He laughs, breathless and warm, and reaches up to work the knots loose with trembling fingers.
The moment my hands are free, I wrap them around him, pulling him down against me.
We stay that way for a long time, tangled together, breathing together, existing in the quiet peace of the aftermath.
“Belgium,” he finally says. “Mishka’s face when he realized you were really there.”
“I know.” I press my smile against his shoulder. “He looked so happy, Roman. He looked like a normal kid seeing his sister.”
“He loves you.” His left hand strokes down my spine while his right rests between us, the tremor quieted for now. “The way he talked about you when you were getting coffee—like you’re his entire world.”
“What did he say?”
“That you used to sneak him chocolate when your mother said he’d had enough. That you helped him with math homework even when you were exhausted from your own studies. That you cried at his sixth-grade recital when he played chopsticks because you were so proud of him.”
“He told you that?”
“He told me everything.” Roman’s voice is soft with wonder. “I think he needed to share you with someone who would understand why you’re worth protecting.”
The tears come before I can stop them.
“Hey.” He gathers me closer. “Solnyshko, chto—”
“You talked about me.” I’m crying and laughing at the same time. “My brother and my husband talked about me, and it was good and normal, and I never thought—”
“Never thought what?”
“That I could have both.” I press my face against his neck. “You and him. Love and family. All of it.”
“You never had to choose.” He tilts my chin up, thumbs away my tears with his left hand. “You just had to survive long enough for the choosing to become unnecessary.”
“I love you.”
“I know.” His smile is soft. “I love you too. Now let me hold you while we figure out what comes next.”
* * *
Morning finds us in the kitchen, Roman making tea the wayGalina taught him while I sit at the counter in his shirt and nothing else, watching the domesticity of it with wonder that hasn’t faded.
The samovar hisses in the corner—Galina insisted we keep it even though we have a perfectly good electric kettle—and the smell of black tea fills the air with something that feels like safety, like home, like all the things I never thought I’d have.
“The captains’ meeting is at ten,” I say. “Chernov wants to discuss the Odessa situation.”
“Polina.” Roman’s jaw tightens. “Suka is still recruiting.”
“Down to twelve defectors this month. Better than eighteen.”
“Still too many.” He sets a cup in front of me, steam curling fragrant between us. “We need a permanent solution.”
“I have ideas.” I wrap my hands around the warm porcelain. “About the antidote. About using it as leverage instead of keeping it locked away.”
He settles onto the stool beside me. “Tell me.”
“Polina’s trafficking network depends on compliance. Fear. The girls she moves are kept docile with chemical cocktails that I can counteract with the MX-42 antidote.” I meet his eyes. “If we distribute it through the underground networks—”
“Her product becomes useless.”
“Her entire business model collapses.” I take a sip of tea, perfect temperature because he’s learned exactly how I like it. “And we look like heroes to the NGOs and law enforcement agencies who’ve been fighting this for decades.”
