Before I can process this royal promotion, Lev appears in the doorway, hands cupped suspiciously in front of him.
“Bella! Look what I found in the garden!”
Oh, no.
Instinct says “brace for impact,” but the muscles in my side laugh cruelly at the thought. Everything still hurts—my arm is strapped to my chest like I’m auditioning for a zombie movie, and my ribs feel like they were taped together by a drunk.
Lev grins like a maniac and opens his hands.
A beetle—no, a demon disguised as a beetle—crawls across his palm. It’s black, shiny, and the size of a toddler’s shoe. Worse,it’s angry. You canfeelthe anger radiating off it, like it’s plotting crimes against humanity.
“It’s moving funny,” Lev announces proudly. “I think it wants to bite something!”
“Wonderful,” I wheeze, clutching the bed rail like it might save me.
Dr. Katya edges backward with cool, measured steps, her hand adjusting her glasses like she’d rather be anywhere else but still refusing to show panic. Yelena doesn’t move—because obviously the apocalypse doesn’t scare her.
“Lev, baby,” I say, voice calm but my soul actively packing its bags, “put the Satan bug back outside before it commits a felony.”
He looks devastated. Like I just canceled Christmas.
“But helikesyou,” Lev insists.
Nikolai strolls in like the beetle was his opening act. “Lev, no bugs in the sick wing.”
Lev sighs, long-suffering and theatrical, then gently walks his new six-legged pet to the doorway like he’s releasing it into the wild with full military honors.
“You better come back. I’ll know if you don’t.”
I swallow a laugh, my ribs protesting with every breath. I’m about to thank Nikolai for the save when the shadow behind him steps fully into view.
Anatoly.
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to. The temperature in the room dips ten degrees just from his presence. Black suit. Black tie. Expression carved from stone and possibly disdain.
Fantastic.
I shift in bed, suddenly hyper-aware of the hospital gown I’m wearing—patterned with the world’s ugliest shade of institutional blue and dotted with what Ihopeare bleach stains. My sling itches. My hair feels like a raccoon nested init overnight. And here he is—Konstantin’s father,my father-in-law,judge, executioner, old-school Bratva royalty—watching me like he’s trying to locate the nearest trapdoor to throw me through.
Alya doesn’t care. She springs off the bed and runs straight to him.
“Dedushka! Look what I drew for Bella!”
She thrusts the crumpled family portrait into his hands like it’s the Mona Lisa. Anatoly takes it, brow furrowing as he studies the childlike chaos of stick figures and pink windows and… what might be a unicorn garden hose.
“She’s the queen,” Alya explains, pointing to the crown on stick-Bella’s head. “Because Papa’s the king. So they match.”
There’s a flicker. Just the tiniest thing. A breath of hesitation in Anatoly’s usually unreadable face. He doesn’t smile—God forbid—but hestudiesme now, not just the drawing. As if he’s trying to reconcile what he sees with what he’s been told.
I meet his eyes. Hold his gaze. Not out of bravery; more like defiance watered down with pure exhaustion.
He nods once.
Not to me. To Alya.
But it’s something.
“Dinner in twenty,” he says, handing the picture back like it’s State’s evidence. “Yelena, you’ll bring her down.”
