The stone stairs stretch up, wide and imposing. I count without meaning to. One, two, three. By step forty my breathstarts to come faster. By step fifty-three my mind is a quiet, repeating drum of ofdon’t fall, don’t fall, don’t fall.
Inside, the temperature jumps. Warmth, polished marble floors, high ceilings. Chandeliers throw soft light over everything. Icons hang on the walls—saints with sorrowful eyes, gold halos, blue robes. They stare down at me like they know exactly what kind of house this is. I look away fast.
A man steps out from a side corridor. Tall. Broad. Blond hair, pale eyes, a face that looks like it’s been broken and set again at least once. He wears a suit but stands like a soldier.
“Miss Morozova,” he says. “I’m Luka. Follow me.”
My throat has tightened so much it hurts, so I just nod. My legs move, which feels like an accomplishment. We walk down a long hallway lined with oil portraits. Generations of men stare down—same eyes, same hard jaw, same sense that their version of love comes with conditions and body counts. I try to match them with the few photos I found on Google of Roman Volkov.
We stop at a heavy wooden door carved with wolves in mid-hunt. Someone took time making sure the teeth are sharp.
“He’s inside,” Luka says. “Don’t make him repeat himself.”
My pulse stutters. There’s a warning in his tone that isn’t loud, but I hear it.
Luka knocks twice, then opens the door and steps aside.
Smoke hits me first—rich tobacco. The room beyond is darker than the hallway. Bookshelves, a fireplace, thick rugs, a desk that belongs in a history book.
The door closes behind me with a soft click. It sounds final.
A man sits behind the desk. When he stands, my heart misfires.
Roman Volkov is big in a way that feels wrong for a room this size. Wide shoulders under a charcoal suit, chest broad, narrow waist, everything about him is built for impact. Dark hair, shorton the sides. A scar runs along his jaw to his ear, pale against his skin. And those eyes.
Grey. Cold. Focused entirely on me.
He doesn’t great me. He just watches me like I’m something he ordered and wants to make sure arrived as described.
His gaze moves down my body and back up again—slow. It feels like being evaluated.
Holy shit.
I resist the urge to tug at my coat and make myself presentable.What the fuck?I stand still because moving feels like it would show too much.
“You’re late,” he says at last.
His Russian is clean. Mine is nowhere near ready for this. I haven’t spoken it in seven years and did my best to forget it, along with my memories.
“Probki,” I say. Traffic. The word sounds clumsy in my mouth. “There was… traffic. And I needed a moment.”
His expression doesn’t flicker.
“Lügnerin.” Liar.
He fucking speaksGerman!
My stomach drops. “What?”
“You sat outside my gates for seven minutes,” he says. “I timed it.”
Seven minutes I thought belonged to me.
“You were deciding whether to run,” he continues.
Heat crawls up my neck. Fantastic, he watched the panic show through the windshield.
“Yes,” I say. There’s no point lying. “I thought about it.”
