Chapter 8 Kiren
KIREN
I don’t go to Marian’s house alone. Mikel drives while I sit beside him in the passenger seat, the low hum of the engine filling the quiet space between us as the car moves through the darker parts of the city.
Two vehicles follow at a careful distance behind us, their headlights appearing in the side mirror whenever the road curves enough to reflect them.
The arrangement is routine. Nights like this aren’t.
Cold air slips through the narrow crack in the window beside me, along with the faint scent of wet pavement and distant salt from the bay. It moves through the car in thin currents that brush against my face and clear the last of the warmth left from the estate.
The streets feel quieter than usual tonight. Traffic lights change for empty intersections. Storefront windows glow dimly beneath buzzing fluorescent bulbs. The city hasn’t shut down entirely, but it has slowed enough that every sound feels a little more distinct.
Mikel keeps one hand on the steering wheel while the other rests near the console, his posture relaxed but attentive.
He doesn’t fill the silence unless there’s something worth saying, and I rarely encourage conversation when my thoughts are already moving through problems that refuse to resolve themselves.
Rowan sits at the center of everything tonight.
Arkady.
Ivan.
The industrial freight district near the train yards.
Every piece of information circles the same pattern, but something about the structure still doesn’t fit Arkady.
Arkady prefers distance. Slow pressure. Quiet leverage that leaves very little visible movement.
What happened to Rowan involved too many moving pieces and too many men coordinating at once.
Even with Ivan involved, the scale of it feels wrong, like someone else is arranging pieces from farther up the board.
“You think Marian already knows more than we told her?” Mikel inquires after a while, his voice low enough that it blends easily with the steady rhythm of the tires against the pavement.
I watch the streetlights slide across the windshield in slow intervals before answering. “She knows enough to understand that Rowan didn’t simply decide to vanish.”
“That won’t bring her much comfort.”
“Comfort isn’t what she’s waiting for.”
Mikel nods at that, the faintest movement of acknowledgement before his attention returns to the road ahead. We turn onto Marian’s street a minute later, the quiet residential block unfolding beneath the headlights as the car slows.
The neighborhood sits in a quiet calm, the sort that belongs to people who believe the worst thing that might happen tonight is a barking dog or a car alarm somewhere down the block.
Small houses sit close together behind short fences and narrow driveways, each porch lit with warm yellow bulbs that soften the darkness rather than erase it.
Nothing about the place suggests violence.
Nothing about it belongs to my world. That fact doesn’t stop my world from touching it anyway.
One of my men waits across the street in an unmarked sedan. He straightens when our car pulls up to the curb. Marian has had protection since Rowan entered my life. She never requested it, and I never gave her the opportunity to refuse.
Mikel eases the car to a stop in front of the house and leaves the engine idling for a moment while I study the porch light glowing above the door. Marian knows I’m coming. More importantly, she’s been waiting for me.
“You believe she’ll listen to what you have to say?” Mikel questions.
I open the door and step out into the cold air before answering. “I believe she’ll decide whether I deserve to finish a sentence.”
The snow crunches softly beneath my boots as I walk toward the porch. Behind me, the second vehicle edges closer to the curb, the silhouettes inside unmoving.
Mikel joins me a step behind. The porch boards creak faintly beneath our weight when we climb the steps. I knock once, and the door opens almost immediately.
Marian stands there with one hand resting against the frame, her posture straight and composed in a way that reminds me of Rowan when she decides she’s done waiting for someone to give her a better answer. The resemblance has always been there, but tonight it’s harder to ignore.
Her eyes move briefly past me, taking in the vehicles parked along the curb and the faint outlines of the men inside them.
“You’ve brought quite a group with you,” she observes.
“Precaution,” I reply.
“I didn’t request that.”
“I know.”
She studies my face for a moment longer before stepping aside. “Come inside.”
Warmth surrounds us the moment we step inside. The house smells of coffee and sweet pastries baked earlier in the evening, with cinnamon and vanilla lingering in the air.
Marian moves toward the kitchen table and rests her hand against the back of one of the chairs, the lamp forming a soft circle of light across the surface while the rest of the room remains dim.
“Where is she?” Marian demands.
“She was taken.”
Her fingers tighten against the wood of the chair. “And the man responsible is still breathing?”
“For the moment.”
She studies me more closely. “You speak about this with remarkable calm.”
“Calm helps,” I reply, resting my hand against the edge of the table.
“My daughter is not part of whatever mess you’ve brought to her door.”
I hold her gaze. “No,” I answer quietly. “She isn’t.”
“You assured me she would be safe around you,” Marian continues, her voice firm despite the tension running through it.
My jaw tightens slightly before answering. “I believed that.”
“That belief does nothing for her tonight,” she counters, her shoulders drawing tighter as she holds my gaze.
I draw a slow breath through my nose. “No,” I admit quietly. “It doesn’t.”
She watches my face, considering the answers rather than simply hearing them.
“Who took her?” she insists.
For a moment, I think about how much to tell her. Then I decide on the truth.
“Arkady Voronin.”
The name means nothing to her, but the tone behind it is enough.
“And who exactly is Arkady Voronin to you?”
“A problem.” I lean back slightly from the table, folding my arms loosely as I meet her eyes.
“That’s an interesting description for the man who kidnapped my daughter.”
Marian exhales through her nose again, rougher this time, frustration breaking through the restraint she’s been holding onto.
“You’re standing in my kitchen talking about this like it’s business.”
“I’m explaining it clearly.”
Her hand slides off the back of the chair, and she steps closer, anger rising through the control she’s been forcing onto herself.
“Clear would be telling me exactly what happened to my daughter.”
I hold her gaze. “Arkady believes Rowan has value.”
Her eyes narrow. “For what purpose?”
“For leverage.”
“Leverage?” she repeats. “Against you?”
“Yes.”
Marian absorbs the implication, her expression hardening as the meaning sinks in. “So, she’s been taken because of you.”
“Yes.”
Her eyes flash briefly. “And you’re talking about it like that’s acceptable?”
“I’m focused on correcting it.”
Her eyes shine with raw anger now. “Fix it,” she snaps. “I don’t care what it costs you, or who you have to burn to the ground to do it. You bring my daughter home.”
I don’t look away. “I intend to.”
She studies my face then, searching it carefully, as if she’s trying to decide whether the certainty behind those words is real or something rehearsed. My jaw hardens as I draw a slow breath.
She doesn’t thank me. She doesn’t pretend to trust promises. That restraint earns more respect than anger would.
A few minutes later, I step back outside into the cold night air. Mikel walks beside me toward the car, his hands sliding into his coat pockets against the chill.
“You handled that conversation better than most men would,” he remarks.
“I didn’t lie,” I state.
“That simplifies things.”
I slide into the passenger seat while Mikel starts the engine again. As the car pulls away from the curb, I glance once through the window toward the house. Marian is still standing in the kitchen light. The image stays with me longer than it should.
The drive back to the estate passes quietly. Streetlights move across the windshield in regular intervals while my thoughts return to the same pattern again and again.
Arkady’s accounts are restricted. Ivan is coordinating external crews. Rowan taken.
When the estate gates come into view ahead, security opens them immediately. The car rolls across the stone driveway toward the house, the tall windows glowing warmly against the dark sky. Everything looks calm, but calm rarely lasts.
Mikel slows the car near the entrance and glances toward me.
Ethan is waiting near the base of the steps when I step out of the car, the sling across his chest stark against his dark shirt. His posture is rigid with anger that has been building for hours. The moment he sees me approach, whatever restraint he brought with him breaks.
“You told her she’d be safe!” he shouts.
The accusation cuts across the driveway, drawing the attention of several of my men stationed near the entrance. I stop a few feet away from him and meet his eyes.
“Yes.” The admission leaves my mouth before I think to soften it, and it’s enough to push him over whatever line he’d been holding.
Ethan closes the distance in two quick strides and shoves me hard in the chest with his good arm. The force sends me back half a step.
My men react immediately. Two of them move forward at the same time, ready to drag him away before he can touch me again, but I lift my hand before they reach him.
“Stoy!” Stop! The single word cuts through the movement, and they halt instantly, though their attention stays locked on Ethan.