I found her in the kitchen, standing at the window with a cup of coffee cradled in her hands. She was wearing the same clothes from yesterday—the black slacks, the silk blouse—and her hair was loose around her shoulders. She looked tired. Beautiful. Completely out of place in my world.
"You're up early," I said.
She didn't turn around. "I could say the same about you."
"I had calls to make."
"About me?"
"About us. About the situation."
She nodded slowly, still staring out the window. "And? What's the verdict?"
"The Irish and the Petrovics know. They're not happy."
"I imagine not." She took a sip of her coffee. "What happens now?"
"Now we wait. See what move they make. Respond accordingly."
"That's not very specific."
"War never is."
She turned then, and I saw the exhaustion in her eyes, the strain she was trying to hide. She'd slept as poorly as I had. Maybe worse.
"Is that what this is?" she asked. "A war?"
"It's been a war for years. You're just a new front."
Something flickered in her expression. I couldn't tell if it was fear or anger or something else entirely.
"I didn't ask for this," she said quietly.
"I know."
"I spent twelve years building a life that had nothing to do with any of this. And now—" She shook her head. "Now I'm a 'front' in a war I don't understand, married to a man I barely know, waiting to see if the people who want to own me will try to take me by force."
"They won't succeed."
"You can't promise that."
"No. But I can promise I'll die before I let them have you."
The words came out harder than I intended. More honest. She stared at me, and I saw something shift in her expression—surprise, maybe, or the beginning of belief.
"Why?" she asked. "Why do you care so much? And don't tell me it's strategy. Don't tell me it's about denying the Petrovics their prize. I've spent enough time reading people to know when I'm being lied to."
I thought about deflecting. Making a joke. Hiding behind the charm that had always protected me. But she'd see through it. She always did.
"Because you're the first person who's ever looked at me and seen something worth protecting," I said. "Not the Rysev name. Not the money or the power or the danger. Just... me."
She was quiet for a long moment. The morning light was growing stronger, casting warm gold across her face, and I found myself cataloging the details—the curve of her jaw, the shadows under her eyes, the way her lips parted slightly when she was thinking.
"That's a lot of weight to put on someone you've known for three weeks," she said finally.
"I know."
"I might disappoint you."
