I look back at the windows. A shape moves behind the curtain on the upper floor.
No more waiting.
“No,” I say. “We go.”
Alexei’s mouth tightens, but he doesn’t argue. He knows better.
Or maybe he knows there’s nothing left in me capable of stopping.
I give the signal.
The first shots come from our side, not theirs. Two guards at the gate drop before they reach their radios. The chain is cut. The gate swings open with a long metallic groan that sounds too loud in the cold night.
Then the roof opens fire. Stone chips explode near my feet.
My men answer immediately.
The quiet plan ends there. We rush the drive. Bullets cut through the hedges. Glass breaks above us. A man beside me goes down,hit in the shoulder, and another drags him behind a stone planter without slowing the rest of us.
I keep moving.
The house grows larger, bright windows flashing with muzzle fire, men shouting inside, doors locked against the son they never let in.
At the front steps, a guard comes out with a rifle. I shoot him once, and he falls backward into the doorway.
Alexei reaches the doors first with two men and a ram. One hit. The wood shudders. Two hits. The latch cracks. On the third, the doors burst inward.
Gunfire answers from inside.
I step over the fallen guard, raise my weapon, and enter my father’s house with every man behind me firing.
33
ANYA
I’m dancing with Yaromir.
We’re somewhere warm. The room is filled with golden light, though I can’t see where it comes from. There’s music, low and slow, and Yaromir’s hand is firm at my waist. He wears black, of course. He always does. But his face is different here. Softer around the eyes. Less guarded.
He looks almost happy.
The sight of it makes my chest ache.
“You’re staring,” he says.
I smile. “You do it all the time.”
“I’m allowed.”
“Why?”
“Because you are my wife.”
The words should make me roll my eyes. Instead, in the dream, they make me laugh. A real laugh.
His mouth curves, and there it is again, that rare almost-smile I have started collecting like stolen jewelry.
He turns me slowly, his hand never leaving me. I’m wearing something pale, almost white, but not a wedding dress. There are flowers in my hair, I think. Or maybe the light only feels like flowers.
