Not a bang. Because rage doesn’t always need noise—it needs restraint. I walk like I’m balancing glass on my shoulders. Head high. Steps even. Jaw so tight I swear I taste blood.
He didn’t name me. Didn’t say no, didn’t say yes. Just poured his drink and gave me another riddle about power and love like I haven’t been living the consequences of both since I was old enough to hold a knife.
He still thinks I’m not ready.
I know it from the way he looks at me. Like I’m wearing a suit I haven’t earned. Like I’m just a shadow of the man he used to be.
I remember being 13—bruised, knuckles raw, split lip still bleeding—and standing in his office, waiting for acknowledgment. For approval. For anything.
He handed me a glass of water like it was a reward and said, “Next time, don’t bleed. That’s how they know where to hit you.” Then he went back to his desk like I was already dismissed.
That was his love.Toughen up or don’t come back.
I’m past ready. I’m done waiting.
Suka blyad.
Filipp’s out there gathering leverage like we don’t see it. Playing long game politics, buying loyalty like a bored stockbroker with a pile of IOUs. Anatoly knows it. I saw it in his eyes tonight. And still—he hesitated.
“If he won’t name me,” I murmur, turning down the hall, “I’ll take it without the blessing.”
I should head back to my wing. There’s strategy to draft. Phones to call. Orders to give.
I check my watch—2:47 a.m. Too late to call Timur for an update on Irina, too early to wake Arseny for contingency planning.
Maybe I should look at that estate on the Catalina Ridge—sixty acres, no neighbors, four helipads. Good for relocation. Good for disappearing.
But instead, I turn the corner.
Children’s hallway.
Instinct. Muscle memory. I don’t even realize where I’m going until I’m standing outside the twins’ room.
The boys’ door is closed. I ease it open soundlessly.
Lev and Nikolai are passed out, one arm each dangling over the edge of their twin beds like soldiers who survived the same ambush. Lev’s hugging a pillow like he’s trying to choke it. Nikolai’s halfway through a sudoku book, pencil still clutched in his hand.
I adjust the blanket on one, smooth the sheet on the other, then move on.
They look younger in sleep. Less like the sharp-eyed boys who challenge each other at every turn and more like what they are—children thrust into a world they didn’t choose.
Their peaceful faces twist something in my chest. A reminder of what’s at stake.
I close their door and continue down the hall to Alya’s room. Her door stands slightly ajar, a slice of soft lamplight spilling into the corridor.
I pause.
Then push it gently with two fingers—silent, slow.
And stop.
She’s there. Not just Alya.
Bella.
She’s half-sitting against the headboard. Her head is tilted at an uncomfortable angle that will leave her neck aching tomorrow, hair spilling across the pillow in dark waves.
What stops me cold isn’t the domesticity of the scene—it’s Bella’s appearance. She’s wearing what must be her own sleep clothes from her previous life. Faded yellow. Oversized. Covered in some wide-eyed, bald cartoon man holding tacos and shouting something in bold red font above his head.“HOMER SIMPSON”printed across the chest like a name tag.
