He sets a twisted piece of metal on my desk—part of the bomb’s detonator. Professional grade. Military issue. The kind you can’t buy on the street.
“Whoever built this knew what they were doing,” Roman says. “This isn’t some amateur with a grudge. This istrained. Someone has access to serious resources.”
I study the device, my mind racing. Military grade means connections. It means someone with ties to government or international organizations.
It means this is bigger than a simple family feud.
“Keep digging,” I order. “Find out where this came from. Who has access to these components? I want every supplier tracked, every sale verified. Someone built this bomb. Find them.”
Roman nods and leaves, taking the evidence with him.
I’m alone again with Alexei’s file and the inconsistencies that don’t add up. I can’t help but feel I’m missing something crucial, something obvious.
The attacks on Vera and me. The professional execution. The inside information required.
The inconsistencies in Alexei’s death scene. The timeline that doesn’t work. The forensics that don’t match.
My uncle’s dismissals of my concerns. His insistence that I’m seeing patterns that don’t exist. His suggestion that Vera is acceptable collateral damage.
There’s a pattern here. I canfeelit. I just can’tseeit yet.
But I will. I’ll figure this out.
I have to.
Because the alternative—that my brother died for reasons I don’t understand, that someone close to me betrayed us all, that theattacks will keep coming until everyone I care about is dead—that’s unacceptable.
I glance at the clock. Nine thirty. I should sleep, but I know I won’t. Not until I have answers.
Instead, I find myself climbing the stairs to the second floor. Toherroom.
I need to check on her and make sure she’s really okay. I need to make sure with my own eyes that Dr. Petrov didn’t miss anything and the baby is still safe despite everything we went through.
That’s what I tell myself as I walk down the hallway.
I’ve been thinking about her constantly since the explosion. Not just with the terror of almost losing her, but with something else. Something that started yesterday in the car, in those minutes before everything went to hell.
The teasing. The laughter. The way she smiled at me like I was a person instead of her jailer. The way my (debatable) terrible taste in music made her giggle, made her eyes light up, and made her look at me with something that wasn’t fear.
The way she leaned closer when she mocked me. The way her hand almost touched mine on the center console between us. The way my thumb traced circles on her skin when our fingers finally brushed, and she didn’t pull away.
She didn’tpull away.
That keeps echoing in my head. She let me touch her. Shewantedme to touch her. There was no fear in her eyes in that moment, just warmth and playfulness and… something else.
I’d been about to do something stupid. I was going to lace my fingers through hers and hold her hand properly.
Then the bomb went off, and the moment shattered.
But I can’t stop thinking about it and replaying those few minutes when everything felt different. When she felt like mine not because I’d forced her, but because shechoseto.
It’s getting harder and harder to stay away from her. She’s like a siren, pulling me toward rocks I can see clearly but can’t seem to avoid. Every time I’m near her, every time she looks at me with those warm brown eyes, every time she smiles or laughs or touches my hand—I feel myself slipping.
Falling.
I reach her door and pause, my hand on the doorknob. The best thing to do is to come back in the morning when I’m less likely to do something we’ll both regret.
But then I hear movement inside. She’s awake.
