Chapter 23 Sage
SAGE
The first thing I hear is the unbroken rhythm of a monitor. A low, mechanical heartbeat that isn't mine but still tethers me to the world. The second is the sting behind my eyes when I open them. The light is too bright, and the air too clean. Hospital air.
My throat burns when I swallow. There's something sharp at the edge of my ribs when I breathe too deeply, and my wrist throbs beneath the bandages. I shift, and pain ripples through my side, piercing enough to bring everything back in fragments.
Gunshots. Headlights. The sound of metal. Being airborne, then landing with a thud.
I turn my head, wincing as the movement sends a dull ache through the back of my skull.
The room is pale blue, the sterile comfort designed to quiet panic but never quite succeeding.
A vase of white lilies sits on the small table by the window, their scent faint but familiar.
The petals are pristine, untouched by the violence that brought me here.
There's an empty chair beside the bed. Luka's coat is draped over the back of it, the fabric still shaped by his shoulders.
His presence lingers in the air, along with the expensive cologne and the faint trace of gun oil.
I touch the coat with my good hand, fingers brushing the stitching along the seam. It's still warm.
The wool is soft beneath my fingertips, finer than anything I've ever owned.
I trace the lapel, following the line down to where the fabric folds against itself.
The warmth radiating from it tells me he sat here for hours, maybe all night.
The thought creates a strange sensation in my chest, something that wars with the fear and anger churning inside me.
A soft knock sounds at the door before it opens. A middle-aged, calm nurse steps in. Her scrubs are a muted teal, and her hair is pulled back in a practical bun.
“You're awake,” she notes gently, checking the monitors. “That's good news.”
My voice comes out rough, scraping against my throat like sandpaper. “How long?”
“Since yesterday,” she answers, adjusting the flow on my IV with careful fingers. “You have a concussion, a fractured rib, a dislocated shoulder, and a small fracture in your wrist. You're very lucky.”
Lucky. The word feels wrong in my mouth. There's nothing lucky about waking up in a hospital bed while my sister is missing. Nothing lucky about the pain radiating through my body with every breath. Nothing lucky about any of this.
“Someone was with you most of the night,” she adds, glancing toward the chair where Luka's coat rests. “Tall man, dark hair. Wouldn't leave until we made him. Kept insisting he needed to be here when you woke up.”
Luka.
My heart does something complicated at the mention of him, a twist that's equal parts relief and frustration.
Of course, he stayed. Of course, he wouldn't leave until forced.
The man operates on control the way most people operate on oxygen, constantly monitoring and adjusting every situation around him.
“Is he still here?” I manage.
“He hasn't gone far.” The nurse adjusts the IV line with gentle movements. “Try to rest. Your body's been through more than you think.”
I nod automatically, but rest feels impossible.
My chest tightens as images flood back. Hope's face when I last saw her at the rehabilitation center, her smile when she recognized me, the relief in her eyes.
And now she's gone, stolen by men who see her as nothing more than leverage.
A tool to use against Luka and, by extension, against me.
I look at the doorway again, half expecting him to appear.
When he doesn't, the quiet turns suffocating.
The only sounds are the mechanical beeping of monitors and the distant hum of hospital life beyond my closed door.
Somewhere down the hall, a phone rings. Footsteps pass by, muffled by the thick door.
The normalcy of it all feels obscene when my world has been torn apart.
Minutes pass. Maybe hours. I lose track.
The clock above the window ticks loud enough to count every second he's not here.
Each tick feels like a countdown, time slipping away while Hope remains missing.
Every moment that passes is another moment she's in danger, another moment her medications might be wearing off, another moment she could be having a seizure without anyone there to help her.
The thought makes my stomach clench with nausea that has nothing to do with the concussion.
I've memorized Hope's medication schedule the way other people memorize phone numbers or addresses.
Morning dose at eight, afternoon at two, evening at eight again.
If they skip even one dose, the risk of breakthrough seizures increases exponentially.
And if she has a seizure while she's with them, will they even know what to do?
Will they care enough to make sure she doesn't hurt herself?
My hands curl into fists despite the pain in my wrist. The helplessness is worse than any physical injury. I've spent years making sure Hope is safe and has everything she needs. Now I'm trapped in this hospital bed while she's out there alone, and there's nothing I can do about it.
When the door finally opens, the sound is so soft I almost miss it.
Luka steps inside, his expression locked in calm that doesn't reach his eyes.
The dark circles beneath them tell me he hasn't slept.
He's still wearing yesterday's clothes. His jaw is tight, and the line of his shoulders is carrying too much control to be natural.
He stops at the foot of my bed. “You are back, printsessa.”
“I am.” My voice comes out weaker than I’d like. “Where's Vega?”
Something moves behind his expression, the smallest break in the mask he wears so well. “He'll recover. He's being treated at the veterinarian facility.”
Relief floods me so quickly I almost laugh, but it falters halfway, tangled in the knot of everything else I feel.
Vega saved my life. I remember him knocking me down, the gunshot that followed too close, the warmth of his blood when I tried to stop the bleeding.
The memory makes my eyes burn with tears I refuse to let fall.
“And Hope?”
Luka doesn't answer. He looks away, toward the window where the morning sunlight spills across the tile in pale rectangles.
The light spills across the hard planes of his face, highlighting the exhaustion etched into every line.
His silence tells me more than words ever could.
My pulse races, the monitor's beeping quickening with it.
“She's still gone,” I whisper, and even uttering it feels like tearing something vital out of me.
His gaze returns to mine, calm, unyielding. “We are searching.”
“That's not an answer,” I reply sharply, the restraint I need just out of reach. I can't pretend this is acceptable.
He takes a step closer, his voice low and restrained. “You need to heal before—”
“Before what? Before she disappears for good?” I struggle to sit up despite the pain flaring along my ribs like fire. “She's my sister, Luka. I can't just lie here while she's—”
He reaches out, one hand pressing gently against my shoulder to stop me. The heat of his touch burns through the thin hospital gown, searing straight through to my skin. “You nearly died last night. If Albert had not gotten to you—”
“I don't care.”
“You should.” His tone hardens, but beneath it, there's something desperate and raw that he's trying to hide. “You think I am not moving every piece I have to find her?”
“Then let me help.”
“No.”
The word lands like a slap. I can see the determination in his eyes and the refusal to budge even an inch. He's made his decision, and nothing I can do or say will change it. The knowledge makes me want to scream, throw something, or do anything except lie here uselessly while my sister needs me.
I meet his gaze, my voice shaking despite my best efforts to keep it even. “You can't keep me out of this. She's my family.”
“And she is leverage,” he counters, quiet but lethal. “Ray took her because he knows what she means to you. If she’s still in his hands, or the Sokolovs have her, they’ll use her again. You walking into the middle of it helps no one.”
The logic is sound. I know it is. But logic doesn't ease the guilt clawing at my insides, or quiet the voice in my head screaming that I should be doing something, anything, to bring Hope home.
“I won't stay here doing nothing,” I insist, hearing the desperation in my own voice.
“You will.”
Anger burns through the fear, bright and hot. “You treat me like I'm delicate, like one more thing you have to control. I'm not.”
His teeth grind together, tension drawing lines through the stubble shadowing his face. “You walk into fire and call it courage. That is not strength, Sage. That is suicide.”
I glare at him through the ache in my chest. “At least I'd be trying.”
He exhales through his nose, a slow sound that carries exhaustion in every breath.
For a moment, he looks less like the man who commands a criminal empire and more like a man breaking quietly behind his composure.
The vulnerability lasts only a second before his mask slides back into place, but I see it.
I see the man beneath the pakhan, the one who stayed by my bedside all night, even though he has an organization to run and enemies to hunt.
When he speaks again, his tone has softened, but it cuts deeper than any harsh words could. “You think I have not lost enough? That I can watch you walk into danger when I can stop it?”
The words steal my breath. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves.
The monitor fills the silence, the steady rhythm of my pulse betraying everything I try to hide.
I want to argue, to tell him I'm not his responsibility, but the look in his eyes stops me.
There's something there I haven't seen before that looks dangerously close to fear.