Nathan nodded. "Get Monika to the car."
Pavel stepped forward, his hand on my elbow, but I pulled away. "I want to see him."
"Monika—"
"I need to see him."
Nathan stared at me for a long moment. Then he nodded, his jaw tight. "Fine. But stay behind me."
We found Aleksander in the main room.
He was standing over Volkov's body, his chest heaving, his hands stained with blood. The knife was still in his hand, the blade slick and red. He looked up when I entered, and I saw something in his eyes—relief, maybe, or guilt.
"Monika."
"I'm here."
He dropped the knife. It clattered on the floor, the sound loud in the sudden silence. He walked toward me, his steps unsteady, and I saw the blood on his shirt, the gash on his arm that was still bleeding.
"Let me see," I said.
"It's nothing."
"You're bleeding."
"It's not mine."
He pulled me into his arms. His body was shaking, I realized—this man who had never shown weakness, who had always been so controlled, was shaking like a leaf.
"I thought I'd lost you," he said. "I thought—"
"I'm here." I held him, my hands on his back, my face pressed to his chest. "I'm here. I'm okay."
We left the farmhouse behind.
The car was waiting at the gate, the engine running, the headlights cutting through the dark. Nathan helped me into the backseat, and Aleksander climbed in beside me. Pavel took the driver's seat, his eyes on the road, his face unreadable.
The city slid past the windows. The streets were empty, the buildings dark, the world sleeping through the violence that had just ended.
I was still shaking. I couldn't stop. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a hollow ache that wouldn't go away.
Aleksander reached for me, pulling me onto his lap. I went willingly, curling into his chest, letting him hold me. His arms wrapped around me, strong and steady, and I felt something loosen in my chest.
"I need to feel something other than afraid," I said.
He looked at me. The grey of his eyes was dark, almost black, and I saw the hunger there—the same hunger I'd seen that first night, in the diner, when I'd pulled a bullet from his side.
"Monika—"
"Please."
He kissed me. It was not a gentle kiss. It was desperate, frantic, the kiss of a man who had almost lost everything. I kissed him back with the same desperation, my hands tangling in his hair, my body pressing against his.
He pushed my dress up around my waist. I heard the sound of his zipper, the rustle of fabric, and then he was insideme. I gasped, my head falling back, my nails digging into his shoulders.
"Quiet," he said. "Pavel—"
"I don't care." I rode him, my hips moving against his, the friction sending sparks through my body. "I don't care who sees. I don't care about anything."
