ones, not because I plan to keep her comfortable for comfort's sake, but because I know what restless minds do in rooms that feel like cages.
The lights come on gradually when we enter, warming from soft amber near the floor to a brighter glow near the ceiling. A fire already burns in the stone hearth along the far wall, the flames reflecting in the glass doors that open to a terrace. Beyond the glass, the dark expanse of water stretches out, choppy and restless under the rain. The city lights blink in the distance.
A king-sized bed sits centered on a platform, dressed in gray linen and blankets thick enough to smother a winter night. A sitting area occupies one corner, with two chairs and a low table near the fireplace. On another wall, a wardrobe stands open, revealing a few sets of clothes I had delivered when we were still in the air, based on what I remember of her size.
Sage stops just inside the threshold and takes it all in. The fire. The windows. The expensive sheets. Her gaze lingers on the clothes, her eyes narrowing as if she does not quite trust the fact that I anticipated this much.
“This will be your room,” I tell her. “For now.”
She wraps her arms around herself again, her fingertips digging into her elbows. “How many rooms do you have?”
“Enough.” My answer is too abrupt, so soften it a fraction. “You are safe here.”
She gives a brief nod, but her body tells another story. Her shoulders are too tight, her spine too straight, and her handsare too still. She is not relaxing into the reassurance. She grips herself harder.
“I will have someone bring food,” I add. “You have not eaten anything since Colorado.”
Her eyes dart to me at that, surprise slipping through her mask. “You noticed?”
“Of course.”
She swallows, her throat bobbing. “I wasn’t hungry.”
Another small lie.
“Shower. Eat. Sleep,” I instruct, keeping my tone even. “We will talk tomorrow when you have rested.”
I should leave it at that. Instead, I step closer, the pull toward her as automatic as breathing now. I lift my hand, slow enough that she can see it, and brush my knuckles along the line of her jaw.
Her skin is cool from the rain. She goes still under my touch. Not shrinking back and not leaning in. Just frozen, as if her nerves have overloaded.
“Printsessa,” I murmur, forcing her to meet my eyes. “Are you afraid of this place?”
For a heartbeat, a spark of honesty flashes across her face. A moment of panic, guilt, or a secret she holds against her ribs like shrapnel. It is there long enough to register, then she slams the door behind it.
“I’m just tired,” she answers, her voice soft. “That’s all.”
She lies, and she thinks it is small enough that I do not notice. Instead, I nod. “Rest then.”
I let my hand fall and step away. Vega, who has been sitting by the hearth, stands and pads to her side. He leans against her thigh. She automatically drops a hand onto his head, her fingers sinking into his fur. He sighs, contently, and the smallest line of her body eases at the contact. I leave before I give in to the urge to stay. The door closes gently behind me, and the lock engages with a soft click.
The corridor outside Sage's suite is quiet. A lamp burns low at one end, projecting soft light along the runner. A camera in the corner watches the length of the hall. I know what it sees, a man who commands this house yet cannot pull himself away from one door.
I stop outside her room and listen. Silence meets me. I lean against the wall across from her door, letting the solid surface anchor me. I rest my head back and study the ceiling. The house settles in quiet rhythms, but my mind refuses to follow.
