“We let him believe he’s ahead,” I say. “We do nothing. Lure him into a false sense of security so he takes the bait.”
Understanding settles into his silence.
“Then what?”
I look toward the closed bedroom door.After that, this ends.
“Then we make him pay,” I say.
The meaning is clear. The only way he possibly can pay is in blood.
“Yes,Pakhan.”
The line goes dead.
For a moment, I stand alone in the dim room, listening to the quiet hum of the building and the distant night beyond it. Everything has shifted. Whatever fragile illusion existed an hour ago is gone.
War has a way of doing that. I move back to the bedroom doorway and open it just enough to look inside. Alina is still sleeping peacefully, with no idea what I’ve just done.
19
ALINA
When Andrei tells me I’m going home the next morning, I honestly think I misheard him.
“What?” I ask, blinking at him in confusion.
“I said,” he repeats slowly, “I thought it would be nice for you to go home for a few hours. Tend to your personal things.”
For a second I just stare at him from the couch, waiting for the correction, the clarification, the inevitablebut. There’s always abutwith him. A condition. A warning. A reason why whatever small piece of normal life I’m hoping for isn’t possible right now.
He doesn’t add one.
“You’ll have an escort,” he adds calmly, like this is obvious. “We don’t know how long this forced exile will last, and you’ve been very patient to subsist on borrowed clothes and books. You’ve earned a chance to go home and gather some of your things.”
My heart starts beating so fast it almost hurts. Home. My apartment. My shower. My plants that I’m almost certain are dead by now. The thought hits me all at once, bright andoverwhelming, and I have to press my lips together to keep from squealing.
“Do I even have an apartment to go back to?” I ask, and I hate how small my voice sounds.
He chuckles lightly. “Yes,” he confirms. “Just to be safe, I made sure your rent was paid up for the next six months. I’ll continue to extend it if it seems like this is going to last longer.”
Two things occur to me at once. First off, I don’t know that I can stand this for another six months. I would definitely start to show by then, and that’s not something I can risk. I silently pray to any god that’s listening to make sure this is over before then.
The second thought is that he’s paid my rent. It’s an incredibly kind gesture, and a huge relief. I’ve tried my hardest not to consider such inconsequential things like rent when my life has been in danger, but it’s really nice to know that I don’t have to worry about it.
Something warm spreads through my chest, tangled up with relief so sharp it borders on painful. I get to go home. I get to be in a familiar space I hadn’t realized how much I missed something so simple. The safehouses have been clean and comfortable in a sterile way, but they aren’t mine. Nothing smells right. Nothing feels familiar. Every surface reminds me that my life isn’t my own right now.
“How long will I have?” I ask.
“A few hours,” he says. “We’ll play it by ear. I don’t want to leave you there too long.”
Of course not. Of course my freedom comes with a timer attached. Still, I’ll take it. It’s more than I could have hoped for.
“What happens after?” I ask quietly. “Will we be moving to a new safehouse?”
“Actually, no,” he says. “I’ve decided that I’m done hiding. Still, it isn’t safe to leave you alone, so you’ll be moving into my penthouse.”
That piece of information isn’t nearly as calming. It’s not shocking exactly. We’ve already been living together for a month. It’s been in a neutral space, though. The idea of being in his space, with his things, feels a little more overwhelming.
