33. Lacey
33
LACEY
The jet's engines hum as we reach cruising altitude, but I barely register the sound. My hands tremble as I stare at them—crimson staining my skin, soaking into the delicate lace of my wedding dress.
Irina's blood.
I can't tear my eyes away from where Vadim kneels beside her body, his fingers gentle as he closes her eyes. His lips move in what sounds like a prayer, the Russian words soft and mournful. The tenderness in his touch makes my chest ache.
"I tried..." The words catch in my throat. "I tried to save her."
My fingers had pressed desperately against the wound, but her blood had pumped out between them anyway. Her final smile flashes in my mind, when she congratulated us as we rushed up the stairs—triumphant and undying even as the light faded from her eyes.
Olga's warning echoes in my head: "Sooner or later, Pyotr's bastard will put blood on your hands."
I look down at my stained palms and dress, bile rising in my throat.
The metallic scent of blood fills my nostrils, making my head spin. My wedding dress—Irina's final masterpiece—is ruined. Dark crimson blooms across the pristine white fabric like spilled wine.
We had talked about what we could do together when we returned to Seattle. She brought preliminary sketches for her new line. Promised that we'd look them over on the flight back home.
Together.
"I should have..." My voice breaks. Should have what? Run faster? Fought harder? Never agreed to this insane plan in the first place?
Irina died protecting us. Protecting me. The weight of that truth settles heavy in my chest, threatening to crush me. My hands begin to shake harder as the reality of what just happened crashes over me.
This isn't just some elaborate game anymore. This is blood and death and consequences I never imagined when I agreed to this plan.
What else will this cost?
Who else will bleed because of the choices we've made?
I stare at my blood-stained hands, unable to look away.
Olga was right. There's blood on my hands now. And I have a sickening feeling this is only the beginning.
" Zvyozdochka ." Vadim's voice cuts through my daze. He extends his hand toward me, his expression gentle despite the steel in his eyes. "You need to change out of those clothes."
"I can't..." The words catch in my throat. "This was her last..."
"I know." Vadim's fingers brush against my cheek, wiping away tears I hadn't realized were falling. "But she wouldn't want you sitting here in blood-soaked clothes."
He's right, of course. The rational part of my brain knows this. But my body feels frozen, locked in place by the horror of what just happened. By the weight of Irina's final smile before she slipped away under my desperate hands.
Vadim's hand remains extended, patient and steady. A lifeline in this storm of chaos and death. My fingers tremble as I reach for him, letting him pull me to my feet. My legs feel weak, unsteady.
"Come." His voice is soft but firm as he guides me toward the back of the jet.
I let him lead me, grateful for his solid presence. My mind keeps replaying those final moments like an endless repeating nightmare. The gunshot, Irina's body falling, my hands pressing uselessly against her wound.
My hand tightens against Vadim's, anchoring myself to the present through his grip, keeping me from drowning.
The door clicks shut behind us as Vadim guides me into the private cabin. My hands won't stop shaking. The blood has started drying, turning brown and flaky on my skin.
"Arms up," Vadim murmurs. His touch is achingly gentle as he helps me out of the dress. The fabric clings to my skin where the blood has soaked through, making a horrible peeling sound as he lifts it away.
"She made this for me." My voice cracks as I keep repeating myself as if it'll change reality. "I can't…"
"You have to, zvyozdochka ." His fingers trace down my spine, leaving trails of warmth against my cold skin.
The dress pools at my feet in a ruined heap of crimson-stained white. I can't look at it. Can't bear to see Irina's work destroyed like this. Vadim's hands cup my shoulders, steadying me as I step free of the fabric.
"The water's warm." He guides me toward the small bathroom. Steam curls from the faucet he must have turned on while I was lost in my thoughts. "Let me help you."
I should feel exposed standing in my bra and panties. Should feel something beyond this hollow numbness. But all I can focus on is the dried blood coating my hands and arms. Even my hair is matted with it.
Vadim's fingers work at the clasp of my bra, and then slips my panties off my hips. His movements are clinical and careful. There's nothing sexual in his touch, just a steadying tenderness that makes my throat tight. He helps me into the shower, holding my elbow as my legs threaten to give out.
"You're in shock," he says softly, reaching for a washcloth. "Breathe. It'll pass."
Warm water cascades over my skin, but I barely feel it. My eyes stay fixed on the pink-tinged rivulets swirling down the drain. Irina's blood mixing with water, washing away like she never existed.
Vadim's hands are gentle as he runs the washcloth over my shoulders, down my arms. His touch anchors me to the present even as my mind threatens to spiral. The washcloth moves in steady circles, methodically cleaning away the evidence of what happened.
"Look at me, zvyozdochka ," he murmurs when my gaze refuses to tear itself away from the drain and the pink ribbons swirling around it.
I try to meet his eyes but my legs suddenly feel weak, unable to hold me up anymore. I start to sink down and his arms catch me immediately, pulling me against his chest. The expensive fabric of his shirt soaks through as he holds me under the spray.
My eyes drift closed, seeking escape from reality. But the moment darkness falls, I see it again—Irina's body arching backward, that final serene smile, the blood seeping between my desperate fingers.
My eyes snap open with a gasp. "I can't! I keep seeing!"
"Don't dwell on it." His voice rumbles through his chest against my cheek. "Focus on me. Just me."
Something breaks inside me then. The sob tears from my throat before I can stop it, raw and primal. My fingers clutch at his ruined shirt as the tears come faster, harder. Each gasp feels like it's being ripped from deep within my soul.
Vadim just holds me tighter, one hand cradling the back of my head while the other supports my weight. He murmurs soft words I can't hear or understand, but the gentle cadence of his voice wraps around me like a blanket.
I cry until I can barely breathe, my whole body shaking with the force of my sobs. Through it all, Vadim's arms stay steady around me, letting me fall apart while he holds the pieces together.
The warm water shuts off but I barely notice, lost in the hollow emptiness that's settled into my bones. Vadim's hands remain steady as he wraps a plush towel around me, methodically drying my skin. I let him guide my movements like a doll, lifting my arms when he tugs the soft cotton shirt over my head.
"Here." He helps me step into a pair of black leggings.
I'm grateful for his clinical and impersonal touch in this moment. I don't think I could handle tenderness right now.
Once I'm dressed, Vadim bends down to retrieve my ruined wedding dress from where it lies in a bloody heap on the floor. His fingers work carefully at the hidden pocket, and extract the bible.
The leather binding is still pristine, untouched by the violence that destroyed everything else.
I watch him examine it, turning it over in his hands. The sight of it makes ice spread through my veins.
That book, the whole reason we're here, the reason Irina... My throat closes up before I can finish the thought.
"I need to move her to the cargo hold,” Vadim says quietly, tucking the bible into his jacket. "We can't just leave her on the floor outside." He pauses, jaw tightening. "She deserves a proper burial. In Seattle."
I manage a small nod, unable to form words. The cargo hold. Like luggage. Like she wasn't just alive not so long ago, helping me into my wedding dress with excited hands and bright eyes.
Like she hadn't promised me that we'd look over her latest work together, dreaming of more hopeful things.
Vadim's lips brush my forehead briefly before he turns away. I hear the cabin door open and close, leaving me alone with the empty shower and my blood-stained wedding dress crumpled on the floor.
I sink onto the small leather seat, my damp hair dripping onto the soft cotton of the shirt. The reality of what just happened—what I've gotten myself into—crashes over me like a tidal wave.
This isn't just some elaborate heist anymore. This isn't a game of dress-up and pretend marriage. Irina is dead. Actually dead. Because of me. Because I agreed to this insane plan.
My hands start trembling again as I remember Olga's warning. Blood on my hands. Just like she said. And now that I'm in this deep, is there even a way out?
Sayanaa knows my face.
She knows who I am.
She's seen me wearing Mom's necklace.
What if… what if that's enough for her to follow it the way that Vadim had?
Even if I wanted to run, where would I go? Back to Seattle? To catering jobs and looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life? Wondering if every stranger on the street works for Sayanaa?
And what about Megan? What would happen to her if Kirsan's people found out about her? Or Dad?
I press my palms against my eyes, trying to stop the spiral of panic. But the thoughts keep coming, faster and darker. I'm in so deep now. There's no going back to my old life. No pretending this never happened.
The blood on my hands may have washed away, but I can still feel it. Still see Irina's final smile. Still hear Olga's words echoing in my head. Is this what my life will be now? Running? Hiding? Watching more people die because they tried to help me?
My chest feels tight, like I can't get enough air. The walls seem to close in around me. I'm trapped—not just on this plane, but in this life I've stumbled into. And I'm starting to realize there might not be a way out.
The door opens and Vadim steps back in, his shirt still damp from holding me in the shower. His movements are measured, controlled, but I catch the slight tremor in his hands as he shuts the door.
"Try to get some rest," he says quietly. "We still have several hours before we land."
The thought of being alone makes my chest tighten. "Stay with me?" The word comes out barely above a whisper. "Please?"
He studies me for a long moment before nodding. Without a word, he settles beside me on the small leather bench. His arm wraps around my shoulders, drawing me against his chest.
I curl into him instinctively, seeking the familiar comfort of his embrace. But something feels different. Where his touch usually radiates warmth that seeps into my bones, now there's just... nothing. The solid press of his body against mine feels hollow, mechanical.
His heart beats steady under my ear, but the rhythm brings no comfort. His fingers pull me closer to him, but the touch feels distant and disconnected. It's like there's an invisible wall between us now, built from blood and death and consequences neither of us fully understood when this started.
I close my eyes, trying to find that spark of heat that usually ignites whenever he holds me. But all I feel is cold emptiness, matching the hollow look in his eyes when he'd knelt beside Irina's body.
His lips press against my damp hair, but even that gesture feels automatic, like he's following a script of what he should do rather than acting on genuine impulse.
The man who'd made me feel alive with just a touch now feels as numb as I do.
We sit in silence, his arms around me, my head on his chest. Two broken people holding each other together while falling apart inside.