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And they're so happy for me. They're so proud. But they're also so far away, and I can hear the TV in the background, and my mom is asking if I'm eating enough, and my dad is telling me about the new socket for his prosthetic, and it's all so normal, so home, and I'm standing in a break room in the Russian Far East with my hands still smelling like surgical soap, and I can't — I can't—

"I have to go," I say suddenly. "I love you. I'll call again soon."

"Wait, baby, are you sure you're—"

I hang up before she can finish. I press the phone to my chest, and try to picture my life here. I try to see it — Thanksgiving in the main hall, Christmas in the cottage, Sunday dinners with Anya teaching me to make borscht, Ivan's hand on my swollen belly, cubs with his eyes and my curls running through the snow—

And I can't. I can't see it. All I see is Steven's helicopter disappearing into the dark. All I see is the lab in Minneapolis, the conferences, the journals, the work. All I see is the Brusilovs roaring together in a language I don't speak.

I am the genius they appreciate.

I am not one of them.

Ivan finds me in our room an hour later. He knows immediately. The bond — that second heartbeat, that open channel — betrays me before I say a word. He crosses the room in three strides and takes my face in his hands, and his eyes are still lit with more amber than brown.

"Something is wrong. I feel it. What happened?"

I look up at him — this man, this mountain, this king — and the words come out small. "I watched your family today. In the infirmary. You were all — you were speaking Russian and roaring together, and there was this toast, this rhythm, and Ivan, I—" My voice cracks. "I don't belong here. You should know that. Someone should say it out loud. I'm not—"

"Do not finish that sentence." His voice drops into the rumble that makes his men snap to attention. "You are my mate."

"Your mate. Yes. But what does that mean here? What am I here, Ivan?"

"Mine."

My heart sinks. "That's not enough."

His expression changes.

"I love being your mate. I love you. But I was somebody before I met you. A doctor. A researcher. A daughter. I had a life that belonged to me."

"And you still have those things."

"Do I?"

He goes quiet, then takes my hands. "Tell me what you need, Cienna. I know how to protect you. I know how to provide for you. But I have never had a mate. If I am doing this wrong, tell me."

"I need to know there's room for the rest of me here."

His fingers tighten around mine. "Then we make room, little mate. All of you. Not just the parts my tiger understands."

His jaw ticks. His nostrils flare. Anger rolls off him, hot through the bond. And underneath the anger, fear. His fear.

"Part of me wants to go back," I admit. "To Minneapolis. To my lab. To the life I understood before all of this. And part of me can't imagine leaving you."

I don't get to finish.

He moves so fast I don't track it — one second he's standing in front of me, the next his hand is wrapped around the back of my neck, and his forehead is pressed to mine, and his growl is shaking through both our bodies, through the floor, through the bond itself.

"Whatever this is, we face it together. All of it, Cienna. Promise me you won't run."

My body relaxes into his hold. This is what I want. He is who I need. My alpha. "All right," I whisper. "I promise."

He holds me until I sleep, and then — because he is the vor and there are things that will not wait — he leaves in the dark hours before dawn, kissing my forehead, murmuring something in Russian.

I don't leave the bed. I don't go anywhere. I stay exactly where he left me, curled in the nest I've made of his scent. Letting it cover the memory of helicopters and laboratories.

Hours pass. The sun comes up. The compound wakes — voices, footsteps, the rumble of engines.