"Sergei."
The name lands like a blade.
"What about him?"
"He left Seattle two days ago. We tracked him to Portland, then lost him." Alexei's voice is grim. "He could be anywhere by now. Our sources are working on reacquiring him, but—"
"He's coming here."
"Most likely. He's been gathering allies, building resources. Whatever he's planning, it's almost ready."
I stare out the window at the gray morning, the wet grounds, the guards patrolling the perimeter. All of it suddenly feels inadequate. Fragile.
"Double the patrols. I want eyes on every approach, every possible breach point. And reach out to our contacts in the city—anyone who might have heard whispers about Morozov movements."
"Already done. Dmitri is sending another team—they should arrive by tonight."
"Good."
"Misha." Alexei hesitates. "There's something else. Carmine Benedetti has been making noise. Apparently Sergei is pressuring him for information about the estate's security. Carmine's scared—he might talk."
"Then make sure he doesn't."
"Understood."
I end the call and stand there, the phone heavy in my hand, the weight of responsibility settling back onto my shoulders. For a few hours, I forgot. Forgot who I am, what I've done, the enemies circling like wolves.
Bianca reminded me what it felt like to be human.
But I can't afford to be human right now. I need to be the monster.
"Bad news?"
I turn. She's awake, sitting up in bed, the sheet pooled around her waist. Her hair is tangled, her lips swollen from my kisses, and there's a mark on her neck that I don't remember leaving. She looks thoroughly debauched.
She looks perfect.
"Sergei is on the move," I say. "We lost track of him two days ago."
She absorbs this without visible panic. Her face goes still, thoughtful, the way it does when she's processing information. I've learned to recognize that expression—the medical student assessing a patient, weighing symptoms and prognoses.
"What does that mean for us?"
"It means he's almost ready. Whatever he's been planning, it's going to happen soon."
"How soon?"
"Days. Maybe less."
She nods slowly. I wait for the fear, the retreat, the realization that she's entangled herself with a man whose enemies are now her enemies. Last night was one thing—passion, desperation, two people drowning and reachingfor each other. But morning brings clarity. Morning brings consequences.
"What's the plan?" she asks.
I blink. "What?"
"The plan. To stop him. To protect the estate." She pushes the sheet aside and swings her legs over the edge of the bed, apparently unconcerned about her nakedness. "You have a plan, right?"
"I have the beginnings of one."
