I straighten with my hand still on Vega’s neck and meet his eyes. For a moment, the room fades. His eyes move over my face, taking in details I wish he would miss. The fact that I probablylook like I slept in a shipping crate and the way my hand trembles slightly on Vega’s collar.
He steps around the table and pulls out the chair next to his with a small nod, as if he always intended for me to sit there. “Come eat.”
“Thank you,” I manage. The words feel thick on my tongue.
I walk toward the chair, aware of every pair of eyes in the room focused on me. Vega falls back to Luka’s side but keeps his body angled toward me, close enough that my calf brushes his shoulder when I sit. Only then do I take in the fourth person at the table. He sits at the far end, in a sleek black wheelchair, his posture straight despite the obvious weakness on his left side. His hair is silver and cut close to his head. The lines on his face are deep, carved by years marked by authority, war, and sickness, all tangled together. His hazel eyes match Luka’s almost exactly.
Isaak Barinov.
My pulse jumps. I knew Isaak would be intimidating but seeing him in person makes it real in a way Luka’s stories never did. Even sitting in a wheelchair, he has a presence that makes my nerves crawl and reminds me he built a world men still fear.
Luka rests a hand lightly on the back of my chair. “Otets, this is Sage Bellamy.”
Isaak studies me as his gaze travels from my face to my shoulders to the hand I still have resting on my lap, my fingers curled tightly in the fabric of my jeans. I fight the urge to fidget.
“So.” His voice is lower than Luka’s and rougher, with an accent that never softened. “This is the girl from Colorado.”
Girl.I bite back the urge to correct him, but my tongue feels too thick for a lecture.
“Yes, sir,” I answer instead, because I have no idea what else fits.
A hint of amusement touches his mouth. “How do you find Seattle?”
I wet my lips and glance toward the windows, buying myself a second. The water outside looks cold and restless. “Different from home,” I admit. “Louder and bigger, but the view is beautiful.”
He hums, a small sound that might be approval. “You sleep well?”
The questions are simple, but the way his eyes never leave my face makes them feel like a test.
“I woke up a few times,” I confess, because lying to this man feels dangerous in a different way from lying to his son. “New place. New noises.”
“Of course,” he murmurs. “That passes.”
A maid appears at my elbow, setting a cup of coffee in front of me and a plate of food between Luka and me. Steam curls up from scrambled eggs, roasted potatoes, and sliced fruit. The smell of the eggs hits my nose first. My stomach lurches, violent and sudden. I grip the edge of the table with one hand and force my other to reach for the coffee. The mug feels hot against my palm. If I focus on that, the wave of nausea may fade.
Isaak’s gaze narrows a fraction. “Bellamy. I knew a Bellamy once. He was a man who underestimated the world he lived in. I hope you are wiser.”
Sweat prickles at the back of my neck. The room feels too warm, and the edges of my vision begin to blur.
“Sage?” Anya leans forward, slightly concerned. “You look a little pale.”
“I…” I shove back my chair, the legs scraping softly against the floor. The movement draws every pair of eyes in the room. My skin feels too tight, and my mouth full of cotton. “I’m sorry. I don’t feel well.”
Luka’s hand finds the back of my chair again as if he intends to catch me if I topple. His brows pull together, and for an instant, I think he’ll insist I sit and eat and push through whatever this is.
“I will walk you back,” he offers, his voice low near my shoulder.
Anya’s hand lifts quickly, a quiet interruption. “I can go with her,” she volunteers, standing smoothly. “You should finish with Otets.”
Their conversation happens over my head, but I see the way Luka’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t like the idea of letting me out of his sight.
Anya’s fingers touch his forearm in a light, familiar gesture. “You hovering over her will not help,” she reminds him gently. “Let me handle this.”
There’s a brief pause, then Luka inclines his head once, the smallest concession, and looks back at me. “If you need the doctor, Anya will take you downstairs.”
“Thank you,” I manage, my voice thin.
Vega rises as I push my chair back fully. He seems torn between staying at Luka’s side and following me. A quiet sound leaves his throat, and Luka pats his shoulder once.
