Page 82 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

I watch the small things now, the way his grip changes, the way his jaw sets, the second his eyes stay too long on a line, and I wish I didn’t notice any of it.

He gathers Sergei’s letter, the doctor’s notes, the scan report, and Leonid’s pages into one stack, then looks at me. “My suite,” he says, and he walks out first while I follow him through the hall, both of us silent, the papers held tight in his hand.

Inside his suite, Maksim crosses to a tall old cabinet near the wall, dark wood, brass corners, and drawers worn smooth at the pulls from years of use. He takes a key from his pocket, opens the lower compartment, and the inside is steel.

A safe, built into heritage wood.

He places Sergei’s letter, the doctor’s notes, the scan report, and Leonid’s pages inside, then turns the dial once and looks back at me.

“Watch.”

I sit on the edge of his bed and do exactly that.

He shows me the combination with no drama, just his hand moving through the numbers slowly enough for me to memorize them. Then he shuts the safe, locks the cabinet, and tests the handle twice.

“Again,” he says.

I repeat the numbers.

He nods, crosses to the desk, and opens a small drawer. There are spare keys inside, tags, a metal ring, and a black marker. He works with his head bent, and he makes the keyring with calm hands while the safe holds my father’s threat, my doctor’s report, and the pages that prove my body is now part of the fight.

Outside the glass, evening settles over the grounds, and the desk lamp warms the wood between us.

He comes to me and places the keyring in my palm.

“You keep this,” he says. “And you remember the combination.”

I close my fingers around the keys. “You have another.”

“Yes.”

I don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or throw the keys back at him, so I sit there with my fingers closed around the ring while anger moves through me in too many directions. The suite is too neat for what just happened here, with dark wood, heavy curtains, a wide bed made with military care, a leather chair angled toward the balcony doors, and a desk where every pen sits straight. My eyes come back to him, and he stands there with his sleeves rolled, his face controlled, and his hands empty. The key lies between us, but the doors, guards, and locked gates are still his.

“You’re doing it again,” I say, and my fingers close around the keys.

He looks over and asks, “What?”

“Arranging things around me.”

His gaze drops to the keyring in my hand and returns to my face as he says, “I gave you access.”

“You gave me a key because under your roof, every part of my life now needs a lock,” I say, and bitterness slips into my voice before I can hide it.

He crosses the room and stops in front of me. “I didn’t turn it into one. Your father did. Karpov is using it, Moretti will buy around it, and I’m the man trying to keep the file from becoming a body.”

My throat tightens, and I hate the tears as they reach my eyes while I push the question out. “And where am I in that sentence?”

His face changes, and I know I got him.

He crouches in front of me with his hands resting on his knees, and he doesn’t grab me or force me to look at him. “You’re the woman I need to ask, not move around.”

I blink hard and say, “That was almost decent.”

“Don’t spread it around.”

A laugh breaks out of me and turns uneven as my breath catches because crying is right behind it, and he sees that too and says nothing as he reaches for my hand slowly, giving me time to refuse.

His thumb moves over my knuckles. “You scared me.”