Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Milana
I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, legs tucked under me, staring up at the darkening sky through the ceiling window when my phone rings.
It’s Mikhail.
I answer smiling. “Hey.”
“Hey, little sister. How are you doing?” His voice is warm but tired, the way it always gets when things are stressful.
“I’m fine,” I say, my smile widening even though he can’t see it. “Just had dinner and getting ready for bed. How are things over there?”
He sighs. “We’re still working on getting this Michael bastard out of the way. It’s taking longer than we’d like, but we’re making progress.”
I nod even though he can’t see me. “And Kira? Irina? How are they?”
“They’re okay. They both miss you.”
My voice turns wistful. “I miss them too.”
“The pregnancies are making the whole lockdown harder. Kira wants to leave every five minutes, and Irina’s convinced every little ache means something’s wrong with the baby, even though the doctor staying with them keeps assuring her everything is fine.”
I can hear the strain in his voice. Over the years, I’ve watched my brother and his wife grow incredibly close. Being separated from his pregnant wife right now must be hell for him.
“Now I wish I had gone to be with them,” I say softly.
“No.” His answer is immediate. “This is safer. If one location is compromised, the others aren’t. Keeping all of you together only gives Michael a bigger target.”
“I guess you have a point.”
“How are you holding up? Is Ilya treating you well?”
“Yeah,” I answer quickly. “He is.”
I go on to tell him what living here has been like. I tell him about living here, about the routines I’ve settled into, but conveniently omit the fact that we’ve been sleeping together.
My brothers would lose their minds if they knew I was fucking the man they assigned to protect me.
I hesitate for a second, then decide to test the waters carefully.
“How well do you guys know Ilya?”
There’s a short pause on the other end. “Well enough. He’s a well-trusted ally of Konstantin. Works closely with him on certain matters. Why? Is something wrong? Did he do something to you?”
“No, no,” I say quickly, keeping my voice light. “Nothing’s wrong. I just… I’m spending all my waking and sleeping hours with him. I’d like to know more about the man I’m stuck with. He’s not exactly the chatty type, as you already know.”
Mikhail chuckles, the tension easing a little. “Yeah, that’s true. He’s never been one for small talk. It's one of the reasons we chose him. But he’s good at what he does. You’re safe with him.”
I hum. “So he's good friends with Konstantin then?”
“Yeah. Like you already know, we were supposed to send Konstantin to bring you back safely when we heard about Michael’s plan to attack. But at the last minute, Konstantin couldn’t leave.
“He was attacked. So we had to find someone else fast. Konstantin offered Ilya. Said he wasn’t affiliated with any of us. That’s how he came into the picture.”
I nod even though he can’t see me. “Oh. Okay. Well, Konstantin must really trust Ilya to send him over like that.”
“Yeah, he does,” Mikhail says. There’s a small pause, like he’s remembering something. “Actually, they met at some camp when they were teenagers. A religious camp. They bonded over their mutual hate for the whole thing.”
“Really? A religious camp?” I ask, trying to keep my voice casual.
“Yeah,” Mikhail says. “According to Konstantin, they faced a lot of punishment for small things, a lot of hypocrisy. They bonded over how much they hated it all. Pretty much turned them both into atheists unlike their families.”
I blink, my mind reeling. “Wait… so Ilya is an atheist? Just like Konstantin?”
“Of course,” my brother replies, sounding a little confused. “Why? Is there a problem?”
“No, no,” I say quickly, forcing a light laugh. “Not at all. Just… curious.”
The rest of the call passes in a blur. I try to focus on what Mikhail is saying, more updates about the family, but my mind keeps circling back to Ilya.
The cross tattoo on Ilya’s chest. The story he told me about his religious mother taking him to church. The book I had found on his nightstand.
If he’s an atheist why lie? Why carry that symbol permanently on his body? Why tell me about his mom if none of it was true?
Nothing is making sense.
By the time we hang up, I’m barely present. I drop the phone on the bed and stare at the ceiling.
Has he been lying to me, or does my brother have the wrong information about him?
My phone rings again, pulling me out of my thoughts. It’s Rachel, one of the coordinators at the shelter. She never calls at this hour. I answer quickly.
“Hi, Rachel. Is everything okay?”
There’s a pause. Her voice is unusually cold and clipped when she speaks. “Milana… I’m sorry to call you like this. It’s about Maria.”
My stomach drops. “What happened? Is she alright?”
Another pause. “She’s gone, Milana,” she whispers. “They found her in her apartment a few hours ago. She… she killed herself.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. The phone slips from my hand and clatters to the floor. A raw, broken sob tears out of me before I can stop it.
“No… no, no, no—”
I sink down onto the floor, back against the bed, knees drawn up to my chest. The room feels like it’s spinning.
Maria, who fought so hard to get clean, who was finally starting to rebuild her life, who trusted me enough to share her story, is gone. Just like that.
The last time I called her, she didn’t respond. I expected to hear back from her. Not this. Not the news that she’s dead. She’s not supposed to be dead.
I don’t even hear the door open, but suddenly Ilya is there, gun drawn, eyes scanning the room for threats. The second he sees me on the floor, he holsters the weapon and drops down beside me.
“Milana? Hey, what happened? Are you hurt?” His hands are on my shoulders, gentle, searching for injury.
I can barely get the words out between sobs. “She’s dead… she’s dead… Maria… she killed herself…”
He doesn’t ask for more details. He just pulls me into his arms, wrapping me up against his chest.
One big hand strokes my back in slow, steady circles while the other holds the back of my head, fingers threading gently through my hair.
I cry harder, face buried in his shirt, fists clutching the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping me grounded. All the pain, all the helplessness I feel for the women I try to help crashes over me at once.
He doesn’t say anything, doesn't push me to explain. He just holds me. Letting me fall apart against him. His arms are strong and steady around me, one hand slowly rubbing my back in soothing circles.
I don’t know how long we stay like that, but eventually the sobs ease into quiet, shaky breaths.
I pull back slightly, wiping at my face with the back of my hand. “I'm sorry—”
He hooks his index finger beneath my chin, gently lifting my face. “Hey, no need to apologize. Do you want to talk about it?”
“It was… one of the women from the shelter. Maria. She’s the woman I told you about the other day.”
“The one with the abusive ex who has a drug problem?”
He does remember. “Yes. She… she killed herself. They found her in her apartment a few hours ago.”
I tell him everything, how hard she fought to get clean, how her ex kept dragging her back down, how she was finally starting to rebuild her life.
“She left the shelter a few days ago. She said it was too crowded. I was trying to find somewhere else for her to stay. I should’ve done more. I should’ve checked on her yesterday. Maybe if I’d called her… or pushed harder to get her somewhere safer—”
“Stop.” Ilya’s voice is firm but gentle. He cups my face with one hand, thumb brushing away fresh tears.
“This isn’t your fault. Bad things happen sometimes, and we can’t control everything. You did everything you could for her. That matters.”
I start crying again. Without another word, he stands, lifting me effortlessly into his arms. I’m too drained to protest as he carries me out of my bedroom and into his.
He lays me down on his bed and climbs in beside me. He pulls me against his chest, one arm wrapped securely around my waist, the other hand stroking my hair.
“Let it all out,” he murmurs against the top of my head.
This shocks me. He’s never brought me to his room before. He’s never stayed with me after sex, never held me like this.
I feel pathetic for needing it, for making him do this just because I’m falling apart.
I try to pull away. “I shouldn’t—”
“Stay.” His arm tightens around me. “You’re hurting. Let me help. If there’s anything I can do to make it stop, tell me.”
Our faces are so close. His breath brushes my lips. For a second, I want to tell him to kiss me. I want him to. So badly.
The words are on the tip of my tongue.
But I swallow them. I don’t want him kissing me because he feels sorry for me. I want him to kiss me because he wants to.
He pulls back slightly. That familiar pang of disappointment settles in my chest, mixing with the grief already there.
I’m exhausted. Emotionally drained. I lay my head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, and let myself cry again.
He holds me through it, until the tears finally slow and sleep starts to pull me under.