Chapter 27 Nadya #3
Konstantin doesn’t let go. He leans in closer, his voice a venomous whisper. “Dmitry never just wants to know. You gave him the keys, and he walked right into my son’s hospital room.”
“I didn’t mean for—”
“I don’t care what you meant.”
I reach out, fingers brushing Konstantin’s arm. “Let him go,” I say. “He’s not worth it.”
Konstantin holds him another beat. Then another. And finally, with a shove, releases him. Pyotr slumps, coughing, eyes glassy.
“You breathe wrong and I’ll hear about it.”
Pyotr nods, too quickly. He’s pale now, truly shaken. I almost pity him. Almost.
Nikolai is burning up.
The back of my hand presses to his forehead and it’s like touching fire. His breath comes in shallow pants, eyelids fluttering as he stirs and moans in his sleep. Panic grips me like a fist around my throat.
“Konstantin!” I yell, already throwing the covers off, scooping Nikolai into my arms.
The drive to the hospital is a blur of red lights and my frantic whispers in Nikolai’s ear, telling him to hold on, that Mommy’s here, that he’s going to be okay.
We check him in immediately. Blood work.
Fever meds. A private room. I don’t let go of his hand for a second.
Konstantin stays for a while, pacing, jaw tight, rage simmering beneath the surface.
But when the fever stabilizes near dawn, I insist he go home to Mila.
“She needs you,” I tell him. “I’ve got this. ”
I doze in increments—ten minutes, maybe fifteen—each time jerking awake to the hiss of oxygen or the beep of a blood-pressure cuff inflating.
By dawn his fever breaks, sweat beading on his temples, and he finally sleeps deeper, cheeks flushed but cooler to my touch.
I don’t dare move; I just sit there listening to the steady rhythm of the heart monitor, letting the certainty of that sound hold me together.
When the first shaft of pale morning light slips between the blinds, I kiss Nikolai’s forehead and step into the hallway to stretch. My back protests, my eyes feel as though they’ve been rubbed with salt, but the worst of the night is over and that is something like relief.
I take the elevator down to the lobby for coffee; the atrium is almost peaceful this early, volunteers wheeling art carts toward the pediatric wing, a janitor buffing the terrazzo floor to a shine no one will notice.
I’m waiting for the machine to finish when I sense someone watching. I turn—and there’s Alexei.
He stands near the bank of windows, hands shoved awkwardly into the pockets of a black coat that looks a size too big, eyes shadowed by exhaustion or regret—or both. The last time he was here he arrived behind Dmitry like a silent accomplice, so every instinct in me stiffens.
“I came alone,” he says quickly, raising both palms as though that might lower my guard. “I swear it. I came around yesterday but you guys weren’t here. My father’s men confirmed you came in again last night.”
My coffee finishes with a thin hiss, but I don’t reach for it. My skin crawls. Dmitry’s men are out there, keeping an eye on us. “Why are you really here, Alexei? To spy for your father again? To see if Konstantin snaps?”
Pain flashes across his expression. “No,” he murmurs. “To apologize. And to…to try to explain.”
I cross my arms, not giving him an inch. “Then explain.”
He exhales, shoulders sagging. “Roman’s death—none of us expected it. My father…he blames Konstantin, but more than that, he needs a target. He needs a story. I’m not here to defend him. I can’t. But I need you to understand—he’s unraveling. And that makes him more dangerous than ever.”
“I already understand that,” I say, voice flat. “What I don’t understand is why you stay at his side.”
Alexei swallows hard. “Because someone has to stand between him and complete ruin. Someone who still remembers the leader he was—before power twisted everything. I thought Roman could do it. Now—” His voice cracks, and he presses a fist to his mouth, composing himself. “Now it’s just me.”
Silence stretches. The lobby clock ticks above us, absurdly loud.
“How’s the little man now?”
“Fever broke around dawn. Cultures pending, antibiotics started. He’s sleeping.” The quick summary steadies me more than the coffee. “Thank you for asking.”
A beat of silence stretches while distant overhead pages echo through the space. He shifts his weight, gaze momentarily dropping to the polished floor as if words are heavier than he’s prepared for.
“My father…” he begins, then sighs, pushing a hand through his hair. “He believes grief earns him leverage. I can’t promise perfect fences, Nadya—Dmitry doesn’t respect lines—but I’ll do what I can to keep him from your door.”
I study him, measuring intent against history, and what I find in his eyes is something raw—not calculation, not threat, but weariness laced with determination.
“I appreciate that,” I say. And I mean it.
Out of all the Buryakov bloodline, Alexei has always felt like the lone sensible branch, bending where the others break.
“You’re not like your father,” I say.
That surprises him. His eyes flicker, uncertain. “That’s generous.”
“It’s true.”
“I don’t want to be him,” Alexei murmurs.
“And I don’t want him anywhere near your children.
He’s unpredictable. He acts on instinct, not reason.
But I’ll do everything I can to keep him away.
I promise you that. The men directly report to me, my father is busy with other things.
I’ll make sure they don’t stick around here. ”
I nod once, guarded but not cold. There’s a difference between a threat and a man caught in a war he never wanted.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
He smiles, tired. “Just…take care of them. Of all of you.”
And then he leaves.
I stand in the middle of the lobby for a long while before heading back up. The world is shifting again beneath my feet—but not all of it feels like it’s falling apart.