I want it raw and unfiltered, ripped straight from the source.
I want it from the man who raised me. The man who taught me how to stand still while cameras flashed in my face, how to tilt my chin just enough to look confident but not defiant.
The man who drilled into me that optics mattered more than feelings, that appearances were currency, that weakness was something predators smelled from miles away. The man who told me over and over again that everything he did was for my future.
My father.
Lev arrivesat my door shortly after lunch, a silver tray balanced in his hands looking like an offering he already knows will be refused.
He knocks once out of habit, a soft, almost apologetic sound against the wood, then opens the door without waiting for permission. He crosses the room in measured steps and sets the tray down on the small table beside the bed, arranging it neatly even though neither of us believes it will be touched.
He avoids looking at me as he does it.
I sit where I always sit now, cross-legged against the headboard, my spine straight and hands folded loosely in my lap. I’ve learned that if I stay very still, the panic doesn’t rise quite as fast. Movement always makes it worse for some reason.
“You should eat,” Lev says quietly.
His voice is gentle, too gentle for a man built like him, broad shoulders filling the doorway, forearms corded with muscle beneath his sleeves. I can tell he’s disarmed men twice his size without breaking a sweat, and yet when he speaks to me like this, it feels almost… careful.
“I don’t want food,” I say flatly.
It’s not a protest. It’s a statement of fact. The idea of swallowing anything right now makes my stomach churn.
Lev exhales slowly through his nose. “He’ll be upset if you starve yourself, you know.”
The words hit something sharp inside me.
“Really…” I say, my mouth curling around the word. “I don’t think my appetite is going to be the thing that pushes him over the edge.”
Lev’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he stands there studying the floor. I can almost see the war playing out behind his eyes, orders versus conscience, loyalty versus whatever fragile shred of humanity he hasn’t managed to burn out of himself yet.
Finally, he straightens. “Try. Even just a little.”
Then he turns toward the door.
Panic flares sharp and suddenly hot in my chest. If he leaves now, the moment will be gone. I don’t know when, or if, I’ll get another chance like this.
“Lev.”
He stops with his hand on the doorframe and turns back toward me. His expression is guarded now, wary in a way that makes my stomach twist.
I swallow hard. My throat feels raw. “Take me to my father.”
For a split second, he just stares at me.
Then fear washes over his face so quickly, it’s almost startling. Not fear for me, fear for himself. I see it settle into his posture, into the way his shoulders stiffen and his stance widens like he’s bracing for impact.
“You know I can’t,” he says immediately. “If he catches me taking you off estate property?—”
I cut in, forcing myself to keep my voice steady. “I know. I know exactly what would happen if we got caught.”
He shakes his head. “Alina…”
I interrupt again, softer this time. “You told me once… that you have a daughter.”
That stops him.
His face tightens instantly. I know I’ve struck something bruised and long-buried. Pain flickers in his eyes before he can mask it, raw and unmistakable. A ghost of a memory, maybe, of someone he no longer gets to see. Someone he still thinks about when the nights get too heavy.
