“I told him she’s safe,” I answer evenly. “I told him Volkov is dead. And I told him we were the ones who killed him.”
“You put our name on it?” He barks loudly.
“He was going to find out,” I say. “Better it came from us.”
Mason doesn’t argue. “What else?” he asks.
“I told him if he comes as a father, the door’s open.”
“And if he doesn’t?” Mason sounds pissed.
“I told him he’ll meet resistance.” Silence stretches between us. “He’s on his way,” I add. “He’ll be here tomorrow.”
Mason lets out a slow breath. “All right.”
“You think we’ve got a problem?” I ask.
“Viktor Dragunov isn’t reckless,” Mason says. “He’s strategic. He doesn’t move without thinking it through. But men like that don’t ignore blood either.”
I nod even though he can’t see it.
“If he wants answers, we give them,” Mason continues. “We didn’t take her. We pulled her out of hell.”
“And if one of the brothers shows up instead?” I ask. “Mikhail. Or Dmitri.”
“Then we deal with whoever steps onto our ground,” Mason replies evenly. “Same as always.” There’s a small pause before he adds, “You regret pulling her out of there?”
I look down the hallway again. Think about her voice on the phone. The way she held herself together. “No,” I say. “Not even close.”
“Then we stand by it,” Mason says. “We didn’t start this. Volkov did.” He pauses, then adds dryly, “But next time you rescue a Russian princess, give me a heads up first.”
A low laugh slips out of me despite everything. “I’ll work on my timing.”
“Keep me posted,” Mason says. “And tighten up security.”
“It’s already tight.” The call ends and I lower the phone slowly. After I hang up with Mason, the house feels heavier, like the walls absorbed every word of that conversation and are holding onto it. We didn’t start a war, but we definitely stepped into something bigger than a dead trafficker, and I know it. Still, none of that changes the fact that I would pull her out of that warehouse again without hesitation. Even knowing exactly who her father is, even knowing what kind of men might show up at my door because of it. Some choices don’t get reconsidered. They get owned.
I grab a shower and let the hot water beat down on my shoulders while I run through contingencies in my head. Perimeter cameras are live, the gate code hasn’t changed, and I’ll have two brothers rotating past the property by morning without making it obvious. If Viktor Dragunov lands in this country, I want to know before his tires hit the pavement. By the time I shut the water off, I’m calmer, more focused, because planning has always been easier than feeling.
I change into sweats, kill the lights, and slide into bed, but sleep doesn’t come. I lie on my back staring at the ceiling, thinking about the woman down the hall and the way she held herself together on that phone call. She didn’t cry in front of her father, didn’t let her voice shake when she admitted she was hurt, and that kind of strength doesn’t come from nowhere. It comes from being raised inside power, shaped by expectation, and taught that weakness is a liability. The thought of her carrying that alone for eighteen days makes my jaw tighten.
I must drift at some point because the sound that pulls me up feels like it rips through a layer of fog. It’s sharp and strangled, like someone trying to scream with a hand clamped over theirmouth. For half a second I don’t know where I am, and then it hits me. Anya.
I’m moving before I fully register it, out of bed and down the hallway in a few strides, my pulse already hammering. Her door is still cracked from when I checked on her earlier, and I push it open just as another broken sound tears out of her. She’s tangled in the sheets, thrashing like she’s fighting something she can’t see, her breathing uneven and panicked as if she’s drowning in whatever memory dragged her under.
She comes out of the nightmare swinging, and after I stop her wrist and say her name, I stay on the edge of the bed until her eyes focus and she realizes where she is. She apologizes automatically, which tells me more about her than the panic does, and when she admits she thought she was still chained up, I keep my voice steady and tell her she isn’t. I see her hands shaking and make sure not to touch her again until I give her the choice, asking if she wants space or if she wants me here, because the last thing she needs is another decision taken from her. When she says she doesn’t want to be alone, I lean back against the headboard and draw her in carefully, settling her against my chest and anchoring my hand at the back of her head while I let her feel my heartbeat.
Her weight shifts gradually from rigid to heavy, and I feel the exact second her body decides it doesn’t have to fight anymore. The tremor in her hands fades first, then her breathing evens out until it matches mine without effort, and finally her grip on my shirt loosens just enough to tell me she’s gone under. Not deep sleep. Not peaceful. But enough.
Her cheek is still pressed to my chest, her hair tangled between my fingers, and I keep my hand where it is because the last thing she needs is to wake up reaching for something that isn’t there.The room is dark except for the faint wash of moonlight coming through the window, and I adjust my position slightly so I’m more comfortable without shifting her weight too much. She makes a small sound in her sleep and tightens her hand again like she felt the movement, so I settle immediately.
“It’s all right,” I murmur, even though she can’t hear it. Or maybe she can.
My arm stays wrapped around her shoulders, my other hand still cupping the back of her head, and I let my breathing stay slow and steady so she has something constant to anchor to. I can feel the faint warmth of her tears drying against my skin, and the memory of her swinging at me flashes through my head. Not fear. Instinct. Survival.
I shift just enough to reach for the blanket at the edge of the bed and pull it higher over her shoulder, tucking it around her without disturbing the rhythm she finally found. She exhales softly and presses closer without waking, like her body made the decision before her mind did.
I stay like that, listening to the quiet of the house and counting her breaths as they move slow and steady against my chest, waiting for any sign the nightmare is trying to drag her back under. If it does, I’ll be here, and if her father comes tomorrow, I’ll be here for that too. If her brothers decide to test the perimeter instead of knock like civilized men, I’ll be here when they do. She doesn’t know it yet, but she walked out of one cage and into something different, and as long as she’s in this house, no one is putting their hands on her again.
