Zakhar and Victoria are on the couch, tangled together like they've been there for hours. Maybe they have. It's Sunday. No meetings. No emergencies. No threats lurking in shadows.
The living room glows golden with afternoon light. Warm lamps casting soft shadows. The fireplace hums quietly, filling the space with heat.
Zakhar's back is against the armrest, legs stretched long, taking up most of the couch. Victoria lies against his chest, her body curved into his like she was made to fit there. His hand rests on her hip, possessive even in peace. The other threads through her hair, fingers moving in absent rhythm, stroking from crown to ends.
Her eyes are closed but she's not sleeping. I can tell by the way her fingers tap against Zakhar's chest, keeping time with Maksim's piano. Unconscious movement. The kind of intimacy that comes from learning each other's rhythms.
Zakhar sees me first. His gaze lifts, sharp and assessing despite the relaxed posture.
"Everything go okay?" he asks quietly.
His voice is calm. Neutral. But I hear the question underneath.
Did you do it?
I nod. "It’s done."
Victoria's eyes open. She shifts slightly, turning her head to look at me. Her expression is soft, content, but aware. She knows I left to handle business.
She doesn't know what kind.
Not yet.
Zakhar knows, though. We talked about it last night after she fell asleep between us. Talked about Arthur Ainsley and what needed to happen. What I volunteered to do so Maksim and Zakhar wouldn't have to carry one more death.
Some sins are easier for me to bear.
I've always been the chaos. The violence. The one who breaks things when breaking is necessary.
This morning, I broke Arthur Ainsley.
And I'd do it again without hesitation.
The piano music continues, Maksim working through something classical. I don't know the name but I recognize the feel of it, melancholy, beautiful, healing.
I cross to the couch, unable to stay away from her any longer. Three hours since I left. Three hours of cold and violence and the particular satisfaction of watching a monster realize he's run out of time.
Now I need warmth. Need her. Need the reminder that I didn't do it for pleasure.
I did it for justice.
"Hey," I say, reaching for Victoria.
I lift her from Zakhar's lap onto mine. His arms tighten around nothing, reluctant to let go.
"Hey," he mutters, disgruntled.
I grin despite the weight sitting on my chest "Share, brother."
Victoria laughs, the sound soft and genuine. She settles against me, thighs bracketing mine, arms looping around my neck. Her body is warm from being pressed against Zakhar. Soft in the oversized shirt she's wearing, fabric thin enough that I feel her skin underneath.
I breathe her in.
The piano hits a wrong note.
Sharp. Discordant. Breaking the melody like glass shattering.
We all freeze.
