Chapter 8
LUKA
The jet touches down through low clouds and rain, tires hitting the runway with a heavy jolt that rolls through the cabin.
Outside the oval window, the world is gray and wet, the pavement shining under rows of blue lights.
The city glows beyond the fence, reflected in slick tarmac and puddles that distort everything into streaks of color.
My men move as soon as we come to a stop.
Seats unbuckle, bodies rise, and the quiet murmur of Russian and English blends into the familiar hum of returning to home territory.
I finish a low conversation with Misha and Kolya near the galley.
We run through the last pieces of information that came in before landing: a payment that cleared, a name that resurfaced in a shipment manifest where it does not belong, and a contact who suddenly went silent.
I speak softly, aware of Sage sitting further up, buckled into her seat.
She has not interrupted once. On the plane from Aspen Ridge, she spent most of the flight staring at nothing, her fingers worrying the edge of the blanket I forced on her. Her phone never left her hand, her thumb drifting over the screen again and again without truly using it.
I watched her more than I should have. I watched her turn her face toward the dark window when she thought no one was paying attention. I watched the little lines around her mouth deepen, and her eyes go distant in a way that tells me her mind is somewhere I cannot follow.
Now she stands slowly as if any sudden jolt might crack whatever fragile shell is keeping her together. She smooths her hands over her jeans, then the hem of her sweater, a nervous ritual she repeats twice before she reaches for her backpack.
“Ten minutes,” I remind my men, my tone quiet but firm. “Same formation. Same protocol.”
They nod. No questions or hesitation.
The door lowers with a hydraulic hiss. Air rushes in, cold and laced with rain, carrying the scent of jet fuel and the city beyond. Vega moves before anyone else, his nails clicking on the stairs as he descends in a fluid line of muscle and focus, his nose lifted to sniff the damp air.
I follow him down into the rain. Wet pavement reflects the hangar lights like a mirror, broken only by the dark lines of tire tracks and footprints.
Two rows of black SUVs wait in perfect alignment, idling like a small battalion ready for deployment.
The men standing beside them straighten when my shoes hit the ground.
Backs lengthen, shoulders pull back, and conversations cut off mid-sentence.
A brief greeting passes between them in Russian, low and respectful. I nod once.
Behind me, Sage steps out into the rain.
I turn my head enough to watch her without making it obvious.
She pauses for a breath at the top of the stairs, her knuckles white around the strap of her backpack.
The wind tugs her hair, pulling honey-blonde strands free from the knot at the back of her head.
Her face looks even paler in the washed-out light, her freckles standing out even more.
The rain dots her cheeks and lashes. She does not wipe it away.
Her eyes sweep the hangar, taking in the SUVs, the armed men, and the way they align themselves with unconscious precision around me.
Now she steps fully into my world. There is no coffee counter or town square between us and what I am.
For a moment, she looks like she might turn back toward the jet. Then she squares her shoulders and descends, one hand wrapping tighter around the backpack strap, the other held close to her body as if she is bracing for impact.
Misha falls into position a step behind my right shoulder. Kolya and Albert move toward the SUVs, scanning the perimeter, checking corners that have already been cleared twice. The routine calms them. It calms me too.
As Sage reaches the bottom of the stairs, two of my men pass behind her, their voices low as they exchange a quick remark in Russian about the weather and the drive ahead.
She jerks at the sound, her shoulders snapping tense, the reaction quick and involuntary.
Her breath hitches audibly. She looks over her shoulder as if expecting an attack.
My attention narrows, not on the words, but on her response. She hears Russian and her body locks. Her fingers tighten on the strap until the knuckles go even whiter. She does not understand what they mention. She only hears the language and reacts like someone touched a bruise.
Interesting. I could pretend not to notice.
Instead, I tuck the reaction away, another piece in the picture I am assembling.
She thinks she hides it when she takes a slow breath and forces her hand to relax.
She lifts her chin, trying to smooth the fear from her features before she looks at me.
She manages polite neutrality, but the tremor in her fingers betrays her.
“Cold?” I ask, stepping to her side and taking her backpack from her before she can refuse.
Her eyes flash to mine. “Just tired.”
The lie is small and easy. She hands it to me like a paper cup, hoping I will accept it and walk away. I place her bag in the rear of the lead SUV and gesture toward the open door. She hesitates only a second before climbing inside. Vega jumps in after her, taking the place at her feet.
The convoy pulls out as one body, engines humming in unison, tires hissing over wet concrete.
The hangar rolls away, replaced by the high fence line, then the streets that lead toward the heart of the city.
Seattle at night in the rain is all reflections.
Headlights smear across the pavement in long streaks.
Neon signs blur into blocks of color that flash in puddles and vanish.
Skyscrapers rise on the horizon, glass and steel reflecting what little light can escape the low clouds.
Sage presses her knees together, her hands folded over them.
Every few seconds, her fingers twitch toward her pocket where her phone rests, then she stops herself and laces them together again.
She stares out the window, but her eyes are not on the view.
They are somewhere farther away that I cannot see.
“You will like the view from the house,” I remark, more to cut the pressure inside the SUV than because I believe in small talk. “Water on three sides. City on the fourth.”
She nods once, barely moving her head. “You have a lot of views.”
It is a neutral comment, but the way she delivers it feels like an accusation. I consider pushing, asking what she means, and forcing eye contact. Instead, I let it pass. There are bigger questions between us than whether she resents the size of my estate.
The city gives way to a more secluded road that winds along the coastline.
Trees rise on one side, dark and dripping.
On the other, the sound of the water grows louder, waves slapping against rock, and the occasional glimpse of white foam visible through breaks in the barrier.
After twenty minutes, the gate looms ahead, iron and steel woven into a design that looks almost decorative until you see the way it is reinforced.
Two guard towers stand on either side, their windows lit from within.
The gate opens as our convoy approaches, rolling aside on silent tracks. No one steps out to check who we are. They already know. Cameras and scanners have fed them license plates and thermal signatures. They spotted us before we reached the gate.
Sage leans forward slightly, her eyes widening as the perimeter walls come into focus. They encircle the estate completely, stone, steel, and tech hidden in the seams. Floodlights sweep across the ground in timed arcs that never overlap but never leave a blind spot.
The driveway curves through manicured grounds. Everything is designed with purpose. Hedges that conceal cameras, stones that hide motion sensors, and paths wide enough for vehicles, even where they look decorative.
The house comes into view as we crest the slight rise before the main entrance.
Calling it a house feels wrong. It is a compound shaped like a mansion, with old-world Russian influence in the stonework and rooflines, and modern steel and glass cutting through it in clean lines.
Warm light spills from tall windows, reflecting off the rain and the black surface of the circular drive.
For a moment, I see it through her eyes. The way it rises out of the night like it belongs in a story, not in the same world as her little yellow cottage and creaking coffee machines.
The SUV stops beneath the covered entrance. The staff wait, arranged in a casual pose, but I know exactly which carry weapons beneath their suits and dresses, and which do not. Each one is trained and passes through my security checks regularly.
I step out, and the rain kisses my face, cold and thin. I move to Sage's door and open it before any of the staff have the chance. She slides out slowly, her eyes never leaving the mansion. Her backpack remains in the car. I nod at Albert, and he takes it, slinging it over one broad shoulder.
Sage hugs her arms around herself, more out of reflex than from the temperature.
The front doors open before we reach the steps.
Anya stands in the doorway, her posture elegant as always, her dark hair falling over her shoulders in soft waves.
The glow from the entry lights warms her features.
When her eyes land on Sage, her expression brightens with unmistakable fondness.
“Sage,” she greets with a smile that actually reaches her eyes. “Welcome to Seattle.”
The relief that washes through Sage is small but visible.
Her shoulders loosen a fraction, and the tension in her jaw eases.
She steps forward as Anya takes one step down and opens her arms. The hug is gentle and brief, but Sage melts into it with a familiarity that tells me she needed this more than she realizes.