"This is a safe house?" I ask as the gates open. The property looks like something from an architecture magazine—modern cabin aesthetic, floor-to-ceiling windows, clean lines against the wilderness backdrop.
"Bratva safe house," Maksim corrects. "Which means beautiful enough not to attract attention, secure enough to withstand a siege."
The guards sweep the property while we wait in the vehicle. Sergei exits first, speaks into his radio, nods to Maksim.
"Clear," he says. "Welcome to your home for the next two weeks."
Maksim takes my hand as we walk inside. "Third floor," he says. "I had Sergei prepare something for you."
The first two floors are a standard luxury safe house—master suite, guest rooms, kitchen, living spaces, all decorated with expensive restraint. Nothing personal. Everything is functional.
The third floor is magic.
The entire level is one massive open space. A dance studio on one side—professional barres along the walls, floor-to-ceiling mirrors, proper sprung flooring, a sound system that probably cost more than most people's houses. On the other side: shooting mats, a combat dummy, weight equipment, tactical training gear.
A studio that's both ballet and war room.
"You built this in a day?" I breathe, walking to the barre, running my hand along the smooth wood.
"Sergei had three teams working through the night." Maksim watches me from the doorway. "You need to dance to process. You need to train to survive. This gives you both."
I turn to face him. He's backlit by the afternoon sun through the windows, all sharp angles and contained power. The man who called our night together a mistake four days ago. Who traced my name on my hospital bed for nineteen hours. Who just built me a palace to transform in.
"Thank you," I say.
"Don't thank me yet. Training starts tomorrow at seven." He moves into the studio, his footsteps silent on the sprung floor. "It won't be easy."
That night, we slept in the master suite. Not separate rooms. Not me as a guest. His bed, his arms, both of us finally admitting what we've known since the studio.
This is home now. Wherever we are together.
WEEK ONE: RECOVERY AND FOUNDATIONS
Monday-Wednesday, October 11-13
The poison left me weaker than I want to admit. The first morning, I wake at 6:00 AM determined to prove I'm fine. By 7:30 AM, I'm exhausted from basic barre work.
"You're pushing too hard," Maksim observes from where he's watching. He's been there every morning, working on his laptop while I practice, eyes tracking my movements.
"I need to be ready."
"You need to heal first." He closes the laptop, walks over. "Show me your ankle."
I extend my right leg. The ankle Anton destroyed five years ago, surgically repaired three times, permanently compromised. It's swollen from thirty minutes of gentle practice.
Maksim kneels, his hands gentle on my calf, examining. "You're dancing through pain. You need to listen to your body, not destroying it."
The next two days, he enforces rest periods. Three hours of gentle dance practice—barre work, center combinations, nothing explosive. Then combat training basics: how to break holds, pressure points, using my smaller size as an advantage.
"Your body already knows spatial awareness," he tells me Wednesday afternoon, demonstrating a wrist lock. "You navigate partnered lifts, you judge distances constantly. This is the same thing with different stakes."
He's right. When he grabs me from behind, my dancer's muscle memory takes over—shift weight, find the off-balance point, twist. I break his hold on the third try.
"Good," he says, slightly breathless. "Again."
Evenings are quiet. We cook together, talk about everything except the countdown. He tells me about Elena—not the death, but the life. How she laughed at terrible jokes. How she sang off-key in the shower. How she wanted three daughters and a house by the ocean.
I tell him about my mother, who died when I was sixteen. About dancing being my escape, my religion, my identity. About the Mariinsky making me principal at twenty-three and how that was supposed to be the beginning of everything instead of the setup for the end.
