And it means Alina is no longer just a complication.
She is evidence.
Before I can say anything, Volkov folds his hands together on the table, leaning forward with an expression that reeks of satisfaction.
“So, we’re eliminating them both, right?”
My chair scrapes violently across the floor as I surge to my feet, the sound sharp enough to make Kuznetsov flinch.
“No.”
The room goes still, three pairs of eyes snapping to me at once.
Volkov’s brows lift, incredulous. Then he lets out a short laugh. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am.”
“One corrupt politician and his daughter dying in a tragic accident aren’t going to destabilize the country.” He lifts his brow further. “There will be others eager to step into his place. If you’re worried about losing an in with the government, don’t be.”
“You will not touch her,” I snap.
Volkov tilts his head, studying me like I’ve just grown another head. “You’re keeping her like some kind of trophy, Sokolov. For what purpose? You intend to breed heirs with her?” His lip curls. “Find another woman. One less tainted. No woman is worth this kind of disruption.”
I don’t remember deciding to move. One moment, I’m standing at my seat. The next, I’m vaulting across the table, my fist already cocked back. My knuckles connect with his mouth in a wet, satisfying crack that echoes off the stone walls.
We go down hard.
His chair flips backward, clattering uselessly as we slam into the floor. Volkov grunts, more surprised than hurt, and I’m on him before he can recover, one hand fisted in his collar as I drive another punch into his jaw.
Someone shouts my name—Kuznetsov, maybe—but it barely registers. Volkov struggles beneath me, snarling something unintelligible as he tries to bring his knee up into my side. I block it, shifting my weight and slamming his head back against the floor before drawing it back up until we’re nearly nose-to-nose.
“Touch her,” I hiss, “and I will dismantle you piece by piece. Pact or no Pact.”
That finally gets Nikolai to rise.
Suddenly, the war room erupts into motion.
The heavy doors are thrown open as guards flood in, boots thundering, weapons half-drawn but not yet raised.
Hands clamp down on my shoulders from behind, iron-hard grips that don’t bother pretending to be gentle. Nikolai’s guards, I register distantly as I’m hauled backward, my focus still locked on Volkov even as the distance between us widens.
Roman moves fast to my flank, a familiar presence cutting through the chaos. His hand comes up to steady me, or restrain me, possibly both as I’m pushed toward the opposite side of the room. He doesn’t speak. The tension in his grip says enough.
Across the room, Volkov laughs.
It’s ugly and wet, the sound dragged through blood and his bruised pride. He spits onto the stone floor. His second is already there, crouched beside him, murmuring something under his breath while checking his jaw.
“You’ve lost your damn mind, Sokolov,” Volkov says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Blood smears across his lips, staining his teeth. He grins through it anyway, feral and delighted.
“Enough.” The word lands with finality, cutting through Volkov’s laughter and the guards’ murmurs.
His gaze is dissecting, stripping me down with the same cold precision his father once used. I feel the weight of it settle into my bones. He is not a man surprised by betrayal. He is simply assessing the cost of allowing it.
“So,” he says calmly, “this is how it is, then.”
I don’t look away.
“Yes.”
