I lift my chin. “I am not refusing care.”
His eyes burn into mine, and for a moment I see the struggle. Not between control and kindness. Between what he believes is safety and what he’s starting to realize is suffocation. Finally, he says, “Fine.” He gestures toward a door down the hall. “That room is yours.”
I walk to it without rushing. The room is too perfect. Bed made tight. Lamps placed symmetrically. Curtains that block the world. I set my bag on the bed and turn back.
My father stands in the doorway, watching me like he’s making sure I don’t evaporate. “You will rest,” he says.
“I will try.”
He hesitates, then steps into the room. His presence fills it instantly. He doesn’t sit. He stands near the foot of the bed, hands clasped behind his back. “I did not sleep,” he says quietly.
My throat tightens. “I’m sorry.”
His gaze hardens. “Do not apologize for what was done to you.”
I swallow. “I apologize for being…” I struggle for the word in English. “Stupid.”
His expression flickers, a brief shadow of something like pain. “You were not stupid,” he says, and the fact that he doesn’t call me foolish or reckless is its own mercy. “You were young and you wanted freedom. That is not stupidity. That is danger.”
I press my lips together. I can’t argue with that.
He steps closer, slow, and reaches out. His hand stops short of my face, hovering like he’s unsure if he’s allowed. Then he cups my cheek. It’s warm. It’s familiar. It’s the first touch from him that isn’t instruction. “My devochka,” he murmurs. “You scared me.”
My eyes burn. I blink hard but refuse to cry. I refuse to give Volkov that victory inside my father’s suite. “I’m here,” I whisper.
His thumb brushes lightly under my eye, catching the wetness anyway. His jaw tightens. “You will not do this again.”
The old me would say, Of course, Papa. Never. Instead, I say softly, “I won’t dismiss my security again.” It’s a compromise. It’s a promise I can keep without erasing myself.
He studies me. He understands exactly what I did. He doesn’t like it. He lets his hand fall. “Your brothers are on their way.”
My stomach drops. “Both of them?”
“Yes.”
Dmitri will burn this whole country down if he thinks someone touched me. Mikhail will smile while he calculates how to make it profitable.
I whisper, “They shouldn’t come.”
My father’s eyes narrow. “They are already coming.”
I press my fingers to my temple. “Papa, please.”
His gaze holds mine. “They are your family.”
“I know,” I say, and my voice shakes. “That’s why I’m asking.”
Then my father says, “I told them you are safe and alive, and that Volkov is dead.”
“That won’t stop Dmitri.”
A corner of my father’s mouth twitches, humorless. “No.”
I swallow hard. “Did you tell them what happened?”
His eyes shift slightly. “I told them enough.” He turns to leave, then pauses at the door. “Rest,” he says again. “We will speak later.” Then he turns and leaves my room, closing the door behind him.
I stand there for a long moment, staring at the closed door like it’s a wall that just grew.
