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Ivan stops moving entirely, and I do not need the bond to read the answer because his face gives it clean and without mercy, the truth sitting right there in the set of his mouth. Why do I ask him a question when I already know? Why am I asking the hard part out loud? Is it so I can be mad at his answer instead of at this life?

"We live in shadows, Cienna. No Brusilov seeks fame. Fame brings eyes, scrutiny we might not withstand. Your name on that work draws a line straight back to this compound."

"I know." I sigh, staring at the blood at my feet. "I get it."

"I am sorry. Is that what you want, the publishing, the awards?"

"I don't need a stage, Ivan. I don't need awards. But I won't give Steven my work just because your family prefers to live in the shadows."

His eyes narrow. "I would never ask you to."

"Then what am I supposed to do? My research is my life's work. It's the reason I became a surgeon."

"I know."

"Do you?"

He takes a breath. "You were a doctor before you became my mate. I have no intention of taking that from you."

"Then how do we make both things work?"

"I don't know yet," he says, his jaw tightening. "But we will find a way."

It isn't the answer I want. It's the first time I've heard Ivan admit he doesn't have one.

"Today has been a very long day," I tell him. "I'm so very tired."

His mouth closes, but he takes the cut-off without turning away. The animal under my skin begins pacing a tighter and tighter line until I'm standing still in a body that no longer fits.

"I need to run."

"Then we run."

"No. I need to do this alone, and I need you to let me."

His chest expands on a breath he does not release, his fingers flexing once at his sides while his gaze holds mine. He argues without a word leaving his mouth, the vor and the tiger and the mate all pulling toward the same refusal.

"You stay on the property." He finally huffs. "The tree line, the river path, the lower ridge, anywhere my men hold. You have free range, and no one stops you, and no one follows you."

"Ivan—"

"Run. Just do not run away."

"I won't. I promise."

He leans in close, his hand gripping the back of my neck. His mouth comes down on mine hard enough to drive the last of the cold out and replace it with him. He holds me exactly where he wants me, and the kiss stays fierce and claiming until my fists uncurl against his bare chest, and my mouth opens, giving him the promise with lips and tongue.

Then he lets me go. He steps back into the snow and leaves the whole white tree line open in front of me.

I call my parents from the infirmary break room an hour later. My hands are shaking. I don't know if it's exhaustion or cold or something else.

My mom answers. "Cienna? Baby, it's — what time is it there? Are you okay?"

"I'm okay. I just — I wanted to tell you. The surgery worked. Alex is going to be okay. We did it, Mom. We actually did it."

Her voice fills with warmth and pride and distance — six thousand miles of distance. "Oh, sweetheart, that's wonderful! Randall! Randall, come here, Cienna's on the phone! She did it!"

I hear my dad in the background, his voice rough with sleep and pride. "That's my girl. That's my baby girl. I knew you could do it."