41. Chapter 41
41
Konstantin
T he door shuts with a whisper.
Not a bang. Because rage doesn’t always need noise—it needs restraint. I walk like I’m balancing glass on my shoulders. Head high. Steps even. Jaw so tight I swear I taste blood.
He didn’t name me. Didn’t say no, didn’t say yes. Just poured his drink and gave me another riddle about power and love like I haven’t been living the consequences of both since I was old enough to hold a knife.
He still thinks I’m not ready.
I know it from the way he looks at me. Like I’m wearing a suit I haven’t earned. Like I’m just a shadow of the man he used to be.
I remember being 13—bruised, knuckles raw, split lip still bleeding—and standing in his office, waiting for acknowledgment. For approval. For anything.
He handed me a glass of water like it was a reward and said, “Next time, don’t bleed. That’s how they know where to hit you.” Then he went back to his desk like I was already dismissed.
That was his love. Toughen up or don’t come back.
I’m past ready. I’m done waiting.
Suka blyad.
Filipp’s out there gathering leverage like we don’t see it. Playing long game politics, buying loyalty like a bored stockbroker with a pile of IOUs. Anatoly knows it. I saw it in his eyes tonight. And still—he hesitated.
“If he won’t name me,” I murmur, turning down the hall, “I’ll take it without the blessing.”
I should head back to my wing. There’s strategy to draft. Phones to call. Orders to give.
I check my watch—2:47 a.m. Too late to call Timur for an update on Irina, too early to wake Arseny for contingency planning.
Maybe I should look at that estate on the Catalina Ridge—sixty acres, no neighbors, four helipads. Good for relocation. Good for disappearing.
But instead, I turn the corner.
Children’s hallway.
Instinct. Muscle memory. I don’t even realize where I’m going until I’m standing outside the twins’ room.
The boys’ door is closed. I ease it open soundlessly.
Lev and Nikolai are passed out, one arm each dangling over the edge of their twin beds like soldiers who survived the same ambush. Lev’s hugging a pillow like he’s trying to choke it. Nikolai’s halfway through a sudoku book, pencil still clutched in his hand.
I adjust the blanket on one, smooth the sheet on the other, then move on.
They look younger in sleep. Less like the sharp-eyed boys who challenge each other at every turn and more like what they are—children thrust into a world they didn’t choose.
Their peaceful faces twist something in my chest. A reminder of what’s at stake.
I close their door and continue down the hall to Alya’s room. Her door stands slightly ajar, a slice of soft lamplight spilling into the corridor.
I pause.
Then push it gently with two fingers—silent, slow.
And stop.
She’s there. Not just Alya.
Bella.
She’s half-sitting against the headboard. Her head is tilted at an uncomfortable angle that will leave her neck aching tomorrow, hair spilling across the pillow in dark waves.
What stops me cold isn’t the domesticity of the scene—it’s Bella’s appearance. She’s wearing what must be her own sleep clothes from her previous life. Faded yellow. Oversized. Covered in some wide-eyed, bald cartoon man holding tacos and shouting something in bold red font above his head. “HOMER SIMPSON” printed across the chest like a name tag.
Not the silk nightwear I’ve seen hanging in her closet, purchased by my staff.
Her taste is too American. Loud. And fucking hideous.
I should find it ridiculous. Childish.
But somehow, she’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
And I can’t stop staring at her.
Hair a mess. Legs bare. One shoulder peeking out. Her mouth parted just enough to make my chest tighten in a way I don’t have the language for. I don’t know how she ended up like this—she probably meant to leave once Alya drifted off—but she didn’t.
She stayed.
The book’s still open on the floor. Guess How Much I Love You. Of course Alya picked that one. Stuffed animals are lined up like she negotiated a truce between them before lights-out. The whole room smells like that lavender spray the maids use before bedtime, with a little trace of Bella—warm cotton, something faintly citrus. Her.
They look like they’ve done this a hundred times.
Like this is their routine. Like she belongs here.
And that thought? That feeling? It hits me in a place I don’t know how to armor.
I move closer. Just one step. Enough to see the way Alya’s breathing—steady, deep. She hasn’t slept like this in weeks. Irina never gave her this. Never stayed. Never read to her. Never showed up for any of it.
And Bella? She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t ask. She just did it.
My father’s words resurface: “Love is useless and a fucking leash wrapped around your neck.”
This isn’t love, I tell myself. This is… appreciation. Gratitude that Alya finally sleeps through the night. Practical recognition that Bella handles the children well. Strategic satisfaction that my business arrangement is functioning as intended.
That’s all.
Except it’s not.
Because the second I let myself imagine Bella not being here tomorrow, not being in this house, not being near my children—something dark starts to coil in my chest.
She’s here because of a contract. She can leave. And she will.
And that shouldn’t matter. But somehow—it does.
Suddenly, I want her to stay. Not just for the kids. Not just to finish the year. I want her in this house. In this life. Mine.
I exhale through my nose. Quiet. Rough.
I reach forward and gently push a strand of hair off her face. Just that. No contact. No noise.
She shifts slightly under my touch. Her lips move—something half-formed, a sound that never leaves her throat. Alya stirs but doesn’t wake.
I let my hand fall away. Back off.
And for a moment, I just stand there.
This… this scares me more than war ever could.
Because if I let her matter—if I let her in—and she walks out?
There won’t be a clean way to undo what that’ll do to me.
She looks peaceful, the steady rise and fall of her chest, the slight furrow between her brows even in sleep, the protective way her body curls toward my daughter.
I stand there for a moment. Still. Watching them.
Alya’s breathing is even, her face slack with sleep. One arm draped over Bella’s. Like she’s anchoring herself.
I move quietly. Carefully. Ease Alya’s hand away and tuck her stuffed rabbit into the space between them. She shifts, nose scrunching, but doesn’t wake. I pull the blanket up over her shoulders and smooth her hair once—just once—before I turn back to Bella.
She’s half off the bed, legs tangled, that idiotic cartoon shirt riding up slightly over one thigh.
I slide an arm beneath her knees, the other around her back, and lift.
She folds against me without a sound, her body instinctively curling toward the warmth like she’s done this a hundred times. Like she’s mine.
She mumbles something I can’t catch, her head resting in the hollow between my collarbone and jaw. It fits there too well. Too natural.
I don’t answer. Just breathe her in. The faint citrus scent on her skin. The heat of her thigh against my ribs.
The hallway is silent. Security hums low through the walls. Somewhere upstairs, the motion sensor clicks once and resets. No footsteps. No interruptions.
I should take her to her room.
I should lay her down. Close the door. Walk away like nothing about this matters.
I should wake her up. Ask about the phone call from earlier.
Instead, I keep walking.
Past her room. Past mine. Straight into the master suite that’s been renovated since Irina vanished.
She stirs slightly as I adjust her in my arms, but doesn’t wake.
I set her down on the left side of the bed—the side no one’s touched in years—and pull the blanket over her.
Then I sit on the edge.
Something in my chest shifts. Locks. A thought I don’t want. A weight I can’t name.
This is temporary. She’s not staying.
And still, I’m already trying to figure out how the fuck to make her stay.
And there is nothing to do with love.