Page 67 of His Contract Queen

The words sit between us like a live wire, humming with consequence. I don’t walk them back or dress them up with qualifiers that will make them feel less jarring. No “for now”, or “enough to keep her around”. Just the truth, raw and unadorned.

He exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face. When he finally looks at me again, there’s no mockery left in his eyes, just grim understanding, the kind that comes from having stood in the same fire and barely walked out the other side only months prior to now.

He leans one hip against the island, arms still crossed like he’s bracing himself. “You’re in deeper than you realize. Does Malyshko know?”

“To a point. He told me not to go through with the gala. Said the military would be difficult to reel in if things went sideways. Said if I pushed too hard, the Pact wouldn’t be able to shield me from the blowback.”

He sighs again, the sound heavy with resignation. “He’s quite prophetic, isn’t he?”

I don’t answer. There’s nothing to say. Our king’s warnings were clearly laid out and I chose to ignore them anyway. Sasha studies me for a long moment, eyes narrowed. Then he pushes off the counter and heads to the fridge. He pours a filtered glass of water into a glass cup without asking.

When he returns, he sets it down on the counter next to me.

“Let’s get you upright. You look like death.”

Without another word, he reaches for me, one broad hand sliding under my good shoulder, the other bracing my lowerback. I grit my teeth against the fresh spike of pain as he hauls me vertical.

The room spins violently for a heartbeat, black spots dancing at the edges of my vision. I force a slow breath through my nose and hold it until the world steadies. My legs dangle off the edge of the island now. Every inch of me feels like it’s been run over by a truck, then backed up for good measure.

When the dizziness finally recedes enough that I can focus on his face instead of the spinning ceiling, he presses the glass into my hand. I wrap shaking fingers around it and drain the water in three long swallows. The burn is immediate and merciless, scorching a path down my parched throat and into my chest. The pain grounds me, cutting through the fog of blood loss and adrenaline crash. I exhale hard through my mouth when the glass is empty, the heat settling low in my gut like a second heartbeat.

As soon as I’m finished, he takes it from me, setting it aside with the same quiet precision he used to stitch me up. He doesn’t step back, just stands there watching me like he’s waiting for the next stupid thing I’ll try.

Eventually, he says, “You need to tell him what happened. Knowing him, he’s most likely already aware. But he’ll want to hear it from you, regardless.”

“I don’t have time for a lecture,” I snap, edged with the panic I’ve been shoving down since the moment they dragged Katerina off that stage.

My legs swing slightly as I shift my weight, muscles already coiling to hop down from the counter. I need to move. Need to bedoing something—anything—other than lying here bleeding out while she’s somewhere with that bastard.

A heavy hand slams down onto my shoulder, pinning me in place with casual, unyielding strength. The impact jars the fresh stitches. I hiss, but he doesn’t flinch.

“If you want any guarantee about getting your wife back, you need to talk to Nikolai. Nothing can be done otherwise,” he says.

I know that. I’ve run the scenarios in my head since that SUV disappeared around that corner.

The issue is Malyshko doesn’t forgive defiance, nor does he negotiate with sentiment. He calculates risk and eliminates variables that threaten the balance he’s spent years enforcing. Katerina is just that, a variable now. The gala footage will already be spreading like wildfire across every news feed and private channel in Moscow. If I go in guns blazing without his blessing, I’m not just risking my own neck. I’m risking my alliance with the entire Pact as a whole.

But… that knowledge doesn’t stop me from retrieving my phone anyway.

My fingers are still clumsy from shock and blood loss, the front of my phone smeared with dried crimson as I swipe it open. The device is cracked from the fight, lines spiderwebbing across the upper right corner. I pull up Malyshko’s number, thumb hovering over it for half a second.

Sasha remains a statue at my side.

I hit call and put the phone up to my ear. He answers on the first ring as if he’s been expecting it.

“Aleksandr.” His voice is calm. Too calm for my liking.

I swallow once, forcing my tongue to work. “I’m assuming you’ve seen the news already.”

A beat of silence stretches down the line long enough for me to hear the faint background hum of whatever secure line he’s using. Probably the one in his private study, the one lined with soundproofed walls and encrypted relays.

“It’s trending worldwide,” he finally says. There is no inflection in his tone. He speaks as though he’s reading a weather report instead of our anonymity being detonated in real time.

I close my eyes for a second, leaning back slightly as my free hand wraps around the edge of the counter. The stitches pull tight at my side, a warning pain that reminds me I’m still bleeding despite Sasha’s handiwork.

I ignore it.

“She’s… been taken. Ramil’s men snatched her up from the venue and took her somewhere. I lost them while I was tailing them. I have no idea where they’ve taken her.”