Permission.
The word landed like a blow.
We weren't being freed. We were being collared—the same way I'd collared Auralia, except this collar came with chains that led straight to Moscow. Every decision filtered through Deshnev's judgment. Every move subject to his approval. Every ounce of autonomy we'd built over generations, suddenly contingent on the goodwill of a man who'd just demonstrated exactly how he dealt with those who disappointed him.
Konstantin looked murderous.
His hands had clenched into fists at his sides, the particular tension of a man one breath away from doing something catastrophically stupid. Maya's fingers found his arm, gripped tight, anchoring him to sense.
Nikolai's face had gone to ice.
I could see him calculating—the costs, the alternatives, the impossible math of survival. We could refuse. Walk away. Try to rebuild without Deshnev's backing.
But Anton's body was still warm on the tarmac, and we'd just been shown exactly what happened to people who crossed the old monster's lines.
There were no alternatives.
"Agreed," Nikolai said quietly.
The word fell into the space between us like a stone into deep water. Final. Irrevocable. The particular sound of a man accepting chains because the alternative was watching everyone he loved disappear.
Deshnev nodded.
"Wise."
He didn't gloat. Didn't smile. Just accepted our surrender with the same cold efficiency he'd applied to everything else.
"My people will be in touch. The first payment is due in thirty days." He turned to leave, then paused. Looked back at me specifically. "You understood the codes. Understood what Antonhad violated. That's valuable, Maksim Besharov. We'll speak again."
Then he was walking away.
His men fell into formation around him. The convoy reformed, sleek black SUVs moving with military precision, disappearing down the access road like they'd never been here at all.
The airfield felt empty without them.
Just us now. Three brothers. Three women. A jet that would take us nowhere.
And the weight of what we'd just agreed to.
Sophie was still crying softly against Nikolai's chest. The particular tears of relief mixed with exhaustion—she was safe, Katerina was safe, her family was whole. The cost of that wholeness would come due later, in meetings and payments and the constant reminder that they served at someone else's pleasure.
Konstantin had pulled Maya into his arms. He was shaking—fury, probably, the particular aftermath of violence he hadn't been allowed to commit. She held him anyway. Would always hold him.
And Auralia.
I turned to her.
She was watching me with those grey-green eyes—still red-rimmed, still haunted, but searching now. Trying to understand what had just happened. What we'd lost. What we'd gained.
"You planned this." Her voice was soft. Not accusatory. Just recognizing. "You called him."
"Yes."
She was quiet for a moment. Processing the way she always processed—every detail catalogued, every implication mapped.
"We're not free," she said finally. "We just have different masters."
I pulled her close.
