And watch.
And pray that the pendant around her neck stays silent.
11
ALINA
The Popov house looks exactly as I remember it, but somehow it feels smaller. After the sprawling grandeur of Dimitri's estate with its modern glass and stone architecture, my childhood home seems almost quaint. The familiar white columns and manicured hedges that once impressed me now feel like a stage set, pretty but hollow.
Alexei parks the SUV in the circular driveway behind us, and I see the front door open before I can even unbuckle my seatbelt. My mother rushes out, her blonde hair perfectly styled despite the early hour, her designer dress immaculate. She's crying, her arms outstretched, and for a moment I want to run to her like I did when I was a little girl.
But something stops me.
"Alina! Oh, my darling girl!" She reaches me as I step out of the vehicle, pulling me into an embrace that smells of her expensive perfume. "I thought I'd lost you. When we couldn't find you at the church, when your father said you'd been taken, I thought..." Her voice breaks convincingly, and she holds me tighter.
I stand stiffly in her arms, my body not quite responding the way it should. There's something performative about her grief, something that feels rehearsed. The tears are real enough, but they don't reach her eyes. I've seen my mother cry before, genuine tears when her favorite dog died, when her sister passed away. This isn't the same.
"I'm fine, Mama," I say, gently extracting myself from her grip. "I'm not hurt."
She pulls back, her hands gripping my upper arms as she studies my face. "Are you certain? That monster didn't harm you? Didn't..." She trails off, but the implication is clear.
Heat floods my cheeks as I think about Dimitri's hands on my body, his mouth on mine, the way he held me against the wall. "No. He didn't hurt me."
My mother's eyes narrow slightly, as if she can read the truth in my face. But before she can press further, another figure appears in the doorway.
"Alina!"
Katya runs down the steps, her dark hair flying behind her, and throws herself into my arms. Unlike my mother's embrace, this one feels real. My little sister is shaking, her face buried in my shoulder, and I hold her tightly.
"I'm okay," I whisper in Russian, stroking her hair. "I'm okay, Katya."
She pulls back, her brown eyes swimming with tears. "Everyone said you were dead. Papa said Dimitri Morozov took you, that he probably killed you like he killed Sergei. But I didn't believe it. I knew you were alive. I knew it."
The relief in her voice makes my chest ache, even as I frown at her words that Dimitri killed Sergei. I cup her face, wiping away her tears with my thumbs. "I'm here. I'm safe."
"For now," my mother says, her voice sharp. She glances at Alexei, who stands beside the SUV with his arms crossed, watching everything with those cold blue eyes. A dozen of my father's men are positioned around the property, all of them watching Alexei with barely concealed hostility. "Come inside, darling. You must be exhausted."
I follow them into the house, acutely aware of Alexei's presence behind me. He doesn't enter, just positions himself in the foyer where he can see both the front door and the hallway leading deeper into the house. My father's men watch him like hawks, hands near their weapons.
The interior of the house is exactly as I left it. Marble floors, expensive artwork on the walls, fresh flowers in crystal vases. Everything perfect, everything controlled. My mother leads me toward the grand staircase, still dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief.
I think about Dimitri's words, about the danger waiting for me outside his protection.
"I need to pack," I say.
Her brows draw down in a confused frown. “Pack? For what?”
Before I can answer, my father does. “She thinks she’s going back to Morozov,” he sneers. “Forprotection.”
My mother shares a look with Papa, then her mouth tightens, but she nods. "Of course. Katya, help your sister."
We climb the stairs together, Katya's hand in mine. She'll be seventeen soon. Still so young, still innocent of the darkness that runs through our world.
My bedroom is untouched, preserved like a shrine. The pale pink walls, the white furniture, the collection of books on the shelves. It feels like walking into a museum of my former life, even though it’s only been a couple of days since I was last here. I move to the closet and start pulling out clothes, folding them mechanically.
Katya sits on my bed, watching me with worried eyes. "Are you really okay?" she asks quietly. "Papa said terrible things about what Dimitri Morozov might do to you."
I pause, a dress in my hands, and turn to face her. "What did he say?"
