Chapter 6
OLIVIA
“Would you like to walk with me?” Natalia asks, standing by the window with morning light catching the silver threads in her dark hair. “There’s a trail behind the house. Nothing strenuous—I imagine you could use some fresh air after being cooped up.”
I should say no. It would be much smarter to stay put and dig in, make myself harder to move if—when—Stefan comes. But my legs ache from tension and my mind spins with too many questions.
“Alright. Yeah, sure. That sounds fine.”
She hands me a pair of hiking boots from the closet. “These should fit. I had Mikayla get your size.”
We step outside into crisp autumn air, leaves crunching beneath our feet as we follow a narrow path into the woods. The trees arch overhead, filtering sunlight into dancing patterns.
“You’re surprisingly calm,” Natalia observes, matching my pace with easy grace.
“Panicking won’t help me.”
“No, it won’t. Stefan taught you that, I imagine.”
“He taught me a lot of things.” I step over a fallen branch, noticing how Natalia immediately moves to steady me though I don’t need it. “Or maybe he just told me stories.”
“What kind of stories?” She glances at me with those eyes so like Stefan’s—that same piercing blue, though hers hold warmth where his hold winter.
“About you. His childhood. That kind of thing.”
She sighs mournfully. “Let me guess: I was the cold, calculating witch of a mother who never loved him, who used his father for money and connections, then destroyed them both.”
“Something like that.”
“Matvey poisoned him against me,” she says. “From the moment Stefan could understand words, his father was filling his head with lies about me. Making me the villain in every story.”
We walk in silence for a moment. As we get deeper into the woods, the sound of rushing water grows louder. I find myself oddly comfortable beside her, our strides falling into sync. She doesn’t feel dangerous the way Stefan described. If anything, she feels... maternal.
“Stefan said you had an affair.”
“I did.” No hesitation, not an ounce of shame to be found. “With his uncle. But not for the reasons Stefan believes.”
The path opens onto a small waterfall, maybe twenty feet high, tumbling into a clear pool. Rocks jut out of the water, creating natural stepping stones. It’s beautiful, peaceful—nothing like the chaos in my head.
“Careful,” Natalia warns as I move toward the water’s edge. “The rocks are slippery.”
I take another step and my foot skids on wet moss. I catch myself, but before I can even begin to fall, Natalia’s already there, gripping my elbow, guiding me to a dry boulder.
“Sit,” she commands, and before I can protest, she’s kneeling in front of me, lifting my foot into her lap. “Let me check your ankle.”
“I’m fine—”
“Humor me.” Her fingers probe gently along the bones, testing for swelling or tenderness.
When she’s satisfied I’m fine, she sits back on her haunches and pulls something out of her purse.
It’s a notebook. “I took this from Matvey’s safe before I left.
One of many he kept hidden in the manor Stefan lives in now. ”
She holds it out to me. The leather feels old, soft from years of handling.
I reach for it, then hesitate. “Why are you giving this to me?”
“Because you need to know the truth about who Stefan’s father was. Maybe then you’ll trust me.”
I open it to a random page. Before I can read more than a few words, Natalia’s phone rings. She answers in rapid Russian. When she listens to the response, her whole body goes rigid.
“The house has been breached,” she says, standing quickly. “Stefan’s here.”
My heart slams against my ribs. Through the trees, I can suddenly hear shouting, the crack of gunfire. He found me. Of course he found me.
Natalia grabs my arm. “There’s a path on the other side of the waterfall. We can get away—”
“No.” I pull free, but I clutch the journal to my chest. “I’m not running.”
She studies my face, and something like understanding passes through her eyes. “You’re not sure who to believe.”
“I’m not sure about anything anymore.”
More shouts, closer now. Men’s voices calling coordinates, sweeping the woods.
“You’ll figure out the truth soon enough,” Natalia says as she backs away. “One way or another.”
I hold out the journal. “Take this back—”
“Keep it. I stand by what I said: You need to know the truth and so does Stefan. His father isn’t the hero or the martyr he thinks he is.”
She vanishes deeper into the woods just as Stefan bursts through the trees, Taras and two other men flanking him. His eyes find mine immediately, scanning my body for injuries, and the relief that comes over his face is palpable.
“Olivia.” He’s across the clearing in three strides, hands cupping my face, thumbs stroking my cheeks. “Are you hurt? Did she—”
“I’m fine.”
“Where is she?” Taras demands, weapon drawn, eyes searching the tree line. “Which way did she go?”
I look at the waterfall, then back at the path we came from. Stefan’s watching me, something dark and knowing in his eyes. If I tell them the truth, they’ll catch her easily. And Stefan... would he kill her on sight? His own mother?
The journal burns against my side where I’ve tucked it under my jacket.
“That way.” I point toward the dense woods to our left. Away from the direction Natalia actually went. “She ran that way when she heard you coming.”
Taras signals the other men and they crash into the underbrush, leaving Stefan and me alone by the water. He hasn’t let go of my face.
“You’re sure you’re okay?”
I shrug away from his touch. “Yeah. Fine.”
“What did she tell you?”
“She told me a lot of things.”
“Lies. Manipulations. It’s what she does.”
“Like you?” I retort.
His jaw clenches. “We can discuss that later. Right now, I need to get you somewhere safe.”
“I was safe.”
“You were kidnapped, Olivia.”
“I was having tea and going for walks.” I step back, needing distance from his touch, his scent, the magnetic pull of him. “Your mother hasn’t hurt me, Stefan. If anything, she’s been kind.”
“My mother doesn’t know what that word means.”
“Maybe you don’t know her as well as you think.”
“I know her well enough.” He catches my hand and laces our fingers together. “Come on. We’re leaving.”
I let him lead me through the woods, hyperaware of the journal hidden against my ribs. Behind us, I hear Taras’s men calling to each other, their search growing more distant.
I bought her time, but for what? To disappear again? To plan something worse?
Stefan’s hand is warm around mine, his grip firm but not painful.
He helps me over fallen logs, steadies me on loose stones, his palm never leaving my hip.
The overlap with his mother’s gentle foot massage makes my head spin.
Two people, both claiming to care, both with their own versions of truth that look so much alike from certain angles.
“Stefan...” I want to ask him about the journal, about his father, about the child Natalia lost. But the words get tangled in my throat, a jumble with no beginning or end.
“It’s okay.” He squeezes my hand. “Whatever you’re thinking, whatever she made you question—it can wait until we’re home.”
Home. He says it so easily. I wish I felt the same.
The journal presses against my ribs with each breath, pages full of secrets waiting to be read. Natalia’s words echo: His father isn’t the hero or the martyr he thinks he is.
But then, neither is Stefan.
And maybe neither is she.
Where does that leave me in all this?