As we walk back toward the car, Dima and Lev flanking us like Secret Service, Jasper leans close.
“You know what you should bake first?”
“What?”
“Those cinnamon rolls. The ones you made me last year for my birthday.” He grins. “I’ve been dreaming about them ever since.”
And despite everything—despite the ache in my chest and the fear crawling up my throat and the two massive Russians treating lunch like a tactical operation—I smile.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll make cinnamon rolls.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow. Maybe.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
“I know you will.”
Because that’s what Jasper does. He holds me accountable. He pulls me out of bed. He reminds me who I am when I forget.
And right now, I need that more than anything.
45
Mary
Day 3 - Finding Fire
The kitchen is too quiet.
That’s the problem. It’s always too quiet now. No Russian curses muttered into coffee. No footsteps heavy enough to make the floor creak. No hand reaching around me for the sugar while I’m trying to make tea.
Just silence.
And me. Staring at my phone like it’s a bomb that might detonate if I look away.
Day three. Seventy-two hours. Four thousand three hundred and twenty minutes.
Not that I’m counting.
My thumb hovers over the screen. I could text Boris. He’s in Moscow with Anton. He’d have his phone. He could just… send something. Anything. Even a single letter. Just proof that Anton’s still breathing.
But I don’t text. Because what if Boris can’t respond? What if my text gets them caught? What if Igor traces it back and—
I throw the phone onto the counter. It skids across the granite, stops just before the edge.
“Fuck this,” I mutter.
“Language.” Dima’s voice comes from the doorway.
I don’t even jump. I’m used to him materializing out of nowhere now. Pretty sure he’s part ghost.
“Fuck. This,” I repeat, slower. Making eye contact.
His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “You’re angry.”
“You think?”
