Chapter 13 Sage #3
“Sage,” he addresses, folding the linen with care. “I would like to speak with you. Alone.”
My spine goes rigid before I can stop it. Luka’s hand moves under the table until his fingers wrap around my knee. His grip is firm, not painful, but his message is clear. I look at him, and he gives a slight shake of his head.
“If you have something to discuss with her, you can do it here,” Luka responds, his voice calm but cool.
Isaak’s gaze slides to his son, then back to me. “This is between Sage and myself,” he insists. “I assure you, I have no intention of harming the mother of your child.”
The casual way he phrases it makes my stomach twist.
A muscle along Luka’s cheek tugs tight. “You will forgive me if I do not find that reassuring.”
I place my hand over his on my knee. “It’s alright,” I murmur to him. “If I don’t like where it goes, I’ll leave.”
He searches my face, considering the risk. Finally, with visible reluctance, he releases a slow breath and nods.
“I will be right outside the door,” he tells me.
Isaak’s study feels like a different kind of cage from Luka’s office. Darker wood. Heavier curtains. Shelves of old books line the walls, and a large painting of a stormy sea hangs behind his desk. He motions toward a leather chair in front of it.
“Please,” he invites. “Sit.”
I remain standing for a moment, then lower myself into the chair, keeping my hands flat on my thighs so he won’t see them tremble. He rolls his wheelchair to the sideboard, pours an amber liquid into a glass, then turns back in my direction.
“I will not offer you any,” he notes. “In your condition, that would be irresponsible.”
The comment feels both considerate and invasive. “You knew,” I observe.
“Of course,” he responds. “My son may try to keep things from me, but I have eyes. And Anya is not as discreet as she believes.” He lifts his glass. “Congratulations, Sage. This child will secure a great deal. For Luka. For this family. And for you, if you allow it.”
My fingers curl slightly against the leather. “I didn’t ask for any of that,” I reply.
“Very few of us ask for the roles we are given,” he counters, taking a sip. “We adapt. Or we are crushed.”
“Is that what happened with my father?” I question. “Was he crushed?”
Isaak’s mouth curves into what might be called a smile if there were any warmth in it. He sets the glass down and leans back in his wheelchair as if settling in for a performance.
“Your father adapted for a time,” he comments. “He was useful and clever. He had a mind for numbers and structure. Men like him build empires.”
“And then he betrayed yours,” I state.
He inclines his head. “He tried. He stole. He talked to the wrong people. He believed he could take what he wanted and walk away with no consequences.”
Anger pricks at the back of my eyes. “He walked away from us,” I remind him. “From his family.”
“And that,” Isaak remarks, “tells you everything you need to know about his character.”
My grip on the chair's edge tightens. “You had him killed.”
The sentence lands between us like a live wire. Isaak’s expression smooths into an almost bored calm. “Men like Thomas do not simply die,” he remarks. “They rot. They poison everything around them, until someone finishes them.”
Heat rushes up my chest. “You talk about him like he was garbage,” I accuse. “He was my father. He tucked me in at night. He kissed my forehead. He taught me how to sign my name. How can you sit there and speak about him like that?”
He studies me, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Because I cannot afford to speak about him any other way. Not when he made the choices he did. Not when his actions could have cost me my son, my men, and everything I built.”
“You ordered his death,” I insist. “You decided he deserved to die, and you made it happen.”
A slow, cruel smile spreads across his face, making the hair at the back of my neck rise.
“I gave the order,” he confirms. “I will not pretend otherwise.”
My heart pounds in my ears. The room feels too small. The man in front of me is the reason my mother sat at the kitchen table at three in the morning with a cold cup of coffee and red eyes. He is the reason I grew up watching for a car that never pulled into the driveway.
“You are a murderer,” I tell him. The word tastes like acid.
He lifts his glass again as if I have just commented on the weather. “I am a man who understands what must be done,” he replies. “Your father made his choice. So did I.”
Anger and grief war inside my chest. I push up from the chair, unable to sit any longer. My hands tremble at my sides.
“You expect me to raise my child in this house with you in it?” I point out. “Knowing what you did. Knowing what you think of the man who helped bring me into the world.”
Isaak’s gaze drops to my stomach and returns to my face. There is no softness there at all now.
“I expect you to recognize that I can be an ally,” he answers. “You carry Luka’s heir. That grants you protection and power. More than you realize. You can use it. Or you can waste it on sentiment for a man who discarded you long before I intervened.”
The words slice right into that old wound. I know my father left us. I know he chose his work over us. But hearing Isaak say it like a weapon still hurts.
“That doesn’t excuse what you did,” I fire back. “You had him killed.”
Isaak’s smile widens, then fades into something colder. He takes another sip of his drink, then sets the glass down with care.
“I did not have the pleasure of seeing it,” he comments almost casually.
“I was in Moscow when the call came. My enforcers informed me that the problem had been dealt with. That is all.” He lifts one shoulder.
“In truth, I would have preferred to watch. Men like Thomas often think they can talk their way out of consequences. I find it useful to look them in the eye when they realize they cannot.”
His words hit me in two places at once. First, the ugly cruelty of them. Second, the small detail buried inside.
He didn’t see it. He didn’t witness anything. He accepted someone else’s story and built the rest of his life on it. My mind latches onto that fact like a hook.
“You didn’t confirm it,” I realize out loud. “You took someone’s word and moved on.”
His eyes cool. “I did not need to see a body to understand the situation was handled,” he responds. “I trusted the men who gave the report. That has always been enough.”
Before I can respond, the study door opens without a knock. Luka strides in, shoulders tight, his expression carved with concern and anger. He looks at me first, scanning for harm, then at his father.
“This conversation is over,” Luka announces. He comes to my side and puts an arm around my back, drawing me closer to him. His touch helps my breathing find a rhythm again.
Isaak arches a brow. “I did not realize I needed your permission to speak with your woman,” he comments.
“You do, actually,” Luka replies. “Especially when you talk about her father like he was nothing more than a stain on your shoes.”
“He was more than that,” Isaak counters. “He was a liability. I treated him as such.”
Luka’s eyes flash with a fury I haven’t seen before.
“You do not speak to her that way,” Luka insists, his voice low. “You do not drag her father through the mud while you sit behind this desk and pretend you are any better.”
“I am better,” Isaak replies calmly. “I did not abandon my son. I built a world for him. For you. Now you have a child on the way, and instead of using that to secure what we built, you stand here and challenge me over a dead traitor.”
“He is not just a traitor to her,” Luka argues. “He is the man who helped shape the woman I love. You will show some respect, even if you do not feel it.”
Those last words settle deep inside me, warm and startling. The woman I love. He has never said that before.
Isaak studies him, then me. The corner of his mouth lifts, but there is nothing kind in it.
“You grow soft,” he observes. “Dangerous in a different way. Emotions make men weak, Luka.”
“Emotions make men human,” Luka counters. “You should try it sometime.”
The silence that follows crackles. Isaak’s gaze cools further. For a moment, I think Luka’s temper will break and turn the moment into something explosive. Instead, Isaak picks up his glass and swirls the liquid inside.
“Get out of my study,” he finally instructs. “Both of you. We will revisit this when you remember who built this life you enjoy.”
Luka’s arm tightens around me. “We will revisit nothing,” he replies. He guides me toward the door, his hand firm at the small of my back.
As we step into the hallway, my heart still races. My mind spins with everything Isaak revealed and everything he didn’t mean to. The world feels unstable all over again.
Luka forcefully closes the door behind us. He turns to me, hands framing my face, his eyes searching mine.
“Are you alright?” he asks.
“I’m okay,” I answer, the words coming out rough.
He pulls me against his chest, one hand sliding to the back of my head, the other around my waist. I let myself fold into him, breathing in his scent, the clean spice of his cologne mingled with the familiar warmth of him. My fingers curl into his sweater.
“He admitted it,” I murmur. “He admitted ordering my father’s death. He talked about it like we were discussing a business invoice.”
“I am sorry,” Luka replies near my ear. “You should never have had to hear that.”
I stay pressed against him for a moment, trying to let the warmth of his arms quiet the rush in my chest, but Isaak’s voice keeps echoing through my thoughts.
The more I replay his words, the more the pieces refuse to fit, leaving a small, cold ache lodged under my ribs.
Luka’s hand moves slowly along my back, calm and protective, and I cling to him because everything else feels unsteady beneath my feet.
I don’t know what will happen next, but I know one thing for sure.
None of us are standing on solid ground.