Chapter 27 Nadya
NADYA
I come to a dead stop behind Konstantin, my heart slamming against my ribs so hard it almost hurts. I don’t see anything at first—just Irina, frozen in place, clutching Mila like the world is ending. Her arms are wrapped so tightly around my daughter, I almost call out to her, ask what’s wrong.
And then I see him.
Dmitry Buryakov.
Sitting on Nikolai’s bed like it’s the most natural thing in the world. One leg crossed, hand resting on my son’s knee, his other arm sprawled out behind him in mock comfort. My blood turns to ice. I feel it flood through me, burning and freezing all at once.
He looks up, that calculating gaze sweeping lazily across the room until it lands on Konstantin. He smiles.
“Hello, Konstantin,” he says, his voice smooth as silk and twice as dangerous.
I can feel Konstantin tense beside me. Every part of him stills. He doesn’t speak right away, just breathes like he’s trying to steady something threatening to break loose. I glance up at him, see the strain in his jaw, the flinch in his hand.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he finally says, and his voice…it’s wrong. Too even. Too quiet.
Dmitry doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. He just glances back at Nikolai, brushing a finger down his sleeve like he’s straightening the jacket of a child he’s known his whole life.
“Visiting my grandson,” he replies, tone syrupy and cold. “He’s a handsome boy. Strong. Like his father.”
I can’t take it. The sight of his hand on Nikolai’s arm, the sound of his voice in this room, with our children—I snap.
“Get away from him,” I snarl, stepping forward without thinking.
Konstantin’s hand shoots out and presses to my stomach, stopping me instantly. It’s not rough. It’s gentle, firm, but it’s not a suggestion—it’s a command. He doesn’t look at me, but I feel the tension rippling through him like a wire pulled taut.
Dmitry’s smile only deepens, like he’s enjoying a performance he’s seen before and knows by heart.
“You taught her to speak before thinking, I see,” he says, tilting his head in mock amusement.
“Touch him again,” Konstantin says, voice like steel, “and I will kill you where you sit.”
Dmitry rises slowly. Unhurried. As if he’s not afraid at all. As if this is all a game he’s in complete control of. He buttons his coat, one finger at a time.
“You won’t,” he says. “Not here. Not with your daughter watching.”
I hear Konstantin suck in a breath through his teeth. He doesn’t move, but I feel the fury radiating off him. It coils around the room like smoke, thick and suffocating.
“What do you want?” he asks, each word dragged from him like it costs something.
Dmitry straightens his cuffs, glances at Nikolai one more time, then lifts his eyes—those same terrifying, unreadable eyes that Konstantin carries, but colder. Emptier.
Dmitry looks around the room like it’s his throne, like we’re all standing in his house. His gaze falls on Mila, who’s watching him with wide, confused eyes from Irina’s arms. Then on Nikolai, still seated on the hospital bed, fingers fidgeting with the edge of his blanket.
And then back to us.
“You really thought you could hide my grandchildren from me?” he says, calm as ice, his words soaked in something venomous. “From me?”
Konstantin doesn’t flinch, but I feel something shift in him. Like something sacred has just been touched by dirty hands. His hand is still against me, holding me back, but there’s a tremor under his skin now. Rage, barely leashed.
I feel it too. The same fury. Because it’s not just a threat—it’s a claim. He’s looking at my children like they’re part of some game he forgot to finish playing.
“They are not yours,” I snap, voice shaking with the force it takes not to scream.
Dmitry turns his gaze to me like I’m a curiosity. “You speak boldly for someone standing behind my son.”
“I speak as their mother,” I say. “Try me again.”
That makes him smile—dark, indulgent, full of the kind of pride only a twisted man like him could feel.
“How dare you come in here,” Konstantin says, his body shaking with rage. Dmitry rises. “How dare you? When your blood is the one that poisoned him in the first place.”
Dmitry raises a brow. “Don’t speak in riddles.”
“Konstantin—” I start.
“His heart is weak because of me, because of what we carry in our blood, because of you. You poisoned him.”
Dmitry’s expression shifts, and for a moment, I see a crack in the heartless man.
Then the door creaks open behind us, and I turn just enough to see him—Alexei. His tall frame fills the doorway, shoulders rounded with guilt, expression uncertain. His eyes flicker to me first, then to Konstantin, and finally to Dmitry.
He looks like he regrets being born.
“We came here to see family,” Dmitry says, eyes still on Konstantin but motioning slightly to Alexei. “Especially in times like this, when family should be everything.”
Konstantin’s voice cuts through the room, flat and toneless. “You have my condolences.”
That gives Dmitry the briefest pause.
“Ah, so you heard,” he murmurs, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. “Tragic. Roman always was too impulsive.”
I feel Konstantin go still beside me.
Alexei drops his gaze, his posture crumpling just slightly. That tells me everything I need to know.
“You came here to use this,” Konstantin says, his voice low, tightly wound. “To spin grief into leverage.”
Dmitry shrugs, glancing at Mila now, who tightens her hold around Irina’s neck. “I came here to offer peace,” he says, “to see my grandchildren. But if you’d rather see this as a move on a chessboard…”
He trails off, letting the silence do the rest.
Alexei takes a step forward. “We didn’t mean to upset anyone,” he says quickly, his voice the only soft thing in the room. “We thought…we thought it might help to show we’re not enemies.”
“You’re not,” I say, my eyes on Dmitry. “You’re something much worse.”
Konstantin’s hand slides down from my waist, his body angling forward like he’s ready to strike. But Dmitry just smiles again, like he’s proud of the tension he’s created.
Like this is exactly what he wanted.
And I know then—we all do—this wasn’t just a visit.
This was a warning. A quiet declaration.
Dmitry’s gaze lingers on Nikolai like he owns the right to stand there.
“I’ve stationed my men around the hospital,” he says casually, like he’s talking about the weather.
“They’ll be watching round the clock. Security for my grandson.
Meanwhile, I’ll go talk to the doctors myself and see if I can learn about his progress. ”
I feel Konstantin tense beside me before he speaks. “That’s enough. You’ll do no such thing.”
But Dmitry only tilts his head, feigning confusion. “Isn’t this what you want? For your family to be safe? I’m just trying to help you here.”
I’m disgusted. What a sick man. He intends to use Nikolai’s affliction.
Konstantin doesn’t reply. Not right away. He doesn’t need to. His silence is louder than anything he could say.
A buzzing sound cuts through the tension, and Alexei glances down at his phone. Whatever he sees flashes urgency across his face. He looks to Dmitry and gives a slight nod. Without another word, they both turn and walk out of the room, leaving behind a silence thick with something unspoken.
The moment the door shuts behind them, Konstantin moves fast, crossing to Nikolai’s bedside. His hand hovers for a second before it settles over his son’s small chest, like he needs to feel the rhythm of his heartbeat to steady his own.
“So, this was his plan,” he mutters, almost to himself. “The bastard’s been plotting since the beginning.”
I’m still watching the door, my own heart hammering. Mila slips her hand into mine and looks up at me. “Who was that scary man?”
Her voice is small. Too small.
“I tried to stop him,” Irina says, voice trembling. “He just walked in…I didn’t know what to do.”
“It’s okay, Irina,” I say quickly, reaching for her hand. “It’s okay. None of this is your fault.”
I let out a slow breath, still trying to calm my pulse. My eyes drift to Konstantin, who hasn’t moved from his spot near Nikolai’s bed. His jaw is clenched, his hand resting protectively near our son’s arm.
And then, not five seconds later, the door opens again.
Alexei steps in, sheepish. “Sorry about that,” he says, running a hand through his hair.
Konstantin doesn’t answer, but his eyes lock onto Alexei with something unreadable. Not quite anger. Not quite trust.
Alexei clears his throat and steps forward, and that’s when I see it—a familiar hardcover tucked under his arm.
“Is that…?” I start, squinting.
Alexei lifts the book. The Boy Who Could Fly. The same dragon-riding, sky-chasing adventure Nikolai reads on repeat.
“I found it in the bookstore downstairs,” Alexei says. “Figured he might like to hear a chapter or two.”
I soften. Despite everything, his simple gesture floors me.
Konstantin gives a small nod. A reluctant one, but it’s there.
Alexei moves to the side of the bed. Nikolai is half-asleep, fever-pale and breathing shallow, but he opens his eyes.
“Hey, kiddo,” Alexei says. “You don’t know me, but I know your dad. He’s my brother.”
Nikolai just watches him.
“Got something for you,” Alexei says. He pulls a chair beside the bed and opens the book. I sit on the couch near the window, watching as he starts to read.
“On the third day of flying, Kieran finally saw the edge of the world…”
Nikolai’s gaze is glued to the page, his small hand inching toward the edge of the bed where Alexei rests his arm. His breathing evens out just a little. The sunlight catches in the gold strands of his hair, and for a moment, there’s nothing but the story.
When Alexei reaches the end of the chapter, Nikolai shifts, whispering, “Can you stay a little longer?”
Alexei’s voice goes quiet. “Yeah. I can stay.”