The thought is unacceptable.
Rowan arrives exactly twenty-three minutes later. Mikel escorts her into my office, then retreats to his position near the door. She stands in the center of the room, her arms crossed over her chest, her posture defensive. The sutures on her forehead and cheek are still fresh, the bruising around them dark purple and yellow in the soft light.
She looks fragile and furious at the same time.
“What’s this about?” she asks, her voice clipped.
I gesture toward the chair across from my desk. “Sit.”
“I'll stand.”
I don’t argue. Instead, I move around the desk and lean against the front edge, reducing the distance between us without crowding her. She watches me with those storm-gray eyes that miss nothing, her body tense as if preparing to bolt.
“Three weeks ago, a man named Alexei Morozov died in the emergency room at Charlotte Memorial,” I begin. “You were his attending physician.”
Her expression softens, recognition dawning. “Yes. Internal injuries. He bled out on the table.”
“He was one of mine,” I confirm.
Rowan's eyes widen slightly, and she takes a step back. “One of yours?”
“He worked for me,” I clarify. “He handled intelligence, observed movements, and delivered messages. He was not an enforcer, but he discovered information he wasn’t supposed to have.”
Her breathing quickens. “What information?”
“Evidence of an internal betrayal,” I answer. “Names. Proof of manipulation. A conspiracy designed to remove me and everyone loyal to me.”
Rowan's arms drop to her sides, her hands curling into fists. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because he spoke to you before he died,” I reply, watching her carefully. “He gave you fragments of what he knew. Names. Warnings. Pieces of a puzzle you didn’t understand at the time.”
Her face pales. “He was delirious. Half of what he uttered made no sense.”
“Tell me what you remember,” I insist.
She hesitates, then begins recounting the details. “He kept murmuring about betrayal. About danger. He mentioned a name without context. He wanted to warn someone calledpakhan.” She pauses, her eyes meeting mine. “The name he mentioned was Arkady.”
The air in the room grows colder.
“Arkady Voronin,” I confirm. “My father's strategist and a senior captain. A man who has served our organization for decades. A man I trusted.”
“Trusted,” Rowan repeats, noting the past tense.
“Until now.” I draw a slow breath through my nose, adjusting my stance. “Alexei discovered that Arkady orchestrated my father's assassination. He’s been dismantling my support structures from the inside, preparing to seize control.”
Rowan's hand rises to her mouth. “And you think he knows about me? About what Alexei told me?”
“I know he does,” I correct. “Your brake line didn’t fail by accident, Rowan. It was deliberately severed. The SUV that followed you was one of his.”
She shakes her head, backing toward the door. “No. This is insane. I'm a doctor. I don't have anything to do with your world.”
“You became part of my world the moment you heard Alexei's confession,” I counter, stepping forward. “Arkady views you as a liability. A loose end. And in our world, loose ends don’t survive.”
Her breathing turns ragged, her chest rising and falling too fast. “You need to leave me alone, Kiren. You need to fix this without dragging me into it.”
“I can’t do that,” I tell her, and the honesty in my voice seems to surprise her. “You’re already in it. The only question is whether you’ll allow me to protect you or whether you’ll continue pretending you’re safe.”
She stares at me, her eyes searching mine for deception. Then, quietly, “What do you want from me?”
