23. Elena
Our landing in Zurdonia is smooth, but my body doesn’t register it as relief.
Not yet. The rotors slow, the doors open, and even the thirty-minute drive, right up to the familiar stone-and-steel silhouette of the palace, does nothing to quiet the oppressive, unyielding feeling settling over me. Home, in the way duty defines it.
We’re barely through the threshold before the machinery of protection clicks into place.
Doctors, aides, security personnel—everyone moving with quiet efficiency at Fletcher’s command, as if chaos hasn’t been nipping at our heels for days.
Hannah is guided away first, hands gentle but firm at her elbows.
I catch the tightness around her mouth, the way she tries to wave it off even as she’s steered toward medical.
Alexei doesn’t argue. He never does when it comes to safety. Instead, he turns to Braydon and assigns him to her detail until she’s cleared, his voice even and official. It should sound procedural.
It doesn’t.
It’s brief, barely a thing, but I see it.
The way Alexei’s eyes linger. The way his jaw tightens, a fraction, like letting go costs him something.
A smile ghosts across my lips before I can stop it.
My husband, who lives and breathes rules and roles, bends them enough to give his wife’s best friend a piece of normalcy.
A softer truth slipping through the armor.
Then Fletcher steps forward.
He doesn’t say anything at first. He reaches for Alexei.
Their hands meet, and the grip is firmer than the ceremony requires.
Longer, too. Fingers tightening, knuckles whitening, as if neither of them quite trusts the other to still be standing there if they let go too soon.
This is the first time Fletcher has seen his son since the word treason stopped clinging to his name.
Since tunnels and water, and the very real possibility of our loss.
They don’t speak, but they don’t need to. Their eyes lock, and something unspoken passes between them; heavy, intimate. To anyone else, it’s nothing. A handshake. A moment.
To them, it’s an embrace.
My chest tightens. Guilt slides back into place like it never really left. I watch it all happen, aware of my own breathing, of the way my hands curl at my sides as if bracing for impact.
Fletcher releases Alexei and turns toward me.
My gaze drops immediately. Stone driveway. Clean. Immaculate. I focus on it because I can’t bear what I know I’ll see in his eyes.
His hand settles on my shoulder.
It’s large. Solid. The kind of touch that doesn’t ask permission because it doesn’t need to. The gentle pressure is enough to make my head lift, enough to anchor me in place. When I meet his eyes, the warmth there hits hard, and the lump in my throat tightens until swallowing feels impossible.
“Daughter,” he says, voice low and steady. “It is good to see you.”
And then he pulls me into his arms.
I breathe him in, familiar cologne, leather, something faintly metallic, and for one dangerous second, the world narrows to that embrace. To safety. To belonging. When he steps back, the emotion surges, threatening to spill over, and I blink hard, steadying myself.
I’ve missed them. My parents. The absence of them has shaped entire rooms inside me, empty spaces I learned to live around. I had minutes with them once, after Inanna stepped in and saved me, but those minutes only sharpened the ache. A reminder of what I never truly had.
Until Fletcher.
Director of my security. Now, my father-in-law. The man who never treated me like an extension of his son’s title or shadow. He claimed me quietly, firmly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
I lean in enough to murmur, “I really did try to stay out of trouble.”
His laugh rumbles deep and warm, brushing against my ear as he leans closer. “I’m quite sure,” he whispers back, “that my son has already given you a sufficient lecture.”
Before I can respond, Clara steps forward, smiles sweet, and eyes bright with mischief. “Papa, Novak.”
Fletcher’s expression shifts instantly, affection wiped clean, professionalism snapping back into place like a drawn blade. He turns fully toward her. “Agent Ryder.”
Right behind her, Ruslan approaches, stopping shoulder to shoulder with Clara. Fletcher’s gaze flicks to him, assessing, then he extends his hand. “Agent Ruslan Volkov.”
Ruslan takes it without hesitation, grip respectful, and posture straight. “Sir.”
“I’ve spoken with your superiors,” Fletcher says. “Only good things.”
Ruslan dips his head slightly. A gesture of acknowledgment. Of earned respect.
Fletcher steps back, surveying all of us now, voice carrying with practiced authority. “We’ll take this inside.”
We move as one, footsteps echoing through corridors that remember us too well. The strategy room doors open, revealing the long table, the screens already flickering to life. One by one, we take our seats.
The weight of what comes next settles in.
Home, after all, is where the real battles begin.
Abby is the first crack in the room’s tension.
She doesn’t even pretend to be composed. She lets out a small, undignified squeal and barrels straight into me. Her arms wrap tight around my shoulders, fierce and familiar, like she’s trying to confirm I’m solid. That I didn’t vanish somewhere between tunnels and blood and stone.
I laugh softly into her hair, breath leaving me all at once.
When she finally pulls back, hands still gripping my sleeves, my other advisor, Reid, gives me a single nod from behind her. It’s measured. Grounded. Relief, contained behind discipline.
“Are you okay?” Abby asks, eyes scanning my face, my neck, my hands. Cataloguing the damage.
“I’m fine,” I reply, and the smile I give her is practiced but real enough. “Hannah?—”
“I plan on visiting with her after the meeting.”
I smile. “Thank you. And thank you. Both of you. For holding everything together.”
Abby’s shoulders ease a fraction.
Alexei doesn’t give us long. He straightens at the head of the table, fingers braced against its surface. “Let’s get started. Where are we?”
Fletcher steps forward, presence filling the space without effort. His gaze cuts briefly to Ruslan. “In coordination with what the SVR has on Oksana, Mitchell and Military Intelligence scoured every file, every shell, every corner of the dark web where her name has ever appeared.”
Clara leans back in her chair, arms folded. “And?”
Fletcher gives a slight shake of his head. “As Agent Volkov stated earlier, nothing. She disappears at fourteen. No communications. No financial footprint. No confirmed sightings. Most agencies assumed she was dead.”
The silence that follows feels deliberate.
Fletcher turns to Mitchell. Mitchell clears his throat, adjusting his stance as if bracing for disappointment.
“I went through everything we seized when we breached Ivan’s firewall last year.
Everything. He didn’t have anything on her.
There was one email. One between Ivan and a longtime associate. He claimed he only had one daughter.”
The word lands heavy.
“My mother,” I guess quietly.
Mitchell nods. “It’s as if Ivan erased Oksana from existence.”
Ruslan leans forward then, forearms pressing into the table, hands splayed. “For years afterward, she stays in the shadows. Operations filtered through shell corporations. Intermediaries. Hired muscle. Never moves directly.”
I draw a breath, feeling the shape of the question before I speak it. “If she left at fourteen, cut off her father, why come back now?” My fingers curl together. “Why this obsession with avenging him?”
No one answers.
The room stills, the hum of technology suddenly loud in my ears.
Alexei breaks it. “Regardless of their history, she’s made one thing clear. She wants revenge on her father.” He turns to Fletcher. “Where are we with Wendell?”
Mitchell steps in again. “He’s good at avoiding cameras. Maurice sent everything from Petrova’s surveillance, every angle, every timestamp. I scrubbed it all. There’s only one hit.”
He lifts the remote and clicks. The screen flickers. Grainy. Dark. A figure mid-stride, half-turned, disappearing into the mouth of the tunnels.
Wendell.
“Nothing in association with kidnapping Hannah,” Mitchell continues. “No hired muscle tied directly to him. All we can prove is proximity. Same place. Same time. With Queen Elena.”
Alexei’s jaw tightens. A muscle ticks, sharp and restrained. “It’s not enough.”
Something cold coils in my chest.
Oksana’s voice rises unbidden in my memory, smooth, assured. The way her words echoed Ivan’s, almost reverent in their cruelty. You could have stopped this. I hadn’t complied. I hadn’t bent. And she’d smiled, promising to burn Zurdonia to the ground.
.
I straighten, spine aligning instinctively, the weight of the crown settling into my posture even though it isn’t on my head. I let my gaze move around the table, meeting each face in turn.
“My priority is the safety and well-being of our citizens,” I continue. Calm. Unyielding. “Abby. Reid. Status.”
Abby flips through her notes, fingers quick. “There’s some unrest. Polling shows unease after the allegations against King Alexei, even though he was cleared, and now renewed reports of threats against the crown. It’s small, but it’s loud enough to matter. People are questioning stability.”
Reid steps in smoothly. “All allies remain steady. Trade routes, proposals, ongoing initiatives, everything is moving forward as planned.”
I glance at Alexei. He nods once.
“Stay the course,” I tell them. “Make it a priority.” I pause, then add, “And schedule Alexei and my appearance at the Victors Tournament.”
Fletcher’s head snaps toward me. “Are you certain that’s wise?”
“It’s necessary,” I answer, without hesitation. “If Oksana wants to sow division, hiding behind palace walls only feeds it. This is where our best agents, officers, and soldiers stand in full view. Our absence would speak louder than our presence.”
Alexei exhales slowly, then nods. “Reluctantly agreed.”
Fletcher nods once. “Agreed.”