The frustration simmers, a live wire beneath my skin. I should be furious—she lied, she crossed me, she brought danger to my doorstep. Instead, what I feel is closer to grief. The image of her father using her, discarding her, makes something inside me unravel in a way nothing else ever has. I can’t shake the memory of her voice, how it sounded small when she spoke about him, the way she tries to be strong even when she’s breaking.
The city is almost peaceful at this hour. I slow as I approach the house, tension pulling me tighter.
What do I do with this new truth? I’ve lived my whole life making quick work of betrayal, cutting out rot before it spreads.
With Suzy, it isn’t so simple. She isn’t just another asset, another liability. She’s the only thing that’s ever made me question what I’m fighting for.
Inside, the Sharov house is dark, lights low except for the lamp in my office window. I let myself in quietly, boots soft on the marble.
For a second, I stand in the hall, breathing in the familiar hush, feeling the shape of the life I’ve built—ordered, disciplined, untouchable.
She’s still there, curled up on the couch where I left her. The room smells of firewood and the ghost of perfume, papers neatly stacked where I’d gathered them, my jacket tangled around her shoulders. She sleeps deeply, breath even, one hand curled beneath her cheek, utterly unaware of the war I’ve just fought for her.
I watch her, something tight and new turning in my chest. She looks so small now, so impossibly soft.
It’s a kind of vulnerability I’ve never seen in her before—not the wary bravado, not the sharp-edged wit, but a real, unguarded exhaustion. I wonder what she dreams about. I wonder if she feels safe here, even for a moment.
In that quiet, I realize something’s shifted. I’m not just angry at her for what she did. I’m angry for her—for what’s been done to her. For every time she’s been made to pay for other people’s mistakes. For the way she’s learned to look over her shoulder, to measure every word, to trust nothing except herself.
I sit in the chair across from her, elbows on my knees, just watching her breathe. There’s no plan here, no strategy to salvage.
She’s changed everything without even knowing it. I want to protect her now—not just from my enemies, but from the people who claim to love her, who would use her as a weapon and leave her to pick up the pieces. It’s terrifying, the depth of it.
The hours slide by, the office clock ticking in the corner. I should wake her, should tell her what I’ve done, should demand her loyalty again and make her promise never to betray me.
I let her sleep. She’s earned it. For once, I want her to have a night free of fear, free of the weight her father keeps pressing into her bones.
I wait there, watching, unwilling to let her wake alone in the dark. I think about reaching out, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek, offering some word of comfort I don’t have. Instead, I keep my distance, heart pounding with something dangerously close to hope.
By morning, everything between us has changed. I’m not sure she’ll ever know what I did for her, or why. I only know that whatever line there was—between duty and desire, between love and loyalty—has vanished. And I’m terrified of how far I might go to keep her safe, even from herself.
I don’t sleep that night. I sit in the half-light of my office, watching Suzy breathe, tracing the lines of her face with my eyes—trying to memorize her peace before reality returns. My anger has nowhere to go; it circles and tightens, transformed into something deeper and more dangerous.
For so long, I’ve told myself love is weakness, that anything you care for is a weapon waiting to be used against you. Yet here I am, guarding her sleep like it means more than all the power I’ve fought for.
When she finally stirs, I don’t say a word. I just watch as she blinks awake, confusion softening her features before memory returns.
I wonder if she can feel it, the shift in the air, the fact that something essential has changed between us. She pullsmy jacket tighter around her shoulders, glancing at me for a moment before looking away.
In the quiet, I realize that everything I’ve built could burn and I’d still choose her, again and again. I want to promise her safety, trust… maybe even forgiveness.
The words die in my throat, and I let the silence hold instead, not daring to break the fragile peace she’s found tonight.
Chapter Twenty-Three - Suzy
The morning is quiet, softer than any I’ve known—a sharp blue sky, the smell of woodsmoke, a dog snoring at the door.
For a handful of heartbeats, I believe in peace.
Leon is in the kitchen making coffee, sunlight catching in his hair, and I linger on the porch, wrapped in his jacket, watching horses graze dew-damp grass. I think of last night’s tension, of everything unsaid, and almost dare to believe that we’re safe here, far from old loyalties and old ghosts.
Then the world erupts. The crack of gunfire shreds the air, sharp and final. The birds explode from the trees in a black cloud.
I freeze for half a second—then Leon is beside me, shoving me off the porch, pulling me down behind the low stone wall at the edge of the paddock. His grip is bruising, his eyes wild with calculation and fear.
“Stay down,” he snaps, already scanning the woods.
I know the sound of this violence, the rhythm of organized men moving as one, tactical and methodical.
