I towel my hair until it stops dripping, leaving it damp and tangled around my shoulders.
Like the first time I met them.
The thought surfaces unbidden. That day in my father’s office, me in a bikini playing confident socialite. Hair wet. Smile bright and fake.
I was performing then.
I'm not performing now.
I walk downstairs barefoot, each step deliberate. My body moves differently than it did this morning. Heavier, more cautious, like I'm relearning the mechanics of balance. Trauma does that. Shifts how you inhabit yourself. Changes the relationship between intention and action, between what you mean to do and what your nervous system will allow.
The living room is lit softly, lamps casting warm light across leather and dark wood. The fireplace hums, radiating heat that feels almost suffocating.
All three of them are here.
Maksim stands near the window, hands in his pockets, jacket abandoned somewhere. His posture is too straight. Contained.
Zakhar leans against the mantle, arms crossed. Carved from stone. But his eyes track me the moment I enter, scanning for injury with precision.
Alexei sits on the edge of the couch, elbows on knees, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles are white.
None of them speak.
They're waiting for me to set the tone. To tell them what I need. Whether to come closer or stay back.
The realization is both touching and exhausting. I've spent my life being underestimated, being dismissed, being treated as decorative and delicate.
These men see me as the axis their world spins on.
The responsibility of that is overwhelming.
On the coffee table, cheese and charcuterie boards sit untouched. Crackers arranged in neat patterns. Grapes glistening. Cured meats fanned like playing cards.
Alexei made this.
While I was upstairs scrubbing terror from my skin, he was in the kitchen slicing cheese and arranging fruit we don't want to eat.
The absurdity of it almost makes me laugh.
I inhale slowly, gathering myself.
Then I sit in one of the leather chairs. It squeaks softly under my weight.
"I need to know the truth."
My voice comes out hollow. Scraped. Hours of screaming and crying have left my throat raw.
Alexei moves immediately, rising from the couch like I've shocked him.
I raise one hand.
He freezes mid-step. The hurt on his face is visible, visceral.
But if he touches me right now, I'll shatter completely.
"About the Valkov Bratva," I continue. "About the Severyns. All of it. No more half-truths. No more protection. I need to know."
The room goes still.
