21. Alexei
Elena paces the length of Petrova’s strategy room behind me, her steps whispering over marble veined like old scars.
I remain at the intelligence table, hovering beside Petrova’s chief intelligence officer, Maurice, close enough that he can feel my presence and ensure every command is followed exactly as I intend.
The palace hums with activity around us, servers breathing, screens flickering as we test protocols, low voices trading clipped sentences in a language sharpened by urgency.
Max’s people move with quiet precision, which I appreciate.
Maurice’s wheelchair rolls quietly across the floor as he types commands into the software, pulling up maps, drone feeds, and testing communications.
Elena stands rigid off to my right, shoulders squared, fingers gripping her elbows tightly as if the floor might tilt without her holding it steady.
Her attention is glued to the massive screen above us displaying drone footage of the place we believe Hannah is being held.
Mitchell’s voice crackles through the speaker, calm and efficient, while Petrova’s intelligence team fans out behind the monitors, eyes darting, fingers flying across the keyboard.
My attention shifts to Elena, and that’s when I see it.
The tight line of her mouth. It’s been over a minute, and she hasn’t even blinked.
She wears the guilt like a second skin. It follows her like a shadow.
She glances over her shoulder and catches me watching.
There’s a flicker there, apprehension, yes, but something weighs heavier underneath.
Her mistakes. She counts every one of them.
It’s what makes her not just a great leader, but a compassionate one.
She doesn’t chase power, glory, or wealth.
She wants something quieter and far rarer: happiness, safety, and the chance for everyone to become the best version of themselves, no matter the weight of their past sins.
I want to lift every burden from her shoulders.
It breaks something inside me to watch her this way, turning every bad outcome inward, tracing every consequence back to herself as if it’s her fault.
Right now, every line on her face literally spells Hannah.
Kidnapped. Taken. And in her mind, it’s all because of me. Because I didn’t…
Once I’m satisfied Mitchell, Maurice, and Petrova’s people have the web spun tight, with the feeds live and comms green, I turn toward her. I don’t announce my presence right away. I don’t have to. She stills midstride, as if she’s felt the air shift, and turns to face me.
“Come talk to me,” I say, keeping my voice low. I want to be the anchor for her, the same anchor that she is always for me.
She hesitates. Draws in a breath that lifts her chest and holds it there.
Her gaze skims the room, watching every person entering and leaving the room, the clicking keys, data flooding in faster than anyone can process it, before settling on me.
“I’ve never been good at waiting,” she admits, the words edged with restlessness.
A corner of my mouth lifts despite everything. “You don’t say.”
She pins me with a look sharp enough to cut, but my words land as I intend. The fight drains out of her shoulders. She sighs, catches her bottom lip between her teeth, the tell she’s never been good at hiding.
I step closer and rest my hand at her elbow, light, steady, comforting. “Walking into a trap,” I tell her gently, “isn’t going to help anyone. It’s too dangerous. For either of us.”
Her jaw tightens. “I know that,” she replies quickly. Then slower, rougher, “Knowing it doesn’t stop this.” She presses her hand against her chest, hard, as if she can massage the pain away. “Hannah is in this situation because of me.”
The words land like shattered glass, sharp, final.
I swallow my own frustration and keep my voice even.
“What’s done is done. Spending our time deciding who to blame won’t bring her back faster.
” I search her eyes, willing her to stay with me.
“You know Clara is solid. And Ruslan…he might be a wild card. What I was able to dig up is enough. Enough to trust he will do the job. We will get Hannah home.”
“I understand.” She nods. Once. Twice. Somehow, I know it hasn’t eased the storm inside her.
“I do. And I appreciate that you are allowing Braydon to help, considering the circumstances.” Her tongue darts out, slowly passing over her lower lip.
Another tell that whatever comes next isn’t something I’m going to like.
“But part of me still wants to be there. The second I know she’s safe. ”
I don’t hesitate. I pull her into me, wrap my arms around her, and feel her melt against me, cheek to my chest, her fingers clutching the back of my jacket like she’s afraid I’ll disappear. Her breath stutters, then evens out as she presses closer.
“I know she’d do anything for me,” she murmurs, voice softer now, unguarded. “She always has. And I can’t stop thinking that all I’ve done is take. More than I’ve ever given her.”
I slide my hand from her hair down the curve of her neck, along her back, grounding us both as I press her closer to me.
I rest my chin on the crown of her head.
“I don’t think that’s true,” I argue. “When you love someone, there aren’t limits.
Not to what you’ll do, or give, or be.” I pause, choosing the words that matter.
“I don’t know Hannah the way you do. But one thing I’ve always admired about her is that she’s that kind of family for you.
The kind that chooses you every time.” I kiss her hair.
“And you’ve given her just as much, home, safety, a place to belong. A chance at her own happiness.”
She lifts her head enough to look at me, a small smile breaking through. “You always know what to say,” she whispers.
I smile back, lighter now. “That’s because I know you better than anyone.”
I pull back enough to see her properly. We hold each other’s gaze, the room around us fading to a blur.
My hands slide from her waist and cup her cheeks, thumbs warm against her flushed skin.
“I will fix this,” I promise. “I’ll do everything in my power to make this right. To make you happy. I love you.”
Her eyes glimmer in spite of the moisture, cheeks blooming pink. “I love you too.”
Our kiss is soft, unhurried, an island of calm in the middle of a brewing storm.
I try to silence the voice in the back of my mind, the one that has been shouting at me since we stepped into the room, this fragile, stolen peace hanging between us.
Every brush of her lips against mine, it’s a reminder that I am here on borrowed time.
The clock is ticking, and every second feels like both a gift and a reminder of what will slip away.
I swore to myself I would make the most of every moment with her, every laugh, every touch, every unspoken “I love you” hidden in her eyes.
I’ll get her family back. Not only for her, but because there will be a day when I can’t hold her like this anymore, can’t press my lips to hers, or fold our future into the quiet of a shared tomorrow.
This promise, this mission, is everything.
Without it, I don’t know how I can let her go.
Our kiss breaks at the discreet clearing of a throat.
We separate, reluctantly. I turn to find Maurice offering an apologetic look. “Everything is ready,” he announces. “Comms are live.”
The storm crashes back in.
I move back to the console, Elena settles into a quiet presence at my shoulder. The room narrows in around us again, the hum, the glow, the sense of a held breath. I plant both hands on the edge of the desk, feel the cool bite of wood through my palms, and tap the screen to unmute the line.
“Clara?”
Static fills the space, then her voice, low, controlled. “Here. Along with the Russian.”
“The Russian?” Ruslan asks.
I let out a breath. “Braydon,” I continue, shifting channels. “Status?”
A faint rustle answers me, wind brushing against fabric. “One mile west. Eyes on approach. No movement yet.”
I glance up at the monitors, Clara and Ruslan appear as grainy silhouettes slipping through the trees, within the wood and broken light.
We fitted them with heavy coats, collars turned up high enough to swallow their jaws, their faces, and hats pulled low.
A quick glance with their heads down low, gaits altered enough to confuse pattern recognition, should fool Oksana and Wendell.
Here with the satellites overhead, drones circling wide, we’ve done everything we can to make them believe it’s Elena and me.
“What do you see?” I ask.
“Too quiet,” Braydon says. His breathing comes through the line, shallow, controlled. “Which I don’t like.”
Ruslan’s voice cuts in, agreement edged with humor that doesn’t quite land. “Yeah. Quiet’s never just quiet.”
My jaw tightens. “You ready?”
“Ready,” Clara says without hesitation.
“Always,” Ruslan adds.
I glance sideways. Elena stands motionless, spine straight, hands loosely clenched at her sides. She meets my eyes. She still hates this, but steadies herself. Nods once. It’s enough.
I keep the comms open as they move, footsteps crunching over gravel and frost. The room listens with us. Maurice and King Maxwell’s team wait for my next command.
“Hey,” Ruslan murmurs, a grin audible in his voice. “Can I ask you something?”
“What,” Clara snaps, brisk and unimpressed.
I’m about to step in and remind them that idle chatter only invites danger when Elena blinks and shifts her attention to the speaker.
In that instant, something about her changes, like a fracture in the tension.
It’s a small distraction, but it pulls a thread of worry free from her, and for a heartbeat, the edge in the room softens.
“Is there… anything going on between you and the большой страшный king?”
Clara snorts, sharp and immediate. “Big and scary?”
“You speak Russian.”