Chapter 27 Roxy
Roxy
By early evening, the river cottage had slipped into that soft hush it always seems to find at the end of summer days.
It’s the time of day when the last streaks of sun fold behind the tree line and the crickets call.
Andrea is on the living room floor, surrounded by markers and folded construction paper, humming while she makes yet another card for Mak.
She’s been doing it almost daily now, as if the man needs one more reason to adore her.
I’m in the kitchen, rinsing blueberries, trying to unwind after a day that felt stretched thin.
I should feel calmer than this. Ever since Mak doubled security, the cottage has held a stillness that makes my shoulders unclench as soon as I step inside.
His people are everywhere. I can’t see them, not really, but I know the pattern of their rotations, the way the silence outside vibrates with their presence.
For the first time in a long while, I feel safe.
Which is why the knock at the door sends a strange shiver down my spine.
It’s firm and snaps both Andrea and me to attention. “Stay here,” I tell her gently, drying my hands on a towel as I move toward the front door.
When I open it, one of Mak’s men stands on the porch. His expression is professional, but the tension in his stance tells me he’s uncomfortable. Then I see why.
He’s holding Katherine by the elbow.
My sister looks furious. Embarrassed, indignant, and damn if it doesn’t satisfy me just a little bit.
“Please take your hand off me,” she snaps at the man, ripping her arm away with more force than grace.
He lets go immediately, stepping back. “She insisted on coming in alone.”
“I didn’t insist,” Katherine mutters sharply. “I just don’t need to be dragged around.”
I nod to the guard. “Thank you.” He dips his head once and returns to the shadows outside.
Katherine pushes past me without waiting to be invited inside, heels clacking against the hardwood, posture stiff enough to snap.
I shut the door, exhaling slowly. “Kat—”
“What is wrong with you?” she hisses, spinning to face me. Her cheeks are blotchy, her hair windblown in a way she’d never normally permit. “Why did you call me if you were just going to have me jumped by thugs at the end of your driveway?”
“They aren’t thugs.” I keep my voice level; the last thing we need is a full-blown fight with Andrea in earshot. “They’re protecting me and Andrea.”
“They grabbed me!”
“You drove up the road in a panic,” I counter. “What did you expect them to do? They’re alert. They’re following orders.”
“Oh, of course,” she scoffs with sarcasm sharp as glass. “Orders. From your new what, Roxanne? Your boss? Your criminal overlord? Your—”
“Don’t,” I say quietly, “finish that sentence.”
She clamps her mouth shut. The urge to pace hits her, and she does exactly that—circling the living room while her gaze darts toward every window, every shadow, every inch of the cottage. It’s something she used to do when we were younger, when Dad was sick.
For a moment, I watch her with a strange sense of distance. I grew up with this woman. I know every expression she’s ever worn, every tone, every layer to her moods. But I’ve never seen her like this—angry and frightened and ashamed all at once.
For the first time in our adult lives, I don’t feel smaller in her presence. I feel steadier. Like the one with solid ground under my feet.
Behind us, Andrea pops up from the floor with a delighted squeal. “Aunt Kat!”
Katherine startles, forcing a smile as Andi runs to her. She hugs her tightly, the tension in her body melting just enough for her shoulders to lower.
“Hi, sweetheart,” she says. “Look at how big you’re getting.”
Andrea beams, already tugging her toward the kitchen to show her the blueberry bowl, the marker drawings, the newest card she’s decorated with hearts and a wobbly bear she claims “looks like Mak.”
“How fitting,” Kat says, shooting me a sideways look.
For a few minutes, we pretend everything is fine.
Kat sits on the couch with Andrea curled under her arm, both of them chatting about school and gardens and the stray cat that keeps lurking near the porch at night. I watch them, grateful for the normalcy, even if it’s fleeting.
But when Andrea’s energy finally fades out, and she dozes off snuggled against her aunt, I know what has to come next.
I lift her gently, carry her to her room, and tuck her beneath the quilt. She mumbles something soft before sinking deeper into sleep.
When I return to the living room, Katherine is perched at the edge of the couch cushion. Her posture is tense, and her eyes are sharp enough to cut glass. “Start talking,” she says.
I sit across from her. The space between us feels both familiar and foreign. “I called you because you’re the only one who already knows who Makari is. Really knows. I needed someone who could handle hearing the truth.”
Her mouth twists. “You couldn’t tell Mom?”
“No,” I admit softly. “Not this.”
“And Eric?” she asks, voice dropping to a whisper. “He’s actually—”
“In deep,” I say. “With a group from Chicago. Something serious. He asked me to give him information about Mak’s operations. He threatened me, and he threatened Andrea.”
The last part lands like a blow. Katherine covers her mouth with her hand, inhaling sharply. She might be a shitty sister, but she’s also a mother. She gets it.
“Oh, my God.”
“Exactly.”
“You didn’t tell me that part yesterday.”
“I didn’t want to scare you.”
“You should have,” she says, hands shaking. “Because that’s…Roxy, that’s not something you handle alone.”
“I’m not alone.” I rub my palms together, suddenly aware of how cold they’ve become despite the temperate summer evening. “Mak has men watching the house day and night. Andi’s school too.”
Katherine looks at the front door again as if she’s expecting someone else to barge in. “So that’s why they…?”
“Yes.”
She leans back, exhausted, then rubs her eyes. “This is insane. All of it.”
“Welcome to my life,” I say wryly.
She huffs something that isn’t quite a laugh. “You should have told me everything. All of this. Weeks ago. I wish you’d trust me, Rox.”
That stings, but I let it sit.
For a long moment, the only sound is the river outside, rushing steadily past the cottage. Summer air lingers in the air, carrying the scent of warm pine and damp earth.
Katherine exhales. “I’m sorry!” she yelled.
“A bodyguard grabbed you. You’re allowed.”
Her gaze softens just a little. “You really trust them?”
“I trust him,” I say quietly. “Which is part of the problem.”
Kat studies me, and her expression shifts into something I rarely see from her—uncertainty. The careful unraveling of a truth she’s kept knotted for years.
“You want to know why I married David?” she asks suddenly.
The question catches me off guard. “Kat, you don’t—”
“I do. Because you need to understand why I am the way I am.” She looks away, eyes fixed on a framed photo of Andrea on the wall. I wonder if she knows about the conversation Mom and I had when she was up here a few weeks ago; if she knows Mom told me just enough for a soft spot to start forming.
“I was the responsible one,” she begins.
“The one who balanced budgets, the one who covered Mom’s mortgage when all the hospital bills were adding up, the one who made sure we never lost the house after Dad died.
You were allowed to breathe. Explore. Live.
You got to go to college and think about what you wanted to do with your life. ”
I swallow. “I didn’t know you felt like that.”
“Of course you didn’t,” she says softly. “You were young. Mom never wanted you to worry.”
Her voice thins, edges cracking. “When David proposed, it felt like the answer. Stability. Wealth. A way to make sure none of us would ever struggle again. I thought… if I said yes, it would fix everything.” She laughs bitterly.
“Except it didn’t. I married a man I didn’t love, and he doesn’t love me either.
We both know that, and he’s not…” she shakes her head at the stricken look on my face “…he’s not bad, Roxy, and he’s good with Peter.
We’re in this polite relationship with each other.
It’s really just a business transaction masquerading as marriage. ”
My chest tightens. “Oh, Kat.”
“For years I told myself you were the reckless one,” she whispers, “but the truth is, I was jealous. You have always chosen your life. I chose mine because I thought I had no other choice.”
The room suddenly feels too small. It’s heavy with memories and confessions we’ve never spoken aloud. “I’m sorry,” I say.
She shakes her head. “Don’t be. I’m not telling you this to make you feel guilty. I’m telling you because I look at you now, caught in something that frightens you, and I don’t want you to make choices out of fear.”
I let her words sink in.
“What about Makari?” she asks, voice gentler now. “Do you think you’re trapped with him? Mom told me about him showing up and the way he looks at you.” The lift of her lips is teasing, though her eyes look tired.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “He’s overwhelming.
And brilliant. And terrifying. He says things that make me feel seen, and then he turns around and runs an empire of weapons and blood.
I don’t know what to do with that. Weirdly, I think he does actually give a damn about the land and the animals on it. ”
Kat studies me, weighing something I can’t see.
Then, softly, she says, “Men like Makari Medvedev don’t risk empires for lust. They risk them for love.”
The words land like a stone in the pit of my stomach, sending feelings through my body that I’m not prepared for.
Before I can respond, I see exhaustion on Kat’s face. She rubs her forehead. “I need a minute. Or a drink. Or a tranquilizer.”
“Water,” I tell her. “You get water.”
She snorts, but her smile is real this time.
We clean up in quiet companionship. I tuck a blanket around her on the couch, kiss her forehead the way I used to when we were teenagers sneaking back from parties, and then head upstairs, finally letting my bones sink into the mattress.
Sleep takes me quickly, but something wakes me.
A noise downstairs. Not loud, but distinct. A bowl clinking. A spoon hitting ceramic.
Footsteps.
My pulse spikes instantly.
I slip out of bed, tiptoeing down the stairs. The house is dim, lit only by the soft glow of the kitchen lights I forgot to turn off earlier. Kat is completely knocked out on the couch, turned into it, her face hidden in the shadows.
When I reach the bottom step, I stop.
Dima is sitting at the kitchen island, long legs stretched out, arms crossed. He looks entirely at home in my cottage, as if he’s spent a hundred nights here already. Which, for all I know, he has. His presence seems to fill the entire space; solid, reassuring.
Across from him sits Andrea, with a bowl of sugary cereal, at two in the morning.
She’s swinging her feet happily, completely unbothered, cheeks puffed with marshmallows. The moment she sees me, her face holds a mixture of delight and shame.
“Dima said I could have midnight cereal,” she announces proudly.
Dima lifts a single brow, shrugging. “She was awake. I was awake. Compromise.”
I stare at him. “It’s two a.m.”
He shrugs again. “She asked very nicely.”
Andrea nods enthusiastically.
Despite everything—the fear, the exhaustion, the threats lurking in the woods—I feel something warm slip through me.
Safe.
For just a moment, I feel safe.
I step into the kitchen, brushing a hand over Andrea’s curls before looking at Dima. “Thank you.”
He inclines his head. “Always.”