Chapter 32
NADYA
I’ve been lying in bed for hours, eyes wide open in the dark, the silence so heavy it wraps around my chest like wire.
The house is quiet—too quiet—and the longer the minutes stretch, the more jagged they feel against my skin.
My hand rests on the empty side of the bed, tracing the cold sheets where he should be. It’s long past midnight.
I try not to imagine where he is. Try not to let my mind replay the flash of fire, the blast echoing through the warehouse. We barely made it out. We got Levin out. But we almost didn’t. And now he’s gone again—without a word.
The floor creaks.
My heart leaps.
By the time I get to the hallway, I see him.
Konstantin stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame like his bones barely want to hold him up. His shirt is torn. There’s a gash along his jaw, dried blood crusted over his eyebrow. His knuckles are raw, his eyes shadowed and dark.
I cross the space between us and throw my arms around his neck, burying myself into him, into the only place that’s ever felt like home.
He lets out a soft breath—more of a shudder—before folding into me.
His arms come around me slowly, tightly, like he’s afraid I might disappear if he doesn’t hold on hard enough.
“Where were you?” I whisper into his collarbone, my voice cracking under the weight of the question I swore I wouldn’t ask.
He doesn’t answer right away, and I don’t press. I can feel his heart pounding against my chest. I can smell smoke in his hair, the faint sting of gunpowder still clinging to his skin.
I tighten my arms. I don’t want to let go.
Because in this moment, all the anger, all the fear, all the questions—they don’t matter. I love him. God help me, I love him more than I’ve ever let myself admit.
I guide him into the en suite, sit him on the closed toilet lid, and flick on the bright vanity light.
The room shrinks around the two of us—white tile, steamed mirror, the faint scent of antiseptic from the first aid kit I found under the sink.
His shoulders sag the moment he exhales, as though the effort of staying upright in front of the world has finally run its course and I’m the only witness allowed to see the collapse.
A thin trail of dried blood snakes from his hairline down to the corner of his mouth. I wet a cotton pad with peroxide that makes a slight hissing sound in the hush. He winces when I dab the gash under his brow.
“Tell me,” I whisper, not because I’m demanding answers but because the silence feels like pressure on an already fractured bone.
He keeps his eyes on the faucet—refusing to meet mine—until the next sting from the antiseptic forces them shut. “I went to him.” His voice is hoarse, scraped raw by smoke or by everything he’s swallowed tonight. “Drove the truck straight through the gate.”
My hand stills for a heartbeat. “Dmitry.”
Of course he did, I think, but I don’t say it. I rinse the cloth, the water running red then pink then clear.
“He had a gun on the desk,” Konstantin continues. “Pointed it, then put it down.” The disbelief flickers across his face again—as if, even now, he’s not convinced it truly happened. “And then he said he’s a match. For Nikolai.”
The words lodge in the center of my chest, equal parts hope and dread. “A match? You mean—”
“His HLA profile. He ran it himself.” A mirthless laugh escapes him.
I press a fresh gauze pad to his brow, trying to keep my hands from shaking. “He wants to donate?”
“He offered to.” Konstantin’s mouth twists, as if tasting something bitter. “Said he’s tired of burying Buryakov sons.”
I step back, needing air, needing space that the tiled walls refuse to give. My mind races through every possibility—what it means for Nikolai, what it means for us. Trusting Dmitry feels like inviting a wolf to guard lambs, but refusing him feels like condemning our boy for pride.
Konstantin misreads my silence as judgment. “I don’t believe him,” he says quickly. “I don’t. But if there’s a chance—”
I sink to my knees in front of him, take his battered hands in mine. “If there’s a chance,” I echo, my voice trembling, “we take it. But on our terms.”
I pause with the suture needle poised above his brow, the tiny point trembling in the cone of light. His words linger in the steamy air between us, heavy as the clove-scented antiseptic.
“I still don’t believe it. Your father decided to be put under?” I echo, hardly believing it. “Completely unconscious—voluntarily?”
“I don’t have an answer,” Konstantin cuts in gently, but there’s an edge beneath his calm. “My father never does anything without a reason. He’s a man who plots five steps ahead. But this…this feels different. Almost like he wants to make a point.”
A long pause stretches between us.
“He’s unpredictable,” I whisper. “And that makes him dangerous.”
Konstantin doesn’t argue. He just nods, jaw clenched, as if that truth has finally settled into his bones too.
I lift his knuckles to my lips, tasting salt and iron. “We get our own tests done,” I say. “We move Nikolai to a secure wing. Then Dmitry goes back to whatever shadows he crawled from.”
Konstantin nods again, but this time something shifts behind his eyes, hopeful. He presses our joined hands to his sternum like he’s trying to lock the feeling in place.
“He also said he didn’t hit the warehouse,” he adds quietly.
I swallow. “Do you believe him?”
“I don’t know what to believe.” His gaze drops to the damp towel on the counter, then lifts to meet mine. “But I know I can’t fight two wars at once. If he’s telling the truth, someone else is moving against us.”
“Then we find them,” I say. “Together.”
He leans forward until our foreheads touch, both of us breathing the same humid, blood-scented air. “I was so sure,” he murmurs, voice cracking, “that tonight would end with one of us dead.”
“Never say that in front of me,” I say.
For a long moment we stay like that—knees on tile, water dripping in the sink, the taste of peroxide in the air—two broken things holding each other up because there’s nothing else left to do.
Finally I pull back and offer a weak smile. “Let me stitch that cut. Then you’re going to bed.”
He almost smiles in return. “Only if you come with me.”
“Nonnegotiable,” I say, threading the needle.
In the mirror above us, I catch sight of our reflections—his battered face, my tear-red eyes, two survivors who keep choosing each other even when the night keeps trying to choose otherwise.
Somehow that feels like the first victory we’ve had in days.
The days blur.
There are consent forms, blood panels, pre-surgical consults.
Long hours spent with doctors who speak in measured tones, their words laced with caution.
I try to remember every detail, but it all starts to dissolve into one endless stretch of anxiety, punctuated only by Nikolai’s laughter—soft and fragile—and Konstantin’s hand on my back when I need to remember how to breathe.
Then, before I’m truly ready, the day arrives.
The hospital feels different today, its sterile hallways too bright, the antiseptic smell stronger.
I stand frozen in the hospital corridor as Dmitry is wheeled past us on a gurney, the blue surgical cap pulled low over his silver hair.
His eyes meet mine briefly. There’s no malice there today.
No games. Just a man on his back, surrendering to something no one can walk away from unchanged.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
It’s barely a breath. I don’t even know if he hears it.
He doesn’t reply, just stares up at the ceiling as the doors swing open, and the corridor swallows him whole.
Nikolai is next. Brave, beautiful Nikolai, holding Konstantin’s hand with the kind of quiet courage that breaks me inside. I kneel down and kiss his cheek, trying not to cry, trying not to make it harder. He doesn’t understand it all, not really, but he knows enough to look scared.
Konstantin walks beside him, his face unreadable, but I can feel the tension pouring off him in waves. If he could take Nikolai’s place, he would.
And just like that, they’re gone.
The doors close. The hallway is still. I let out a shaky breath and press my back to the wall, trying to keep my legs from giving out beneath me.
That’s when the thought comes—quiet, uninvited, heavy as stone.
Have I just made a deal with the devil?
Because no matter what Dmitry has done…no matter what blood he’s spilling for this…he’s still the same man who destroyed lives with a smile.
And now, part of my son’s future is in his hands.
The hours crawl.
We’ve left Mila at the house with Irina, kissed her head a little longer than usual, hugged her tighter.
I didn’t want her to see me like this, strung tight with nerves, every bone in my body coiled in dread.
She deserves a mother who smiles, who tells her everything is going to be okay, even when she’s not sure it will be.
Konstantin and I sit side by side in the sterile waiting lounge. He hasn’t moved much, just stares ahead like he’s trying to will the walls to give him answers. His elbows rest on his knees, hands clasped together, knuckles white. I’ve never seen him like this, so still. So silent. So wrecked.
I lean against him gently, threading my fingers through his. He squeezes back, hard. No words. We don’t need them.
We pray.
I’m not even sure who I’m praying to. Maybe to a God I’ve ignored most of my life. Maybe to fate. Maybe just to time itself, to move a little faster, to carry us past this storm.
Every time the doors at the end of the hall swing open, my breath stutters. Every time it’s not the surgeon, my heart falls a little further.
I can’t tell how long it’s been when the doctor finally steps out, mask down, expression calm.
“They’re stable,” he says.
For a moment, I don’t move. The words take a second to reach me, like they’re swimming through fog. But when they do, I feel something burst inside me—relief so pulsing its almost pain. I nod.