I stare at the deadbolt of the front door.
I don't know how to fix a nightmare. I don't know how to heal a wound that's been festering for twenty years.
But I know how to break bones. I know how to make men disappear.
A cold, absolute clarity settles over me. The confusion burns off like fog.
I am not just guarding a door anymore.
I am guarding the man inside who is afraid of the glass.
And if anyone—Rosetti, Sorokin, even his own uncle—tries to touch him, I will burn this entire city to ash to ensure they don't reach that bedroom.
I lean my head back against the leather.
I don't close my eyes.
3
IVAN
I wakeup without the usual weight pressing down on me.
This surprises me even more than the light filtering in. Most mornings, waking feels like a threat—a physical pressure on my chest, a list of problems scrolling behind my eyelids before I even open them. Dread often arrives first, seeping into the room while I sleep, waiting for my acknowledgment.
But today, the room feels... quiet.
Not safe. Just quiet. As if the air isn't trying to force its way into my lungs.
The ceiling above me is white plaster, familiar and high. The sheets are gathered at my waist, warm where my skin has been. Beyond the bedroom doorway, I hear a soft mechanical hiss.
The espresso machine.
I didn't turn it on.
I sit up slowly, testing my joints. The blackout curtains are still drawn, but a thin gray seam of light bleeds around the edges, outlining the room in soft charcoal shapes: the sharp corner ofthe dresser, the shadow of the nightstand, the rectangle of the door leading to the main space.
I actually slept.
No chemical assistance. No jagged, half-formed dreams that left me sweating through the sheets. No waking with my jaw clenched so tightly that my teeth ache.
The reason is painfully clear, and I hate it.
Maksim is out there.
The thought that he spent the night in that chair, armed and alert, tightens something in my chest. It isn't guilt; guilt is for those who can afford to be wrong. This feeling is rougher. It's possessive.
I find my robe and step into the main room.
Maksim stands at the kitchen counter, angled at forty-five degrees to the granite island. This posture allows him to keep an eye on both the elevator entrance and my bedroom door. He is still, but not relaxed. Stillness is a discipline; relaxation is a mistake.
The espresso machine clicks off.
Maksim reaches for my preferred porcelain cup without looking at me. He places it on the counter precisely where my hand will land if I keep walking forward. The sugar is already in it, stirred just the way I like—three turns, no more—because I once mentioned six months ago that overworking the crystals ruined the texture.
He remembered.
We don't speak. We don't need to. The low hum of the refrigerator and the wind against the glass fill the silence where words would usually stumble.
