21. Zoya
ZOYA
I wake to the steady rhythm of machines and the antiseptic smell of a medical facility.
My throat feels raw, each breath scraping against tissue touched by that smoke and my screams of fear.
The ceiling above me is white and clean, unmarked by the chaos I escaped.
When I turn my head, I see Maksim in a chair beside the bed, his dark hair disheveled and streaked with ash.
Soot marks his angular face, and his shirt is torn at the shoulder.
His hazel eyes are fixed on our joined hands, his thumb moving in small circles across my knuckles.
The medic finishes checking my IV line and makes notes on a chart. She's a middle-aged woman with graying hair pulled back severely. "The smoke inhalation was moderate," she says to Maksim, not to me. "Her lungs are clear now, but she'll need to take it easy for a few days. No strenuous activity."
Maksim nods once, his grip on my hand tightening slightly. The medic glances between us, then gathers her supplies. "I'll be back to check on you in an hour," she tells me, finally addressing me directly. "Press the call button if you need anything before then."
The door closes behind her with a soft click, and we are alone.
The machines continue their steady beeping, but the sound feels distant now, muffled by the tension that fills the room.
Maksim releases my hand and leans back in his chair.
The movement reveals more of the damage—burns on his forearms, a cut across his jaw, exhaustion etched deep in the lines around his eyes.
"You came for me," I say, my voice hoarse. The words come out as almost a whisper.
He doesn't look at me. "I had orders."
The response stings, but I push past it. It doesn't appear that I was saved as the result of an order. When I saw him walk into that room, he didn't look like he was following orders. "Thank you. I know you didn't have to?—"
"When were you going to tell me?" His voice cuts through my attempt at gratitude.
I blink, confused. "Tell you what?"
Now he looks at me, and his expression grows darker. "About the baby."
The words hit me with startling clarity. I remember the medic's examination, the questions about my last period, the blood tests she ran while I was still groggy from the smoke. My hand moves instinctively to my abdomen, and I see his eyes follow the movement.
"I wasn't sure," I say, which is partly true. I had that test that was so faint, but I hadn't confirmed it with another. I hadn't wanted to confirm it.
"But you knew." His voice is flat, stating facts rather than asking a question.
I sit up too fast, and pain shoots through my chest, making me wince. And for a second I see him tense, like he wants to reach for me. But he doesn’t. "It wasn't your business."
"It became my business the second you climbed into my bed."
The bluntness of his statement makes me flinch. "Is that what you think this is? Some kind of transaction?"
"Isn't it?" He stands abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. "You kept coming back because you wanted something from me. You lied to me about who you are, Zoya."
"I never lied about who I was," I snap back, my voice gaining strength. "And yes, I wanted my brother safe, but..."
"Everything else was part of the game." His jaw is tight, the muscle jumping beneath his skin. "You played your part perfectly. The quiet woman who needed protection, who melted under my touch. Was any of it real?"
The accusation cuts deep because there's truth in it. I did approach him under false pretenses. I did let him believe I was someone else. But the way he's looking at me now, as if I'm a stranger, as if the nights we spent together meant nothing—it makes rage bloom hot in my chest.
"You want to talk about games?" I swing my legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the way the room tilts slightly. "You were assigned to me, weren't you? Getting close to me was your job."
He doesn't deny it, which is answer enough.
"So don't act like I'm the only one who was playing a part," I continue, my voice rising. "You were using me to get to Damir from the beginning. Every conversation, every touch, every time you made me feel safe—it was all part of your mission."
"You're right." His admission is quiet, deadly. "It was. Until it wasn't."
"When?" The question tears out of me before I can stop it. "When did it change for you? When did I stop being a mark?"
He's quiet for a long moment, his hands clenched at his sides, but he doesn't answer me. He deflects. "And you?" he asks. "When did I stop being a means to an end?"
I think about the moment I realized I was falling for him, the slow recognition that what started as necessity had become need. But admitting it now feels like handing him a weapon.
"I don't know," I lie.
His expression hardens. "You don't know, or you don't want to tell me?"
"Does it matter?" I'm standing now, though my legs feel unsteady. "You just told me I was a mark. A job. So what difference does it make what I felt?"
"You were a mark," he says, stepping closer. "But you were also the woman who made me feel something other than rage. The one who was just challenging enough to piss me off and soft enough to let me see her. Who looked at me like I was more than a weapon."
His words are raw, unguarded in a way that makes my chest tight. But I can't let myself soften, not now.
"And you were the man who made me feel safe," I say, my voice shaking. "Who held me when I had nightmares. Who made me believe that maybe, for once, someone wanted me for more than what I could do for them."
"I did want you for more than that."
"Did you?" I move closer, close enough to see how narrow his pupils are getting. "Or did you just want me compliant? Easier to control?"
"You were never easy to control." There's something almost like admiration in his voice.
"But you tried anyway. The marriage, the constant watching, the way you made decisions about my life without asking me?—"
"I was trying to protect you."
"From what? From making my own choices?"
"From getting killed." His voice rises, the first crack in his composure. "From ending up like your brother's other loose ends."
The mention of Damir brings fresh pain, but I push through it. "And now? Now that you know about the baby, what am I? Still a mark? Still a job?"
He doesn't answer immediately, and in that hesitation, I see everything I need to know. The baby changes the equation for him. It makes me more valuable, more necessary to protect. But it doesn't make me more wanted.
"You're hiding a child from me," he says finally. "My child. And you're pretending you cared about me while you were planning to disappear."
"I wasn't?—"
"Weren't you?" He steps closer, and I can smell the smoke still clinging to his clothes. "The second you found out about the baby, you were already planning your exit. Just like you planned your entrance. You probably have a fake passport and money stashed somewhere. Did Damir teach you that?"
The accusation hits too close to home. I had been thinking about leaving, about getting away from all of this before it consumed me completely. But hearing him say it, seeing the betrayal in his eyes, makes me realize how it must look to him.
"I was scared," I admit, the words torn from somewhere deep. "I was scared of what you would do if you knew. Scared of what it would mean."
"So you decided for both of us."
"Yes." The admission comes out as a whisper. "I decided for both of us."
We stare at each other across the small space, both breathing hard, both wounded by revelations that cut too deep.
"You were a mark," he says again, his voice low and dangerous. "Until you weren't. But you—" His jaw tightens. "You never stopped calculating, did you? Never stopped looking for the exit."
The words are cruel because they're true. I have been calculating, measuring risks, planning escapes. It's how I've survived this long. But hearing him say it, seeing the disappointment in his eyes, makes me feel hollow.
My hand moves before I can stop it, the sound of the slap echoing in the quiet room. His head snaps to the side, and for a moment, we both freeze. Then he turns back to me, his cheek red, his breathing ragged.
"I'm done," he says, stepping back. "I'm done with this."
He turns and walks toward the door, and I want to call him back, to take back the slap, to find some way to bridge the gap that has opened between us. But the words stick in my throat, and I can only watch as he reaches for the door handle.
"Maksim," I say, his name barely audible.
He pauses but doesn't turn around. "The medic will be back soon. Someone will be posted outside your door."
Then he's gone, and I'm alone with the machines and the antiseptic smell and the weight of everything I've broken.
I sink back onto the bed, my hands shaking as I press my palms against my eyes.
The tears come then, hot and relentless, and I cry into my hands until there's nothing left. I don't know how to fix any of this.