Chapter 15 IVAN
IVAN
I wake to the sound of birds.
For a moment, it doesn't register. My body longs for the familiar: the hush of bulletproof glass, the mechanical breath of a city that never sleeps, the faint hum of generators at work.
Instead, sunlight filters through pine needles, accompanied by a bright, delicate chorus outside the window—small birds singing as if they've never known money or blood.
The cabin smells of wood warmed by yesterday's storm—sap, smoke, and damp earth. Clean.
Maksim lies asleep beside me.
He's turned on his side, his face toward mine on the pillow.
I can see the individual lashes resting against his cheek.
He looks different like this—unguarded, the sharp angles of his face softened by slumber.
If I didn't know what he is, what he's done, what he's endured to survive, I might mistake him for just a man who finally got a full night's rest.
His hand rests on my hip.
Not loose. Not accidental. It carries weight. Even as he shifts in his sleep, his fingers adjust, ensuring I haven't disappeared. Possessive. As if his body made a decision in the dark last night and hasn't reconsidered it in the light of day.
I remain still.
My skin is too aware of him—everywhere he touched, everywhere he kissed. The memory lingers under my ribs like a second heartbeat.
Last night was unlike any experience I've had before.
I've never indulged in romance. It was always transactional—clean, contained, a way to satisfy an urge without letting someone into my life long enough to cause pain.
What happened with Maksim felt unmanageable.
It was a structural collapse. One crack, then the whole wall collapsing in a rush of heat and breath. He didn't ask for permission with words. He asked with his body—tension, hesitation, the way he watched me as if he expected me to flinch.
And I didn't.
I gave him everything because holding back felt like a betrayal.
I remember him above me, heavy and certain. I remember the look in his eyes when he realized I wasn't going to assert my dominance. I remember the sound of my own voice saying please as if I had never uttered it before.
Please.
More.
Don't stop.
Words drawn from a place I've kept locked since childhood.
He called me his. He said he wouldn't let me go. And the frightening part was how quickly my mind accepted it. How easily the idea settled into place.
Maksim shifts.
His eyelids flutter open. For a moment, his gaze is blank—pure wake-up reflex, the look of a man trained to awaken ready to kill.
Then he finds me.
Something softens in his expression. The corner of his mouth barely moves, but his eyes change. They don't go flat; they land on me as if I'm real.
"Good morning," I say. My voice sounds strange—softer than it has any right to be.
"Morning." His voice is low and rough. He tightens his grip on my hip, pulling me slightly closer. "How long have you been awake?"
"Not long. The birds woke me."
He listens for a moment, cataloguing the sounds, then that almost-smile appears again.
"I forgot what birds sound like," he says.
The words hit me in the throat.
It's a simple statement—neither a strategy nor a threat—just a truth.
For a few seconds, I yearn for something impossible. I want to keep him here in this bed, in this morning that smells like pine. I want to pretend the world outside these trees can't reach us. That men like Boris don't exist.
But the world always intrudes.
It intrudes with knives, with bullets, with men who smile while planning your funeral.
"Coffee," I say, forcing myself upright before my body decides to stay in bed. "Then we need to talk about what comes next."
The kitchen is small and functional. I start the coffee maker. Maksim moves through the room instinctively—checking the lock, the window latch, the line of sight to the treeline. Habit. Training.
Even after last night, that part of him doesn't rest.
I watch him instead of the coffee.
He adjusts a blind by a centimeter so the glass won't reflect sunlight. He pauses, listening, then moves again. It's not "efficient." It's just him.
The coffee finishes.
I pour two cups and set them on the table by the window. The lake is calm, a pale sheet reflecting the sky. A dock juts into it like a line drawn with care.
Maksim sits, but his eyes keep drifting outward, scanning the trees.
"We can't stay here," I say, my tone firm. "Not for long."
"I know."
"Boris will find us."
He doesn't argue; he's already strategizing. The car, the route, a device, a code. In the city, Boris had reach. Out here, I thought I'd created a blind spot.
I was wrong.
"But we have time to plan," I continue. "Enough time to return on our terms, gather what we need, and put it in my father's hands." I take a breath. "I want to end this. And then I want—" I pause, swallowing hard. "Then I want us to stop living like we're a mistake to manage."
Maksim's gaze settles on me.
"What exactly are you proposing?"
He asks it like a professional question, but his eyes are guarded.
"I'm proposing we go back to the city. We put Boris in a corner and force my father to pay attention."
"And then?"
"And then I burn the paperwork," I say.
He freezes.
"No more files," I clarify. "No more notes. No more... documentation. The pages you found. The assessment. The parts of me that thought they could reduce you to a mechanism." My fingers curl around my cup. "I destroy all of it."
"You can't unmake what you did."
"No. But I can stop doing it. I can stop treating you like something I own."
I reach across the table and take his hand.
The calluses under my fingers feel familiar now. The scars, the roughness. Bandages wrap his fingers from last night's glass, the white fabric already smudged.
"You're asking me to trust you," he says.
"I'm asking you to let me earn it." My thumb brushes against his knuckle. "However long it takes."
Silence settles between us, filled only with the sounds of birds and the soft slap of water against the dock.
Maksim studies our hands, as if trying to determine whether holding mine is a mistake.
Finally, he nods.
"Okay," he says. "We go back. We end it. Then we see what's left."
Relief washes over me, intense enough to sting my
eyes. I hadn't realized how much I needed him to say yes until he did.
I open my mouth to express something—perhaps gratitude—but then Maksim stiffens.
Not subtly. His entire body locks up, as if a switch has been flipped.
His eyes dart to the window, to the treeline.
"Ivan."
The way he says my name strips it of warmth, turning it into a warning.
"What—"
"Down."
He's already moving. His hand slips from mine, and he tackles me sideways off the stool. The floor slams up, and my shoulder crashes into the hardwood, pain flaring white hot.
Then the window shatters.
It's not a neat explosion; it bursts. Glass sprays across the room in a violent sheet. A rifle crack echoes through the cabin, reverberating off the lake like thunder. Wood splinters. Something whizzes past where my head was just a moment ago.
Maksim's body covers
mine, his weight pinning me to the floor, his shoulder pressing down on my chest.
"Stay down," he growls, an animalistic sound—protective.
Another shot rings out, this one striking the wall above us, showering dust onto my hair.
The morning is gone. The lake, the birds, the coffee—everything vanished.
We crawl.
Maksim drags us toward the kitchen, low and fast, using the island for cover. I keep my chest pressed to the floor, knowing what bullets can do to bone.
Our weapons lie where we left them.
That's my fault. I let the illusion of safety make me careless.
Maksim snatches his holster, secures it, and tosses me the backup pistol. I check the magazine: thumb, press, click.
"How many?" I ask.
He glances out just enough to gauge the situation.
"Twelve I can see," he says. "And the trees are too quiet."
Meaning: the rest are hidden because they don't want to be seen.
Another shot cracks. The sound is different now—closer. The bullet slams into the living room wall, and a fragment of ceramic pings across the floor, shattering one of the coffee cups.
Five minutes ago, we were discussing the future. Now, we're focused on our escape.
"They're moving," Maksim observes. "Spaced out. Not rushing. They're taking apart the cabin from the outside."
"Exit points?"
"The dock is being watched. If we run into the forest, they'll herd us."
"Encirclement."
He gives me a look that says don't romanticize it. This isn't just a tactical term; this is about men with rifles deciding whether we die quickly or slowly.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
For a moment, I almost ignore it. Then I realize it's timed. A message delivered with bullets.
The number is blocked.
I answer.
"Boris," I say.
"Nephew," he replies, his tone calm and cheerful, as if we're discussing a real estate deal. "I have to commend you. This property was difficult to locate. You've always had a knack for disappearing."
"What do you want?"
"Stability," Boris says. "Succession without... mess."
"You mean without me."
He sighs softly. "Your father's favoritism blinded him. You were never meant for this. You get attached. You collect liabilities."
His men fire again—two quick shots, not aimed to kill but to remind me I'm trapped.
"The dog," Boris continues. "That's your favorite liability."
I glance at Maksim.
He's crouched behind the island, weapon ready. A thin line of blood stains his shoulder—a graze from the glass. He watches my face, trying to read me.
"Here's my offer," Boris says. "Send him out unarmed. He walks. You live."
My throat tightens.
I hear the subtext: Prove what you are, Ivan. Prove you'll trade him like you always have. Prove the file was right.
"And Maksim?" I manage to ask.
There's a pause, a smile in his voice. "He has killed too many of my men. I'll make it clean, but I won't make it merciful."
I look at Maksim again.
He heard that.
And I see something that makes my chest ache: not surprise or hope, but acceptance. The kind born from a lifetime of being treated as expendable. The kind I trained into him.
"No," I
say, the word coming out hard enough to crack teeth.
"Ivan," Boris says, irritation creeping in. "Think. You're outnumbered. You can't shoot your way through this. Your only leverage is the dog, and I'm offering you a path that keeps you alive."
"No."
"You'd die for him?" Boris laughs, an ugly sound. "A tool you built? A weapon you conditioned?" Another laugh, sharper. "Your father was right. You're sentimental. That's why you were never fit to lead."
I stare at the floor for a moment.
Then I look up.
"You're wrong about him," I say, my voice steady now, cold. "And you're wrong about me."
Maksim's eyes are locked on mine. No flinching. No plea.
"We're coming out," I tell Boris. "We're going to kill every man you sent. And then I'm going to find you."
Boris's voice drops. "Is that a promise?"
"It's a plan," I reply, and end the call.
I throw the phone across the room, and it hits the wall before skittering into a corner.
Maksim stares at me, distrust evident in his eyes.
"You should have taken the deal," he says, his voice steady but laced with controlled pain.
"No."
I move closer, positioning myself beside him so our shoulders nearly touch behind the island. In this moment, we're not a principal and his bodyguard; we're two men trapped in a cabin with guns aimed at us.
"I told you last night," I say firmly. "I'm not trading you."
His expression flickers with shock and disbelief.
Outside, boots crunch on gravel.
Not running. Walking. The sound of men who know they have time.
They're coming in.
"Ready?" I ask.
Maksim chambers a round, the motion sharp and precise. But when he meets my gaze, a faint curve appears at the corner of his mouth—a flicker of that morning's smile trying to survive.
"Always," he replies.
A boot thuds against the porch.
Wood creaks.
And then the first door handle begins to turn.