Chapter 16 #2
"Even if it is, even if there's a ninety percent chance this is fake, that still leaves ten percent where he needs help.
Where I could make a difference." She stopped pacing, turned those devastating eyes on me.
"Could you live with that? Knowing there was even a small chance you could have saved someone and chose not to? "
The question hit harder than she knew. Because I'd made that choice dozens of times.
Left informants to die rather than compromise operations.
Watched collateral damage pile up because the mission mattered more than individual lives.
But those had been strangers, not people who'd helped someone I loved.
"This is different," I said, searching for words that would make her understand without revealing too much. "They're specifically hunting you. This trap, it's designed for your psychology, your weaknesses—"
"My compassion is not a weakness." The words came out fierce, defensive.
"In our world it is." I immediately regretted the phrasing when I saw her flinch. "That's not—I didn't mean—"
"Yes, you did." She laughed, bitter and sharp. "And you're right. Caring about people, wanting to help, it's a liability in your world. But it's also what makes me human. What makes me different from Brand, from the people hunting me."
"You think I don't care?" The question escaped before I could stop it. "You think watching you tear yourself apart over this doesn't affect me?"
"I think you've learned to compartmentalize so well that you can't see past the tactics anymore." She moved closer, close enough that I could see the tears she was fighting. "You see a trap. I see a kid who might need help. Both things can be true."
She was right. Fuck, she was right, and I hated it. Hated that I couldn't just grab her and lock her in this room until the danger passed. Hated that she was forcing me to see the human cost of strategic thinking.
"Let me have Maks investigate," I tried again, reaching for compromise. "He can trace the phone, check surveillance cameras around the bodega, verify if Mrs. Zi is actually in danger. We can get information without exposing you."
"How long will that take?"
"A few hours. By morning—"
"Frank could be dead by morning."
"Frank could already be dead." The brutal truth, but it needed saying. "Or he could be sitting at home playing video games while someone uses his name to bait you. We don't know, and acting without information is how people die."
She went quiet at that, processing. I could see her medical mind taking over, running diagnostics, weighing outcomes. The doctor in her understood triage, understood that sometimes you couldn't save everyone.
"Promise me," she said finally, voice small. "Promise you'll have Maks check. Tonight. Not tomorrow, not when it's convenient. Tonight."
"I promise," I said immediately. "I'll call him right now if you want."
Something shifted in her expression. A settling, like she'd made a decision. "Okay."
The word was too calm. Too final. But I was so focused on the external threat, on managing the crisis, that I missed the warning signs.
"Okay?" I repeated, suspicious but not suspicious enough.
"You're right. It's probably a trap. And even if it's not, I can't help anyone if I'm captured." She moved toward me, let me pull her into my arms. "Have Maks check. If Frank really needs help, send your men. Just... don't let him die because of me."
"I won't," I promised, pressing a kiss to her hair. She smelled like vanilla and something distinctly Maya, that scent that had become home in just a few days.
She pulled back, looked up at me with those hazel eyes that saw too much. "I'm tired. The crash from the nursery, this stress... can we just go to bed?"
Every instinct I'd developed over thirty years of violence should have been screaming.
The sudden capitulation, the too-easy agreement, the request to sleep when adrenaline should have had her wired for hours.
But she'd been running for six months. Of course she was tired.
Of course she wanted to shut down rather than continue fighting about something she couldn't control.
"Of course, kitten," I said, already reaching for my phone to text Maks. "Let me send this message, then we'll sleep."
Dinner arrived forty minutes later—Georgian food from the place in Brighton Beach that stayed open late, the owner too smart to ask why the Besharov enforcer needed delivery at midnight. Khachapuri, khinkali, enough food for four.
She sat across from me at the small table by the window, cutting the cheese-filled bread with mechanical precision. One bite, chew, swallow. Another bite, chew, swallow. Like eating was a task to complete rather than something her body needed.
"It's good," she said when I watched her too long, but her voice had that distant quality I recognized from the clinic. Doctor voice. Professional distance activated to keep messy emotions at bay.
"You don't have to finish it all," I said, though usually I had to convince her to eat anything.
"I know." Another mechanical bite. Her eyes stayed focused on the food, not meeting mine. "Maks responded?"
I'd shown her his text—received, investigating, will update within hours. She'd nodded, said "good," and hadn't mentioned it again. Now she was asking just to fill silence, going through the motions of normal conversation.
"He's checking traffic cameras first," I explained, though she hadn't asked for details. "Then he'll tap into our network, see if anyone's heard about movements near the bodega. If something's happening, we'll know."
"Efficient," she said, that same distant tone. Like we were discussing medical procedures rather than the potential death of someone she cared about.
The medical mask was firmly in place—that professional facade she'd worn when stitching my arm, when dealing with trauma that would break most people. But this felt different. Deeper. Like she wasn't just distancing herself from the situation but from me, from us, from everything we'd built.
"Maya." I reached across the table, covered her hand with mine. Her fingers were cold despite the warm room. "Talk to me."
"About what?" She finally looked up, and her eyes were carefully empty. "You were right. It's a trap. We're handling it appropriately. There's nothing else to discuss."
The words were all correct, but the delivery was wrong. Too calm. Too accepting. Like she'd already processed all the stages of grief and come out the other side numb.
"You're allowed to be upset," I tried. "About Frank, about the situation—"
"Being upset doesn't change anything." She turned her hand under mine, not pulling away but not engaging either. "You taught me that. Emotions compromise decision-making. So I'm choosing not to have them right now."
I wanted to tell her that wasn't what I'd meant, that there was a difference between controlling emotions during crisis and shutting down entirely. But she was already withdrawing her hand, standing to clear dishes she'd barely touched.
"Leave them," I said. "Someone will get them in the morning."
"I need to do something," she said, but set the plates down anyway. Stood there looking lost, like she'd forgotten what came next in the routine of normal evening.
"Come here." I pulled her onto my lap, and she came willingly but stiffly, like a doll being positioned. "You're safe. Frank will be okay. We're going to handle this."
"I know," she said against my chest, but there was no conviction in it. Just agreement for the sake of ending the conversation.
I held her tighter, trying to infuse comfort through touch since words weren't reaching her.
She let me, passive in my arms, and that passivity scared me more than fighting would have.
Maya was never passive. She was either soft and yielding by choice or sharp and fighting by nature. This blank compliance was neither.
"Do you want to color?" I asked, desperate to reach her. "Or read? We could go back to the nursery—"
"I want to sleep." The words came out flat, final. "Is that okay?"
It was barely past nine, too early for either of us usually. But trauma was exhausting, and she'd been running on adrenaline for days. Maybe sleep would help. Maybe in the morning, with Maks's intel and clearer heads, we could process this better.
"Of course," I said, helping her stand. "Whatever you need."
She moved through the bedtime routine like a ghost. Bathroom, teeth, face washed. Changed into one of my t-shirts without the usual playful theft, just mechanical undressing and redressing. The kittens tried to engage her, Zmeya batting at her ankles, but she barely noticed.
When she finally crawled into bed, she curled against me immediately, her back to my chest, my arm around her waist. Standard sleeping position, everything normal except for the tension in her body, the careful way she held herself even while pretending to relax.
"I love you," she said into the darkness, and something about the way she said it made my chest tight.
"I love you too, kitten. Everything's going to be okay."
She made a sound that might have been agreement or might have been nothing. Her breathing gradually slowed, deepened, the tension finally leaving her body as sleep took over. I held her carefully, afraid to move and wake her, afraid to let go even for a second.
I stayed awake for a long time after, mind running through scenarios and solutions.
Tomorrow I'd tell her everything. The real reason Brand wanted her, the true danger she was in.
It would terrify her, but she deserved the truth.
Deserved to know why I was so certain about the trap, why Frank was almost certainly already gone.
Tomorrow we'd make a real plan. Not just reactive defense but proactive offense. Take the fight to Brand before he could escalate further. Maya would hate being sidelined, but she'd understand once she knew the full scope.
Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. Always assuming we had more time.
I pressed my lips to her hair, breathed in vanilla and that specific Maya-scent that had become my whole world in just days. She murmured something in her sleep, pressed back against me, and I let myself believe this moment would last.
Let myself fall asleep holding her, not knowing I was already holding a ghost, that she'd made her decision the moment I'd refused to act, that every second of this evening had been her saying goodbye in ways I was too blind to see.
The last thing I remember was the sound of her breathing, steady and sure, and the weight of her in my arms—precious, protected, mine.