Page 54 of North

Alexander had been gone too long this time, and his heart felt it. The deep ache of missing Timea’s laughter, the feel of her hair between his fingers, the comfort of her body against his.

The image of two caskets—one heartbreakingly small—still haunted him. Claire Newgate’s father, Tom Crowley, had stood like stone beside them, his face ravaged by grief.

No one had mentioned York’s absence. Or the fact that he was probably on the streets of Moscow, hunting down Damien Gustov. Looking for answers behind the murder of his wife and son.

Alexander’s hands shook slightly as he held the flowers, climbing the worn marble stairs in the inner courtyard of the prewar building. Through open windows, he caught fragments of life—someone practicing Liszt on a piano, the scent of paprika-rich goulash, children’s voices echoing in the closed yard below.

Late-afternoon sun painted the building a deep gold. Old Mrs. Nagy watered the geraniums in clay pots by her door, humming a folk song his grandmother might have known. She nodded as he passed, her young grandson playing with trucks at her feet. The boy’s laugh pierced Alexander’s heart.

Don’t think about it.

The peonies dropped pink petals at his feet as he unlocked their door. Four years in this apartment, and still his pulse quickened at the sound of Timea moving inside. Their home wrapped around him. Books stacked on every surface, her watercolor paintings on the walls, the antique desk where she graded papers, her laptop abandoned on the coffee table.

Home.

Timea sat at their kitchen table, reading glasses perched on her nose, red pen hovering over final exams. Sunlight caught in her dark hair, twisted up with a hair comb, tendrils falling to frame her face. A half-empty cup of tea sat beside her, the spoon still bearing traces of the honey she always added.

“Peonies.” She smiled without looking up, but something in her voice made his chest tighten. “You must have done something terrible.”

“Maybe I just love you.” He picked up the empty crystal vase, the one from that first Christmas market, when snow had dusted her eyelashes and he’d known, even then, that he couldn’t let her go.

She looked up, watching him arrange the flowers. The moment stretched between them.

He turned, frowned. Usually she found her feet, threw herself into his arms. His chest tightened. “What? Am I in trouble?”

“No, love.” She got up then and walked to him. She wore a pair of leggings and an oversized shirt and smelled of her lavender bath soap.

When she kissed him, it was languid and sweet, and he wanted to pull her up into his arms and make her forget her homework. But she stepped back, and something about her voice…

“I need to tell you something.”

“Oh?”

Her eyes searched his. “I went to the doctor yesterday.”

He stilled. Oh no. Her grandmother had died last year, cancer, and…well—please, no—“Are you sick?”

“No.” She gave a small laugh. “I’m pregnant.”

What? He simply didn’t expect the very joy that burst through him, instant and bright⁠—

And then…Oh no. No…He backed away from her, seeing for a terrible moment Lucas’s tiny casket. Claire’s face, peaceful, as if she and her son were only sleeping…

“Alexander?” Timea took a step toward him, drawing her brows together. “Are you⁠—”

“Happy. So happy.” He pulled her into his arms. Buried his face in her neck, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo, feeling her heart beat against his.

He would not let that be their fate.

“Are you sure? You seem…Talk to me.” Her fingers threaded through his hair. “You’re scaring me.”

He pulled back, cupped her face in his hands. Everything he loved, everything he could lose.

It was his fault. York had gotten in too deep, chasing Damien, following him into the dark world of the Bratva. And Alexander hadn’t stopped him. They’d both believed his cover, and maybe even his connections, would keep York and his family safe.

Not in this life. This world.

“I need to tell you something.” The words scraped his throat. “And I need you to listen without speaking until I’m done.”