Page 73 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

Markova speaks first. “There is a heartbeat.”

My grip on the chair tightens until wood groans under my hand.

Elena makes a sound I can’t place. Markova continues. “The scan is consistent with approximately ten weeks. I want follow-up monitoring.”

I open the door.

Elena is still on the sofa, blouse straightened, face pale, one hand flat over her stomach. The printed strip lies on the table, and I keep my hands off it. If I pick it up, I may not give it back.

Markova turns to me. “She needs stability.”

Elena looks at me.

I nod once. “Understood.”

After Markova leaves, I start giving orders.

Dima cuts the medical chain down to three people. Mrs. Wentworth handles Elena’s meals herself, with no rotating trays and no curious staff. Lidiya stays assigned to her rooms because she has already proven she can hit traitors without pausing to ask permission.

Bakery runs stop being casual. Two vetted men go first, a female escort stays with her, and the route changes every time. Alcohol disappears from her place at the table without comment. If she takes the stairs, someone is close enough to catch her before she has to ask.

Elena stands near the window while I speak, and with every order, her face closes another inch.

When the last man leaves, she turns to me. “You hear locks when you talk, don’t you?”

“I hear doors closing before your father can open them.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Yes.”

A knock comes at the door.

Leonid enters with a secure envelope in his hand and enough tension in his shoulders to tell me the day has found another knife.

“This came through the old Sokolov channel,” he says.

I hold out my hand. He doesn’t give it to me.

My eyes lift.

Leonid swallows. “It isn’t addressed to you.”

Elena turns from the window. I take the envelope anyway, and the seal has already been scanned and cleared. The handwriting across the front is elegant, black, familiar enough that Elena’s face loses the last of its color before I read it aloud.

To my daughter, and to the future she is carrying.

22

MAKSIM

Ilook at the envelope in Leonid’s hand, and everything past that paper drops out of focus. My eyes narrow, my shoulders tighten, and the last useful part of my temper goes somewhere cold enough to do damage.

“Give it to me,” I say.

Leonid hesitates because the letter is addressed to her.

I lift my eyes, and whatever he means to say dies in his mouth. He gives it to me and pulls his hand back fast.