“Let’s go home.”
23
SASHA
Arriving home, I don’t bother taking Alina to her room.
I don’t even consider it.
Instead, I carry her straight through the halls and into my own.
She’s still curled in my arms, her face tucked into the column of my throat, her breath soft and warm against my skin. Somewhere between the gates opening for us and the long, silent drive back, her body had finally given in.
The adrenaline had burned itself out, leaving only exhaustion in its wake. She fell asleep against me like she’d done it a thousand times before—quietly, instinctively, trusting herself to me without hesitation.
That trust carves something deep in my chest more than anything else has tonight.
The estate is eerily silent as I move through it, my footsteps echoing softly against marble. Guards lower their gazes as I pass. No one speaks, no one asks questions. They don’t need to. Word will be spreading through the walls of this place soon enough.
Viktor Morozov is dead.
Alina pulled the trigger.
Nikolai allowed us to leave unscathed.
I shoulder my bedroom door open carefully, nudging it shut behind me with my foot. The room is dim, lit only by the low glow of one of the lamps near the windows. Shadows stretch across the floor, guiding me toward the bed.
I carry her over to it and sit down slowly, careful not to jostle her. For a moment, I just stay there holding her, feeling the steady rise and fall of her chest against mine, the way her fingers curl loosely into the fabric of my shirt like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go.
Her face is peaceful in sleep, smoothed of the horror and fury from earlier tonight. It feels wrong how soft she looks after what she’s just been forced to do. How small.
I brush my thumb lightly along her temple, pushing a stray lock of hair away from her face. She stirs but doesn’t wake, only presses closer with a quiet, unconscious sigh.
Something inside me fractures.
I ease her down onto the bed, shifting so she’s stretched against that mattress instead of me. I don’t undress her fully, only slipping her shoes off and tugging her coat off her shoulders before pulling the blanket over us. She remains pliant in my arms, trusting me even now.
Especially now.
I lie there with her, replaying the image I’ll never escape—her steady hand around the gun, her voice cold and certain, theway she didn’t look away when she fired. I wanted to take that moment from her. To shoulder it myself. To die in her place if it meant she could stay untouched by this world.
But the truth settles in whether I want it to or not.
She is no longer untouched.
And neither am I.
Her breathing evens out again, deeper now, slipping fully into sleep. I tighten my arm around her just a fraction, grounding myself in the reality of her weight and warmth.
She’s alive.
She’ssafe.
For tonight, that is enough.
Eventually, I find myself too restless to sleep.
It isn’t fear that keeps me awake. Fear is familiar, manageable. This is something else, an energy lodged beneath my skin, humming and refusing to let my body settle even as exhaustion weighs heavily in my limbs.
