There is nothing either Sasha or I can do to undo what’s already been done. No confession, no punishment, no reckoning will ever bring her back. However, unlike my father, Sasha doesn’t seem to relish being the cause of her demise.
He doesn’t polish the memory into something palatable or necessary. He doesn’t dress it up as sacrifice or pretend it was a noble act committed for the greater good. There is no boasting about it in private moments to justify it with ambition the way Viktor does.
Sasha treats it like what it is—a completed transaction. Something sealed and buried, never to be reopened unless absolutely necessary.
That doesn’t absolve him, but it tells me something about the kind of man he is.
While I don’t sense guilt in the traditional sense, at least not the kind that keeps someone awake at night or sends them crawling toward forgiveness, I do sense regret. I know if I were to press him about it,reallypress him, I know he’d hesitate.
Sasha Sokolov does not hesitate often. He is a man built on decisiveness and certainty, on the belief that doubt is a luxury hecannot afford. So the fact that I know he would matters. It’s not remorse, but it is acknowledgment for the pain he’s caused me, even if I had never been the direct target.
For someone like him, that is as close to a guilty plea as I will ever get. It’s enough for me to understand that while he pulled the trigger my father loaded, he refuses to celebrate the echo it left behind.
When I find my way down the hallway leading to Sasha’s study, the faint glow beneath the door stops me short.
It stretches across the floor in a thin, stubborn line of light, cutting through the darkness. It’s the only proof I need that he’s awake and working, refusing sleep the same way I have.
It’s ridiculous, really, the longing that tightens in my chest at the simple knowledge that he’s on the other side of that door. He hasn’t sought me out or explained himself, yet here I am, drawn to him like a moth to something that has already burned me once.
Call me a masochist if it helps make sense of it.
The more I tell myself to turn back and return to my room and wait for him to come find me when he’s ready, to let the night pass the way all the others have, the more the restlessness sharpens. It crawls under my skin, needling at my nerves until it becomes unbearable.
So I move.
My steps are careful as I approach the door, my body remembering long before my mind does the last time I lingered outside a closed door in this house, listening when I shouldn’t have been. The consequences had been swift.
Hopefully, tonight will be different.
The wood is cool beneath my palm when I press my hand against it, grounding myself for a moment. Then I lean in, just enough to catch the soft murmur of voices on the other side.
One of them is Sasha’s. I would know it anywhere. The other belongs to Lena.
My stomach tightens.
Whatever they’re discussing isn’t trivial. I can hear it in the rise and fall of Lena’s voice, the sharp edge that creeps in when she’s trying to convince rather than command. I can hear it in Sasha’s responses too, stripped of the warmth he rarely gives but does not entirely withhold from her. This isn’t a debate over territory lines or shipments. This is something much heavier.
I draw in a shallow breath and lower myself to the floor, moving slowly. My knees press into the marble as I fold myself down until I’m flush with the ground. The position is awkward, but I don’t care. I inch closer to the door and press my ear against the narrow strip of space between the door and the floor, the sounds sharpening instantly.
Lena’s voice comes through first. “Nikolai wants it clean. He isn’t going to give you long. You know that. Going up against his authority will start a war.”
My heart slams violently against my ribs.
War?
Why the hell are they talking about war?
There’s a pause. Long enough that my lungs start to burn from holding my breath. Then Sasha answers, but I hear something beneath the steady tone—tension.
“Not if the other two don’t agree with him.”
My pulse spikes. The other two. Volkov and Kuznetsov. The Iron Pact.
I clamp a hand over my mouth, afraid my breathing will give me away.
“You know they will never go against him,” she says. “They never have.”
“Perhaps it’s time we all start pulling away, then.”
