Kirill watches me. “What now?” he asks.
I fold the note and slide it into my pocket. The paper feels thin and sharp.
“Now we bury our dead,” I say. “We sit with our living. And when seventy-two hours pass, I take apart every strand Ilya ever touched.”
I look at Anastasia one last time, then turn toward the hall. Raina and Nadia wait at the far end, small against the size of the room. My world stands there in two bodies, held together by one thin line of time I bought from a boy who wants to burn it all. The clock I swore on their heads is ticking.
23
RAINA
The house feels different the moment we walk inside. Warmer. Quieter. Like the walls know we came back together.
Nadia holds both our hands as we move through the hall. Her grip is tight but calmer now. Her eyes move from me to Sergei, like she keeps checking that we’re real.
We settle on the couch in the main room. Nadia crawls between us and presses her face into my side. Sergei rests his hand on her back, slow and steady. For the first time in what feels like days, I breathe without pain.
“You’re home,” Nadia whispers. “I can sleep now.”
“Yes,” I say, kissing the top of her head. “You can sleep as long as you want.”
Sergei leans forward and brushes her hair off her face. “You brought your mother back,” he says. “You did more than most grown men can do.”
She smiles, small and tired. “I knew you’d find her,” she says to him.
“I knew she’d guide me,” he answers. “Little star doesn’t miss a thing.”
Her eyes close before I can say anything more. One breath, then another, then her whole body softens in our laps. She’s out completely.
Sergei lifts her gently and carries her to her room. I follow. He lays her down, tucks the blanket around her, and places her bear under her arm.
She doesn’t even stir.
We stand by the door for a moment, watching her. My throat feels tight again, but this time it’s from relief.
“I thought I’d never see this again,” I whisper.
Sergei’s arm slips around my waist. “You will see it every night,” he says. “I swear it.”
We step out and close the door. The hall feels dim and quiet. I lean against the wall for a second. My legs feel shaky. My body is tense and dirty and sore.
“I need a shower,” I say softly.
He studies my face for a long moment. His eyes run over the bruise on my temple, the dried dust on my neck, the cracked skin on my wrists. Something shifts in his expression.
“I’ll stay close,” he says.
I walk into our bathroom and turn on the water. The steam rises fast, warm and clean. I peel off my clothes one piece at a time.The hot spray hits my skin and pulls a groan from my chest. It feels like the first real warmth since that cold chair, that bomb, that voice.
I close my eyes and let the water run down my back.
A few seconds pass. Then I hear the door open. Slow. Certain.
I turn my head.
Sergei steps into the shower already shirtless, and the sight of him hits me like a fist to the chest. He’s all silver fox Mafia fantasy made flesh—dark hair slicked back, silver at the temples catching the steam like frost, those careful slow eyes moving over my naked body with a hunger that has nothing to do with anger or fear. Something deep inside me unclenches at that look, something that’s been held tight for way too fucking long.
He walks to the glass door, rests his hand on it for a second, fingers splayed. “Raina,” he says, voice low and rough like whiskey over gravel—drop dead sexy.
