29. Alina
ALINA
The city will hear about Vladimir fast. Maybe not in headlines, but in the way people avoid certain streets, certain accounts freeze, and how certain men stop showing up. Mikhail will make it clean. He always does.
Sofia appears at my elbow like she can teleport. “You shouldn’t be doing stairs yet,” she says.
“I’m fine.”
She snorts. “You’re not fine. You’re stubborn.”
“That too.”
She glances down the hall. “He’s in his office.”
My stomach tightens again.
Sofia reads it. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“No,” I say immediately.
“Good,” she replies. “Because he’d glare at me until I burst into flames.”
I look at her. “Do you think he’s angry?”
Sofia’s mouth twists. “He’s Mikhail. He’s always angry. The question is who he’s angry at.”
“And?”
“And he’s not angry at you,” she says, and this time, her voice is sure. “He was terrified. He just hides it behind murder and paperwork.”
I should be offended. Instead, I laugh quietly because it’s too true.
Sofia’s grin turns soft. “Go. I’ll keep Oisin busy.”
“Oisin.”
Sofia lifts a hand like she’s swearing again. “He’s painting. It’s safe. I removed anything sharp, and yes, that includes his opinions.”
I shake my head and head for the office. My legs feel weak halfway down the hall. I push anyway.
When I reach the door, it’s closed. I knock once and open it. Mikhail is standing behind his desk, phone in his hand, eyes on a folder. His jacket is off again, sleeves rolled. His hair is slightly messy, like he’s been running his hand through it more than once.
He looks up the moment I enter.
His whole body stills. He hangs up the call without saying goodbye to whoever was on the other end.
“Are you supposed to be up?” he asks.
“Probably not,” I answer.
His gaze moves over me fast, then slower, checking for sway, checking for color, checking for any sign that I’m about to collapse. “I’m fine,” I say, because he’s doing that thing where he tries to control the room with his eyes.
He doesn’t buy it.
“Sit,” he says.
“I’m not—”
“Alina,” he cuts in, not harsh, but final.
I sit in the chair across from him. He walks around the desk instead of staying behind it. He stops in front of me, close enough that I can feel heat off him.
His eyes drop to my throat.
“I hate that mark,” he says quietly.
“It’ll fade,” I reply.
His jaw flexes. “It shouldn’t exist.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
So I say the thing that’s been lodged behind my ribs since I woke up. “I meant it,” I tell him.
His gaze lifts back to mine. “What?”
“I’m staying,” I say. “I’m not saying it because I’m scared. I’m saying it because I chose it.”
His face doesn’t change much. It never does. But his eyes do. Something loosens and something settles. “Okay,” he says.
Just that. No big speech, demand for proof, or pride.
He believes me, and that should make me feel calm, but it makes something inside me shake instead. I swallow. “Vladimir?”
He studies me for a beat. “He went quickly. Do you want details?”
I think about it.
I picture Vladimir’s hands on my chair. His finger under my chin. His smug smile. The way he said my mother was collateral like she was nothing.
“No,” I say. “I don’t want him living in my head any longer than he has to.”
Mikhail’s mouth tightens slightly, approval again. “Good.”
I look at him and say, “Did you mean what you told me?”
His brow creases. “What I told you?”
“The exit,” I say. “The papers. The money. The promise you wouldn’t track me.”
His face goes still again. “Yes.”
“You’d have let me go.”
“Yes,” he repeats, and there’s no hesitation. “If that’s what you wanted.”
My chest aches.
“Why?” I ask, because I need to hear it.
Mikhail’s gaze holds mine. “Because I’m done holding you by force.”
My heart twists painfully, and in that moment, all I want is to reach out and hold him in my arms. “And because,” he adds, voice lower, “I don’t want my son learning that love is a cage.”
My throat burns again. I blink once, fast, and steady my breathing.
“Come here,” he says.
I don’t move immediately. My body hesitates, old habits flaring. Mikhail’s hand lifts slightly, palm open, not grabbing.
It’s an invitation. I stand, slowly, and step into him.
His hands land on my waist first, firm, grounding. Then he pulls me closer like he’s been waiting to do it since last night and didn’t allow himself. I press my forehead to his chest and exhale.
His hand slides up my back, a steady stroke, and it’s so simple that it nearly breaks me.
No strategy.
No performance.
No counting exits.
Just this.
“You scared me,” he says into my hair, voice rough.
“I know,” I whisper.
“You don’t do that again.”
“I won’t,” I say, and this time, it’s not a promise I’m forcing out. It’s a choice I’m claiming.
Mikhail’s grip tightens. His mouth presses to my temple, then my hairline.
I tilt my head, letting him.
My body remembers him fast. Heat. Weight. The way he fills space like he owns it but never feels sloppy.
“Are you sure?” he asks quietly.
“Yes,” I answer, and I don’t have to think about what I mean.
His mouth finds mine, and relief hits me like a wave, and I cling to him without shame, fingers gripping his shirt like Oisin did to mine earlier. Mikhail makes a low sound and pulls me closer, and for a moment the world shrinks down to skin and breath and the fact that we’re still alive.
My hands slide up his chest, over his shoulders, into his hair. He leans into it like he’s letting himself take what he’s wanted without paying for it in guilt.
He breaks the kiss only to press his forehead to mine.
“Tonight,” he says, voice tight. “If you want.”
I nod, breath unsteady. “I want.”
His eyes hold mine, and there’s something in them I’ve never seen before.
Trust.
It makes my stomach flip. I step back first, not because I want distance, but because I need to breathe.
Mikhail’s hands slide down my arms reluctantly.
“Go rest,” he says. “Eat. Stay with Oisin.”
“I will,” I reply.
I turn to leave, and his voice stops me.
“Alina.”
I look back.
He says it again, lower. “You did it.”
I don’t pretend I don’t know what he means.
I nod once. “So did you.”