Chapter 14 Luka
LUKA
I wake before the house does. Cold mountain air slips through the bedroom window I cracked open last night.
The sky holds that thin, pale blue that only exists this high up, where the land scrapes against heaven.
Aspen Ridge sleeps in silence. Even the pines seem suspended in silence.
Below, a stream rushes with its endless whisper.
I button a charcoal suit jacket over a pressed black shirt, the fabric cool against my skin. As I reach for my watch, the faint click of claws on hardwood signals Vega’s approach, unhurried and familiar.
Vega appears, his nose low, tail down, on his morning patrol.
He circles my legs and leans in, checking that everything remains as it should be.
I scratch behind his ear before heading down the hallway to my office.
Thoughts stack like files in my head, each demanding attention.
Coffee would help. My secured tablet waits with updates from Seattle, notes from Kolya on surveillance along the county road, and a brief from Misha about the men we pulled off a motel parking lot two towns over.
None of it matters once I step out of my office and follow the faint scent of roasted beans down the hall. The kitchen lights glow warm as one of the maids measures the grounds and pours water into the machine.
She startles slightly when she notices me. “Good morning, Mr. Barinov.”
I nod, taking the mug she sets out for me.
The first sip sears down my throat, chasing the last remnants of sleep from my veins.
Vega stretches out near the stove, his tail thudding once against the tile before he lowers his head to his paws, watching the doorway.
He knows who he expects, but it's not Sage who walks in.
Anya doesn’t knock or announce herself. She simply walks into the kitchen as if she’s claimed every inch of it, wrapped in a long charcoal coat that falls to her calves, cheeks pink from the cold, and her dark hair perfectly braided over one shoulder.
She leaves her gloves on the table, crosses the space, and kisses my cheek like I didn't spend years keeping her at arm's length because it was safer that way.
“Good morning, brat.” Her voice is warm, touched with a hint of amusement. “You look like hell.”
“Nice to see you, too.” I hand her a mug. “You got in late.”
“Early.” She corrects me like she always does. “I wanted the road to myself.”
She moves to the window and takes in the ridge line, the band of aspen trunks, and the dirt road leading toward the highway. Seattle taught her to love control in small things. She needs to know where she's going and who might follow. She needs to see an exit, even when she plans to stay.
“How is Otets?” I ask, the question scraping out before I can soften it.
Anya doesn’t turn right away. “The same,” she says softly.
Her eyes close briefly. The ache slips through before she smooths it away, her composure settling like ice reforming over a cracked surface. The smile that follows could disarm a room full of enemies, but she doesn’t waste it on me.
“And how is she?” Anya asks, lighter now. “The woman you have tucked away like a secret.”
“Contained.” I hate the word as soon as I use it. “Not harmed.”
“Contained is a box.” Her voice holds calm judgment. “Don't place a woman like that in one and expect her to thank you when you open the lid.”
“Anya.” I drain my cup. “I'm keeping her alive.”
“I know what you think you're doing,” she says softly. “I also know what it does to a person to breathe air that someone else decided you're allowed to have.”
I don't argue. We both understand that the world I manage is made of levers, doors, and escape routes that exist only because I paid for them in blood. She rests her shoulder against mine for a heartbeat, then pulls away.
“I brought pastries from the bakery in town.” The lightness returns to her tone. “The owner gave me an extra cinnamon roll because I told her I was visiting my difficult brother.”
“Good. We can test them for poison.”
She laughs under her breath. “Spare me the attempt at charm, Luka. It doesn’t suit you before breakfast.”
I refill her mug and slide it across the counter. We don't talk about Ray Bellamy or the fire that took half of Sage's life, while I boxed up the other half and marked it fragile because I wanted it near me.
She studies my face in a way that makes me want to put up a steel wall so she'll stop seeing through me. “You should know,” she continues, “she loves her sister the way I loved our mother.”
My grip on the mug tightens. “I know.”
“Do you?” she questions.
I hold her gaze until she looks away first. A small victory, pointless and old as we are. She hooks a finger under Vega's collar, rubs his neck, and smiles when he leans into her hand. Then she lifts the bag of pastries and moves toward the hallway that leads to the library.
“Where is she?” Anya asks, a knowing curve lifting her brows.
“She’s probably still asleep,” I answer, though Vega’s attention cuts toward the library, ears pricked in quiet warning.
Anya catches it too and smiles. “Then I’ll let her rest,” she replies, already turning down the hall that leads exactly there.
“Anya.”
“I'll be kind.” She promises it like a threat and leaves.
I should review files. I should make a call to move a shipment and approve three decisions that can't wait. Instead, I follow her, not close enough to intrude, but enough to hear if her tone sharpens into something that would require me to step in. Old habits.
The library door stands ajar, morning bright beyond it.
I stop where the old clock sits, and the floor doesn't creak. Sage stands at the window with her hand on the glass as if the forest can answer her questions. Her honey-blonde hair falls loose around her face, slightly mussed from sleep and untouched by a brush. She’s wearing a thick pink sweater and black leggings that show the strength in her legs, proof that she’s not as breakable as she first seemed.
Vega noses her wrist, then sinks to the rug at her feet with a contented sigh that almost embarrasses me.
Anya doesn't rush in. She lets the silence breathe before asking, “May I join you?”
Sage startles but nods. “You must be Luka's sister,” she remarks, turning from the window to face her.
“And you're the woman who keeps my brother awake.” Anya smiles. “We should be friends.”
Sage huffs a tiny laugh. “Is that how it works in your family?”
“In our family nothing works the way it should.” Anya's voice softens. “Would you like coffee? I'll get it. He always makes it too strong.”
“I had some. Thank you.”
They don't sit right away. They stand together in the bright square of morning and look out at the tree line as if it can settle them. When they finally sit, it’s across from each other at the low table, the pastries Anya brought arranged within easy reach, and the napkins folded with the same precise care our mother once insisted on.
Vega positions himself between them like a sentry who prefers the company of women.
“Has he always been like this?” Sage asks after a careful pause. “Controlled. Cold.”
Anya smiles with genuine affection that surprises me. “No. He learned to be this way. Some of it because he wanted to. Most of it because he didn't have another choice.”
“I find that hard to believe.” Sage’s mouth tightens, her expression hovering between doubt and challenge.
“It would be easier if he were a simple villain.” Anya leans back. “You could hate him and feel clean. He would let you. He's very generous that way.”
Sage studies the pastry she hasn't touched. “Generous isn't the word I would choose.”
“What word would you choose?” Anya asks, her tone light but genuinely curious.
“Necessary.” The room becomes quiet enough that I hear the tick of the old clock.
Anya folds her hands in her lap. “My mother died when I was twenty-one. He was twenty-seven. Our father had already begun to fail, though he hid it. We didn't know what this life would take yet. He learned quickly. I pretended to help and cried in the bathroom until my eyes turned red.”
Sage's expression eases. “I'm sorry.”
“So am I. It's a long time ago now, except it's not.”
Sage nods like she knows exactly what that means. “My mother died three years ago. Some days it feels like yesterday. Some days it feels like I invented her to make my life make sense.”
Anya leans forward. “You have your sister.”
“Yes, I have Hope,” Sage says gently, her voice carrying the quiet conviction of the reason she’s still alive. “She needs me. She has seizures and I can't let her live by herself. I had to make the café work. Her medicine is expensive. I didn't have another plan.”
“You love her in a way that will make you do anything.” Anya's voice holds understanding now. “You'll bend the world if you have to. You'll steal the air out of your own lungs if it helps her breathe.”
Sage's eyes shine but don't spill. “Yes.”
“Then you understand my brother. Not the details. Not the men, the debts, or the history, but the impulse is the same. He's a man who has been told his entire life that other people's lives depend on what he does.”
Sage looks down. A hand lifts and then lowers to Vega’s head. “He thinks I'm a threat.”
“He thinks you're a risk. It's not the same. It feels the same, though.”
Sage presses her lips together. “He took me from my home.”
“He did. He also took you from a man who would have used you to hurt him. That's not an excuse. It's a fact that exists beside the hurt, not in place of it.”
I breathe out and tell myself to stand still.
It's hard to hear my choices filtered through a voice that doesn't frame them as orders or calculations.
Anya isn't defending me. She's laying me out on the table like a weapon that a person can see from all sides.
It's very Anya. It's also effective. Sage doesn’t look forgiving.
She looks as if she understands that forgiveness is complicated.