The silence that follows is sharp enough to cut. Alexei stares at me, his expression cooling several degrees. I've overstepped—I know that. I'm a medical student questioning a man who's spent decades in this world, who's kept Misha alive through God knows how many threats.
But I don't back down. I hold his gaze, my chin lifted, waiting.
From the window, Misha says nothing. Doesn't intervene. Doesn't rescue me or shut me down. Just watches, letting this play out.
"Our sources," Alexei says slowly, "operate in hostile territory with limited support. They're not compromised. They're outmaneuvered. There's a difference."
"Is there? From where I'm standing, the result is the same. We don't know where Sergei is or when he's coming."
"No. We don't." Alexei's voice is flat. "Welcome to warfare, Miss Benedetti. It's rarely as clean as the textbooks suggest."
The barb lands, but I don't flinch. "I'm not looking for clean. I'm looking for honest. If our position is weaker than these maps suggest, I'd rather know now than find out when someone's breaching the walls."
Something shifts in Alexei's expression. Not warmth—nothing close to that—but perhaps a grudging acknowledgment. I've shown I won't be dismissed. Whether that earns me respect or just marks me as a nuisance remains to be seen.
"The position is defensible," he says finally. "Not impregnable, but defensible. If Sergei comes with a small force, we hold. If he comes with an army..." He shrugs. "We have contingencies."
"Show me the contingencies."
He does. For the next hour, Alexei walks me through evacuation routes, safe room protocols, communication systems. He shows me how to use the panic button that's been installed in my room, how to activate the lockdown sequence, where to hide if the perimeter is breached.
By the end, my head is spinning with tactical details, and I feel less prepared than when I started. But at least I understand the shape of the threat. The parameters of my own potential death.
"That's the essentials," Alexei says, gathering the maps. "I'll have detailed protocols sent to your room."
"Thank you."
He pauses at the door, looking back at me with an expression I can't quite read. "You ask good questions," he says. "For a civilian."
It's not quite a compliment. But it's not nothing either.
The door closes behind him, and suddenly I'm alone with Misha.
The silence stretches.
"You held your own," he says.
"I annoyed your head of security."
"You challenged him. There's a difference." He pushes off from the window and crosses to the desk, standing close enough that I can smell him—cedar and smoke and something that's uniquely him. "Alexei respects people who push back. He's just not used to it coming from someone outside the family."
"I'm not family."
The words hang between us, loaded with meaning I didn't intend. Or maybe I did intend it. Maybe I'm testing him, seeing how he'll respond.
His eyes darken. "No," he says quietly. "You're not. Not yet."
Not yet. The words send a shiver down my spine—whether from fear or anticipation, I can't tell.
"I need some air," I say, stepping back from the desk. From him. "I'm going to the greenhouse."
He nods. "I have calls to make. Security arrangements."
"Of course."
I move toward the door, and he doesn't stop me. Doesn't reach for me, doesn't close the distance. Just watches me go with those ice-blue eyes that give nothing away.
I tell myself I'm not disappointed. I'm not sure I believe it.
