Chapter 23 - Yakov
Raya hasn’t been herself for days now. Sure, she’s still up and about, walking and talking, flattening her brothers with her quick wit when they push her, but I can see she’s muted, like her fire isn’t burning as brightly.
I’ve caught her a few times staring absently into space when she thinks she’s alone.
There is a low, persistent hum at the base of my skull, a warning system I have learned never to ignore.
She’s barely touched her food, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned about the Volkovs since coming here, it’s that they’re big on food.
I watched her push a plate of eggs around yesterday morning until the yolk went cold, and today, she didn’t even look at the coffee I set on her nightstand.
Raya not immediately reaching for her coffee is definitely not Raya.
I’ve asked her straight out, and she says it’s stress; her body is simply catching up with the chaos of the last few months, and that she’s likely coming down with a common cold.
Any normal person would accept that. She isn’t wrong; her body has every reason to be feeling the exhausting weight of the safe houses, the adrenaline crashes, and the terror of my father’s reach.
But I am not rational when it comes to Raya.
I step up to the side of our bed, the morning sun cutting through the heavy drapes in pale, thin needles.
She is sitting against the headboard, her dark hair a tangled silk halo around her shoulders.
She looks pale. Fragile, almost, though I know better than to say that out loud to her; she’d try to kick my ass to make a point.
I slide onto the bed, sitting beside her, and press the back of my left hand flat against her forehead. Her skin is warm, but not burning.
“You’re not hot,” I murmur, my thumb tracing the smooth line of her brow. “But you look exhausted, malysh.”
She swats my hand away, though there is no real venom behind the gesture. “Thank you, Yakov. You sure know how to make a girl feel good. Real romantic.”
“I am worried about you,” I tell her plainly, my hand dropping to cup her jaw, my thumb gently tracing her skin.
I lean in, crowding her space under the sheets until I can smell the clean vanilla of her hair.
“You haven’t eaten a real meal in days, Raya.
You’re losing weight, you look pale, and it’s driving me crazy. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing is wrong,” she insists, her dark eyes flashing with a spark of that stubborn fire I love.
She pulls the duvet tighter around her chest, trying to look strong, but she can’t hide the exhaustion in her face.
“I’m run down, Yakov. Go do whatever it is you have to do with my brothers and leave me alone. ”
“I’m not leaving you alone when you look like you’re about to collapse,” I murmur, my voice dropping lower, thick with an authority I only use when I need her to understand I am not negotiating. “You’re my wife, Raya. If you’re sick, or if you’re hurting, it’s my job to fix it.”
“I’m not sick,” she whispers, looking away from me first, her fingers stroking the soft fabric of the blanket. “I need a few hours of quiet. Seriously, Yakov. Go.”
I study her face for another long beat. I don’t believe her for a second. There is a tension in her shoulders and a shadow beneath her eyes that tell me she’s hiding something, but I force myself to give her space.
“I want you to rest today,” I tell her, keeping my voice low. “I have to be in Matvei’s study with Adrian Nikolai. We’re doing some work on the computers that needs our total concentration. It’s going to take hours. But if you need me, send the word, okay? I’ll come straight away.”
She sighs, leaning her head back against the pillows, her dark eyes tracking mine. “Is it the sleeper viruses you were telling me about?”
“Exactly,” I reply, leaning down to press a firm, lingering kiss to her temple.
The scent of her—that intoxicating blend of coconut and vanilla—fills my lungs.
“We can activate them if and when we want, freezing his entire logistics network from the inside out. Blowing everything up gets a bit obvious. So this is like permanent insurance. Adrian and I have been mapping the delivery system for days. I’ll come check on you the second we’re done. ”
She waves a dismissive hand toward the door. “I’m fine, Yakov. Go do your tech-voodoo. Go.”
I study her face for three more seconds, memorizing the slight shadow beneath her eyes, before I force myself to stand. I buckle my holster over my shoulder, slip into my leather jacket, and step out into the hallway.
The residential wing of the Volkov house is quiet at this hour, but as I cut through the dining room toward the kitchen, I find Sofie leaning against the marble island, tearing into a piece of toast. She looks up the second my boots hit the tile, her knowing eyes appraising me with an intensity that matches her sister’s.
I halt at the breakfast counter. “Check on her for me?” I ask her plainly.
Sofie pauses, the toast halfway to her mouth. She looks at me for a second before she settles into a faint, reassuring smile.
“Of course,” she says simply.
I give her a solitary nod of thanks and turn on my heel.
The meeting in Matvei’s study is the exact kind of work I was built for.
It is cold, technical, and brutally precise.
There is an exquisite, dark beauty in planting a shadow network beneath a man’s feet without him ever realizing the trap is set.
Alek Mykros has spent a lifetime building an invisible financial web, and Adrian Nikolai and I spend the next four or so hours ensuring we hold the master key to the back door.
Adrian is formidable in this area. I knew his reputation, obviously, but watching him manipulate the Western syndicate databases with the same clinical, effortless precision that I use on the Eastern pipelines earns my absolute respect.
We don’t make small talk. We operate in a silent rhythm, planting dormant viruses deep into the vulnerable areas of various financial servers.
Matvei watches from the leather armchair, a heavy, silent presence of approval.
This isn’t about destroying him and his empire today—we are simply placing a digital gun to its head, waiting for a reason to pull the trigger.
The hours pass faster than I anticipate. By the time the final firewall is bypassed and the dormant traps are securely buried, the clock on the wall ticks past two in the afternoon.
I close my laptop with a definitive click and stand, stretching my tight shoulders. The raised pink scar beneath my shirt pulls slightly, a dull throb reminding me of the price of our freedom, but I barely register it.
“Thank you, Nikolai,” I say, offering Adrian a firm, brief handshake.
“Don’t mention it, Mykros,” Adrian replies, a ruthless, satisfied glimmer in his eyes as he packs his gear. “Let’s see if the old man gives us a reason to wake them up.”
I leave him and Matvei to it; a restless, protective anxiety has been weighing on me since this morning. I need to see my wife.
I find her in the kitchen.
She is leaning against the counter, staring out the window into the garden, a glass of water held loosely in her hands. The afternoon light catches her hair, making it shine, but her shoulders are slightly curved as if she is carrying a weight she hasn’t named.
The second my boots click against the tile, her posture straightens. She turns around, her dark eyes wide as they lock onto mine, and she immediately puts on that familiar, defensive armor.
“I’m fine,” she says before I can even open my mouth.
I stop a few feet away from her, leaning against the island, keeping my arms crossed over my chest. I don’t crowd her, but I don’t take my eyes off her face either. “I know,” I tell her, my voice level.
She looks at me, trying to read whatever poker face I’m projecting, but she looks away first, her gaze dropping back to her glass.
I don’t drop my arms. I take a slow step closer, closing the distance until I am standing right at her side, the warmth of her body cutting straight through the heavy leather of my jacket. I look down at her pale profile, watching the slight movement of her throat as she takes a quiet sip of water.
“You look like you’re carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders today, Raya,” I murmur, my voice pitched low so it won’t carry down the quiet hallway. “You’re tense. You’re holding yourself like you’re braced for a fight. If everything is fine, why do you look so defensive?”
“It’s just a habit, Yakov,” she whispers, her gaze staying glued to the winter garden outside, refusing to look at me. “When you grow up in this life, you learn to keep your guard up. You know that.”
“I know the difference between a habit and a lie,” I tell her, leaning down, my presence enveloping her against the marble counter.
“You’re keeping something from me, malysh.
You’ve been doing it since we woke up. There is a secret sitting between us right now, and you’re holding it so close to your chest it’s hurting you. ”
A tiny, sharp breath escapes her lips, her fingers tightening around the glass of water until her knuckles go white. For a second, I think she’s going to crack. I think she’s finally going to turn around, throw her arms around my neck, and tell me what’s wrong.
But she doesn’t. She forces a tight, stubborn smile onto her face, turns her head, and meets my gaze with a defiant fire that tells me she isn’t backing down.
“You’re imagining things, Yakov,” she says, her voice steadying. “Go back to your laptop. I don’t need a lecture before dinner.”
I look at her, the silence stretching between us in the quiet kitchen.
I know she isn’t fine. I know it down to my bones, because I have spent months decoding her every breath and movement.
She is hiding something, a secret she is keeping close to her chest, and she is absolutely not going to tell me what it is today.
A wave of frustration ripples through me, but I force it down. I am a man who was raised in a house of shadows; I have spent my entire life learning how to navigate silence. I am going to have to wait until she is ready to trust me with it.
I have always been exceptionally good at waiting. But as I watch her stand there, pale and distant, I realize that waiting has never frustrated me as much as it does right now.