Aleksander’s jaw works, and his answer is slow, honest. “I trust that she’ll always look out for herself first. Sometimes that means helping us. Sometimes it doesn’t.”
“You were texting her before,” I say quietly. “I saw her name pop up on your phone.”
Aleksander doesn’t look away. He nods, no trace of guilt or evasion. “She’s the one who told me you were at the estate. I wouldn’t have found you otherwise.” He sets the mug down, voice steady but tired. “She risked a lot, letting me know. If my mother had found out, it would’ve gone bad for her too.”
“Do you trust her?” I ask again, softer this time.
“She owes my family,” he says finally. “Or at least, that’s what she says. Her father died protecting mine—a long time ago. I think part of her feels like she has to watch over me, make sure I don’t get myself killed. Maybe she sees something in me worth saving. Or maybe she just wants to settle old debts so she can walk away.”
He glances away, brow furrowed. “But sometimes, I think she just…wants to see how it all plays out. She likes having a hand in things, pulling strings, being the one nobody expects. With Selene, it’s never just one reason.”
He looks back at me, suddenly vulnerable in a way I rarely see. “Whatever the answer, I’m not naive. I take her help, but I never forget what she’s capable of. And neither should you.”
I watch Aleksander across the kitchen table, the lines of worry on his face smoothed out for just a moment, the morning sunlight softening him in a way I doubt many people ever see. When he looks at me, there’s a gentleness there that surprises me every time, as if—despite everything—he’s still capable of softness, of warmth, of care.
I pour him another mug of milk and honey, and he actually accepts it, fingers brushing mine in a way that feels intimate and private. For a heartbeat, it almost feels normal. I wonder if anyone has ever taken care of him like this, or if he’s always had to be the strong one, carrying burdens no one else could see.
But the moment doesn’t last. The elevator chimes, a door opens, and Nikolai steps into the apartment with his usual gravity. He gives me a polite nod, then turns to Aleksander, murmuring in Russian, low and urgent. I watch Aleksander’s shoulders straighten, his whole body shifting as he stands. The softness disappears, replaced by the icy focus of a man who knows danger is never far away.
He gives me one last look—something between apology and regret—before following Nikolai down the hallway, already talking business, already plotting their next move. I’m left alone at the kitchen table, the mug warm in my hands, the apartment suddenly far too big and quiet.
I shake my head, trying to laugh at myself. What am I even thinking? I can’t change him. He’s made of iron and secrets and old wounds. He’s always going to be this man—the one peoplefear, the one who keeps a gun on the nightstand, the one who makes decisions that could destroy us both.
I look out the window, tracing the city’s sprawl with my eyes, and try to remember who I was before all of this. I grew up alone—my parents gone before I really knew what family was, shuffling from one distant relative to another, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. No siblings, no one who stayed, no one who loved me just for me.
No one, except Lily.
She’s the only thing in my life I’ve ever been able to hold on to. The only person I know I can’t lose.
And now, with Aleksander in the picture, everything is messier, more dangerous, but also—maybe—more real than it’s ever been.
I wrap my arms around myself, trying to build a wall between my heart and the man in the next room, but it’s already too late. Some part of me belongs to him, whether I want it or not.
I leave my empty mug in the sink and drift down the hallway, needing to move, to shake off the heaviness pressing in on my chest. The apartment is quiet except for the faint rumble of Aleksander’s voice. It pulls me in, even when I know I shouldn’t listen.
I pass the office and glance in. Aleksander and Nikolai are hunched over a wall crowded with photos, maps, and red string—a web of connections I can’t follow, names I don’t recognize. Papers are pinned everywhere, faces marked with question marks, routes traced from city to city, line after line threading all their secrets together.
Nikolai notices me first. He stops mid-sentence, eyes narrowing. Aleksander looks up, his face unreadable, but I see something flicker in his gaze—a warning, maybe, or just worry.
No matter how many doors close behind me, I know I’ll always be on the outside, searching for a way in.
Nikolai steps over and quietly pulls the door closed before I can linger in the threshold. The soft click sounds final. I’m shut out of whatever it is they’re planning. Whatever new danger is circling.
I stand there for a moment, feeling foolish for wanting to be included, for thinking I could ever be part of their world beyond the rooms and meals and late-night confessions. I turn away and head down the hall, past Lily’s new room, past the art studio filled with versions of myself, and out to the living room.
The city sprawls outside the glass. I press my hand to the cool pane and look out, searching the streets for something—maybe for myself. Down below, people hurry through their day, free and unaware. I watch the sky, letting the sun warm my face, wondering if I’ll ever feel that kind of freedom again.
For a moment, the apartment feels like a cage, gilded and safe but still a cage.
20
ALEKSANDER
I ignorethe throb in my shoulder and the heat under my skin. Pain is background noise; the board in front of me is the only thing that matters.
Nikolai and I face the wall we’ve been building for days. Maps. Faces. Gate photos. A blown-up seating chart of first class and the upper deck. Red string runs from the galley to 3A, from 3A to the lounge, from the lounge to a narrow service corridor most passengers never notice.
On the side, we’ve pinned the passenger manifest. Every name has a mark next to it—green for cleared, yellow for unknowns, red for problems. Kirov’s line is boxed in black.
