Chapter 21 – Valeria
Elena’s involvement in my poisoning hardened something inside me, and since her death a few days ago, I’ve stopped allowing myself to look at things the same way.
I don’t know what else Anton has sent after me.
And I’m not going to wait around to find out.
The Rusnak estate changes after that. Not visibly at first, but I’m the silence. In the constant movement of people who are no longer pretending that this is just a security protocol.
It becomes a war room.
No softness left in the corridors. No casual pacing. No idle conversations that don’t mean something. Every step has purpose now. Every door that opens feels like it leads to information.
And I’m always there.
Beside Timofey.
In his office most of the time.
Surrounded by maps spread across tables, surveillance feeds paused on multiple screens, intelligence reports stacked in uneven piles that no longer feel overwhelming—just necessary.
At first, I don’t understand most of it. The routes. The names. The coded references to networks I’ve only heard fragments of in passing. But I learn quickly because I have to. Because I refuse to be the person sitting on the sidelines while my life is being moved like a piece on a board.
Timofey doesn’t stop me from being here. He doesn’t send me away. He doesn’t soften anything either. He just lets me sit beside him while he works, occasionally sliding a document toward me or pointing something out without breaking his focus.
We’re no longer reacting to attacks.
We’re planning how to end them.
Right now, I’m sitting across from him at his desk, relaxed in a way I wouldn’t have been weeks ago, studying several maps of the city spread between us. Marked routes. Highlighted zones. Red lines cutting through familiar streets like warnings.
He’s across from me, eyes fixed on his screen, one hand tapping lightly against his chin as he thinks. The other hovers near the keyboard but doesn’t move. Not yet. Like he’s waiting for something to click into place before he acts on it.
Despite everything—despite Anton, despite Elena, despite the war tightening around us—the atmosphere between us isn’t tense. It’s calm. Relaxing. Almost playful.
I notice it when he leans slightly closer to see a detail on one of the maps and doesn’t immediately pull away.
I notice it when I reach for a pen, and our fingers brush briefly—and neither of us pretends it didn’t happen.
Our relationship has shifted over the past weeks into something comfortable and deeply connected. The chemistry is sizzling, and we’re circling around it like moths to flame.
I drag my attention away from him and force myself back into the work. Back into the maps. Strategy first. Always.
I study the marked routes again, then lean forward slightly.
“Look at this,” I say.
Timofey doesn’t hesitate. He leans in immediately, close enough that I can feel his presence beside me as he studies the area I’m pointing at. His shoulder nearly brushes mine as he focuses.
I trace a section of the map with my finger.
“Anton doesn’t pick obvious locations,” I explain. “That’s never been his style.”
Timofey’s gaze stays fixed where I’m pointing, but I can tell he’s listening to every word. Fully. Completely.
“He chooses places that look normal from the outside,” I continue, “but once you’re inside, they’re built for movement. For exit routes. He never traps himself.”
I shift slightly, pointing to another cluster of marked buildings.
“Abandoned warehouses,” I say. “Older residential blocks with basement access. Small shipping depots near the harbor.”
My finger taps lightly against one of the locations.
“This one,” I add, more certain now. “This is a viable location for him. I’m over seventy percent sure he’s there.”
That makes him pause for a fraction of a second.
Timofey’s eyes sweep across the map again, recalculating everything I’ve just said. I can almost see it—his thoughts reorganizing in real time, connections forming, gaps closing, old assumptions replaced with something sharper.
“I need all of these cross-checked,” he says quietly, already reaching for his keyboard.
I nod without hesitation. “You’ll find overlap in three of them.”
He doesn’t question how I know. He just takes it in. Uses it. Integrates it into everything else already running through his system.
Timofey nods once, gravely.
“The information you just gave me fills in gaps my own intelligence network has struggled to confirm for weeks,” he says.
His voice is steady, but there’s a weight behind it now.
“Anton’s patterns. His habits. The type of environments he prefers when he wants to disappear but still remain in control.
The way he rotates people without fully changing structure.
Even the subtle consistency in how he organizes protection around himself is predictable only once you understand the logic behind it. ”
A brief pause.
“You just gave me the logic.” Timofey leans back slightly in his chair, exhaling through his nose as he processes it all. Not impressed. Not surprised. Just focused. Calculating. “This changes the search radius entirely.”
I smile. “We’re no longer looking for Anton anywhere in the city.”
The words settle between us like a lock clicking into place.
I sit forward slightly, the thought forming fully as I speak it out loud.
“I say we raid that location,” I add.
A beat of silence.
Timofey doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes drop back to the map, scanning it again—this time not searching for possibilities, but for consequences. What it would mean. What it would cost. What it would expose.
Then he looks back at me and laughs.
“What?” I frown immediately, watching him. “What’s funny?”
His gaze stays on mine, that faint amusement still there.
“You,” he says simply.
My brows knit. “Me?”
He leans back slightly in his chair, studying me in a way that feels far less tactical now and far more personal.
“You get like this,” he continues, voice lower, almost teasing. “Every time you’re talking about strategy. Like you’re ready to go to war with your bare hands if I don’t move fast enough.”
I stare at him. “That’s not—”
“It is,” he cuts in gently. “It very much is.”
A beat.
Then I let out a short laugh despite myself. “Shut up.”
His smile deepens slightly at that.
“Come here,” he says.
That tone changes something in the air immediately. Softer, but still commanding in a way I can’t ignore.
I raise a brow but stand anyway, walking around the desk toward him.
“Bossy,” I mutter under my breath.
“I prefer decisive,” he replies.
I stop in front of him.
Before I can say anything else, he reaches forward and gently presses a kiss to my stomach. I’m only a few weeks pregnant, and my bump isn’t noticeable yet, but he likes to kiss and press his ear against it.
It catches me off guard every time.
Less because of the gesture. More because of what it means.
When he looks up again, he doesn’t move away. He just pulls me closer with an easy, familiar motion, guiding me down onto his lap like it’s instinct now rather than intention.
I let him.
My hands settle lightly against his shoulders as I adjust. His arms come around me immediately, steadying me without hesitation. In this moment, everything else fades away.
His fingers sink into my hair, tilting my head down toward him. He meets me halfway, lips fitting over mine in a slow, unhurried kiss—nothing rushed, nothing forceful. Just steady, controlled warmth that pulls the breath clean out of my lungs.
I feel myself relax into him despite everything. The maps. The war. Anton. All of it dissolves into something smaller, quieter, until the sharp click of the office door breaks the silence.
Footsteps follow.
I instinctively start to pull back, my heart kicking up, but he doesn’t let me. Not immediately. His grip tightens slightly at my waist, anchoring me in place as he lingers for a second longer over my lips, as if daring the world to intrude.
Only then does he release me. Slowly.
Heat rushes to my face as I adjust, my lips slightly swollen, my breath uneven as I meet his gaze. He’s still looking at me like nothing in the world has the right to interrupt what just happened.
And he still hasn’t let me move off his lap.
I shift slightly as if to stand, but his hand stays at my waist—firm, unbothered. A silent refusal.
“Timofey…” I murmur under my breath, warning and embarrassment mixing together.
His eyes flick briefly to mine. Calm. Almost amused again. Like he enjoys this version of me more than he should.
Across the desk, Misha stands already, face composed as ever, pretending he saw absolutely nothing. Which, somehow, makes it worse.
Timofey clears his throat once.
“Good that you’re here,” he says flatly. “Valeria has identified three locations. We raid in the morning.”