She shakes her head. “Don’t be. I’m not telling you this to make you feel guilty. I’m telling you because I look at you now, caught in something that frightens you, and I don’t want you to make choices out of fear.”
I let her words sink in.
“What about Makari?” she asks, voice gentler now. “Do you think you’re trapped with him? Mom told me about him showing up and the way he looks at you.” The lift of her lips is teasing, though her eyes look tired.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “He’s overwhelming. And brilliant. And terrifying. He says things that make me feel seen, and then he turns around and runs an empire of weapons and blood. I don’t know what to do with that. Weirdly, I think he does actually give a damn about the land and the animals on it.”
Kat studies me, weighing something I can’t see.
Then, softly, she says, “Men like Makari Medvedev don’t risk empires for lust. They risk them for love.”
The words land like a stone in the pit of my stomach, sending feelings through my body that I’m not prepared for.
Before I can respond, I see exhaustion on Kat’s face. She rubs her forehead. “I need a minute. Or a drink. Or a tranquilizer.”
“Water,” I tell her. “You get water.”
She snorts, but her smile is real this time.
We clean up in quiet companionship. I tuck a blanket around her on the couch, kiss her forehead the way I used to when we were teenagers sneaking back from parties, and then head upstairs, finally letting my bones sink into the mattress.
Sleep takes me quickly, but something wakes me.
A noise downstairs. Not loud, but distinct. A bowl clinking. A spoon hitting ceramic.
Footsteps.
My pulse spikes instantly.
I slip out of bed, tiptoeing down the stairs. The house is dim, lit only by the soft glow of the kitchen lights I forgot to turn off earlier. Kat is completely knocked out on the couch, turned into it, her face hidden in the shadows.
When I reach the bottom step, I stop.
Dima is sitting at the kitchen island, long legs stretched out, arms crossed. He looks entirely at home in my cottage, as if he’s spent a hundred nights here already. Which, for all I know, he has. His presence seems to fill the entire space; solid, reassuring.
Across from him sits Andrea, with a bowl of sugary cereal, at two in the morning.
She’s swinging her feet happily, completely unbothered, cheeks puffed with marshmallows. The moment she sees me, her face holds a mixture of delight and shame.
“Dima said I could have midnight cereal,” she announces proudly.
Dima lifts a single brow, shrugging. “She was awake. I was awake. Compromise.”
I stare at him. “It’s two a.m.”
He shrugs again. “She asked very nicely.”
Andrea nods enthusiastically.
Despite everything—the fear, the exhaustion, the threats lurking in the woods—I feel something warm slip through me.
Safe.
For just a moment, I feel safe.
I step into the kitchen, brushing a hand over Andrea’s curls before looking at Dima. “Thank you.”
He inclines his head. “Always.”
