My throat tightens.
“And your sister hasn’t helped,” she continues, her tone becoming thoughtful. “I know you think Katherine’s always been cold because she’s disciplined or practical. But that’s not it.”
I look over. “What do you mean?”
Mom places a hand on my knee. “She’s jealous of you, Roxy. She always has been.”
I blink. “Jealous? Of me?” How? Kat is the one who has always had her shit together. She married rich, early, and got Mom into a secure and safe home after Dad died.
“Yes. Because you’re warm. And expressive. And you feel things with your complete self. She’s always been afraid to do that. Her marriage… well.”
She trails off, but I know enough to fill in the blanks—David’s indifference, the awkward silences at holidays, the way Kat seems brittle instead of content. Always ready to snap at someone.
“It’s loveless,” Mom says softly. “Your father and I had something real. She saw that, of course, just like you did, but she’s never found that. She envies you for having the kind of heart capable of it.”
I exhale slowly, the weight of her words settling over me. I’ve never really thought of it before, mostly because Kat is always coming at me, but it must be lonely. Living without love.
Through the doorway, I can see Andi curled in the armchair, the flicker of morning light catching her eyelashes as she dozes with a half-eaten pancake on her plate. She really shouldn’t haveactualcake so early in the morning. Standing, I walkinto the living room and pull her into my lap, and she nestles instinctively against my chest, warm and soft and safe.
Mom follows quietly, watching with a small smile. “It matters who you choose,” she whispers, leaning in the doorway. “A life is long when you choose wrong. And short and beautiful when you choose right.”
I look toward the window again, toward the trail where Mak disappeared. The thought of him stirs something I don’t want to admit—a strange mixture of fear and curiosity, skepticism and longing.
A man like Makari Medvedev, who has blood on his hands and an empire built on shadows, could never offer anything like the love my parents had.
Right?
The question lingers as the river flows outside, steady and unhurried.
Right.
…except the certainty I’m trying to force behind the word won’t settle. Not when the image of him in damp boots, expensive shirt, wide-eyed and awkward in front of my mother keeps rising in my mind like sunlight through water.
Chapter 22
Makari
Sundays at Ursa Arcane are usually quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes the forest seem watchful, the hills listening, the entire compound holding its breath. Most of the staff stay home; the tourists who come for luxury hunts leave Saturday night or arrive Monday morning; the shooting range stays locked.
It should feel peaceful. But it doesn’t.
The drizzle started before dawn—a thin, cold mist that clings to the pines and turns the trails to slick patches of mud. By midmorning, the fog thickens along the ridgelines, swallowing sound and making every shape in the trees look like it could be a person. Once, I used to love this atmosphere; back when I was the only thing in the woods to be feared. Now, something settles under my ribs like a trapped bird.
I’m drinking coffee in my office when Jesse bursts in, soaked and carrying tension that means something has gone very wrong.
“They’re back,” he says. No preamble. No explanation. “Tracks. Prints. Sign of four men, maybe more.”
Everything inside me goes still. “Where?”
“Northwest passage. Past the old surveyor’s cabin.”
That’s deep.Toodeep. Closer to our main routes than these ghosts should ever get, and there’s no way they’ve just stumbled upon that information.
I’m on my feet before he finishes speaking.
“Get the men. Only the most trustworthy ones.”
He nods once and is gone. Ursa Arcane employs several hundred people, fifty-two of whom are outdoorsmen; but only a handful of those are myboyeviki, warriors, carrying out the bloodiest orders ruthlessly. They’d kill themselves before they spoke a word about what goes on here.
