34. Elena
The next morning, the air inside Fletcher’s office feels thick enough to taste.
Not the stale kind that comes from closed windows or old paper. This is heavier, tension creeping through the room, slow and suffocating, stealing every breath.
“Are you sure this is what you want to do?”
Clara’s voice cuts through the silence, sharp and skeptical. When I glance up, she’s leaning back against the edge of the long table, one dark brow lifted in challenge as her gaze pins me where I sit.
I don’t answer immediately.
Beside Alexei, I shift slightly, my fingers trailing slowly down his back in a quiet, soothing motion. The gesture is subtle, but my intent behind it is clear. His shoulders are rigid beneath my hand, the muscles in his jaw locked so tight I can almost hear his teeth grinding.
“Oksana and Wendell have done enough damage to Zurdonia,” I reply at last, my voice calm but firm. “We don’t have a choice but to take the fight to them.”
“Yeah, I get that.” Clara straightens, folding her arms. Her eyes flick from me to Alexei. “But this puts you front and center.”
Alexei exhales through his nose, the sound tight. “It does,” he admits. His gaze drifts toward me for half a second before returning to Clara. “And you know I don’t like it. But Elena’s abilities…they don’t give us much of a choice.”
On the other side of the table, Ruslan studies the holographic layout projected over the polished wood surface, an aerial map of my aunt’s house, every hallway and room outlined in pale blue light.
“It could work,” he murmurs.
His fingers brush thoughtfully along his chin as he stares down at the glowing image, already dissecting the plan in that quiet, calculating way of his.
The plan. My plan.
The idea came to me in the middle of night, long after the world around me had finally gone quiet.
Alexei had fallen asleep first. I remember the moment it happened, his breathing gradually evening out, the hard lines of his body softening as he drifted under. One arm had been draped loosely around my waist, his warmth anchoring me to the bed.
Eventually, sleep claimed me too. But my mind hadn’t stayed quiet.
Even in the dark, it kept turning. Shifting pieces across an invisible board. Searching for the one move we hadn’t tried yet. Searching for where this war truly began.
The answer had been resting against my collarbone the entire time.
My fingers lift unconsciously now, brushing the rose pendant at my throat. The metal is cool beneath my skin. It was the necklace that gave me the idea.
Oksana wanted me to see the resemblance the moment she handed it to me. The identical curves in the petals. The same delicate carving in the stem.
A family heirloom.
A reminder.
Of where I come from.
Of whom I belong.
She had gone to great lengths to make sure I never forgot it.
Which is why this feels fitting, almost poetic, that our final meeting happens there.
At the house where it all started.
Where my mother and Oksana grew up.
The place where their childhood memories still cling to the walls like ghosts.
Because when this is over… only one of us is walking out alive.
And I will burn the world to the ground before it’s anyone else I love.
“I don’t like it,” Clara voices bluntly.
Her voice yanks me back to the room.
“She swore she’d do everything she could to get me to come to her,” I reply, lifting my chin slightly. “I’m giving her what she wants.”
Clara’s stare sharpens. “Your aunt isn’t your grandfather,” she argues stubbornly. “She knows exactly what you and Lex are capable of. She’s not going to fall for something obvious.”
“The last thing she’ll expect,” Alexei cuts in smoothly, “is for Elena and me to walk through those doors ourselves.”
His voice is calm, but the tension coiled beneath it hums like a live wire.
“And they don’t know about my new abilities,” I add quietly.
Clara’s gaze slides toward the head of the table. “You’re in agreement with this, Papa Novak?”
The challenge in her tone is unmistakable.
For the first time since the conversation began, Fletcher moves.
He’s been standing near the window, arms crossed over his chest, as he watches the debate unfold in silence.
Now he steps forward. “It’s risky,” he states simply. His voice carries the steady weight of command, the kind that silences a room without effort. “As with any mission.” He pauses. “Which is why I’ll be on this one.”
The words land like a stone dropped into still water. Every head in the room turns toward him.
I feel Alexei’s body tense instantly beside me, the shift so sudden it reminds me of a snake coiling before it strikes.
His mouth opens.
But Fletcher beats him to it. “Lance can handle the director position until I return,” he continues evenly. “I’ve been on the sidelines long enough.” His eyes flick briefly to me. Then to Alexei. “I won’t let my son or my daughter do this one on their own.”
Something warm swells painfully in my chest.
Pride. Love. The kind of fierce loyalty he shows, even if we aren’t officially blood.
I glance sideways at Alexei.
The conflict is written all over his face. I can practically see the war inside his head, the part of him that wants to order his father to stay behind, battling the part that knows better than to argue.
They’re too alike. Cut from the same relentless cloth.
Alexei may be king, but he would never issue an order like that. And Fletcher knows it.
“Well,” Clara mutters after a beat. A crooked grin tugs at her lips as she pushes away from the table. “This should be fun.”
The tension in the room cracks slightly for a few quiet breaths to slip through.
But Fletcher’s attention remains locked on Alexei. “We’re wheels up in an hour,” he announces.
The commanding tone in his voice is unmistakable, the same one he uses when addressing Zurdonia’s recruits. The one that leaves no room for argument.
“Review the mission parameters again,” he continues. “Be ready to board.”
No one questions him. No one even tries.
I wait.
Not for silence, as that would be impossible in a room like this, but for the noise to shift. For attention to splinter. Conversations bloom in small clusters, backs turn, and laughter rises enough to cover absence. When no one is looking for either of us, I move.
“Alexei,” I murmur, catching his sleeve.
He lets me pull him a few steps away, just beyond the edge of the nearest conversation. His eyes are on me immediately, sharp, searching. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I answer quickly.
The word feels thin the second it leaves my mouth, but I don’t take it back. Instead, I reach into my pocket, fingers brushing over smooth wood before I pull the box free. It sits in my palm, dark mahogany, edges clean and polished. Small. Unassuming.
Alexei’s gaze drops to it, his brow pulling together slightly as he takes it in.
“I know with everything going on… we didn’t exactly get to celebrate your birthday the way we planned,” I explain, keeping my voice light, even as something tight curls in my chest.
A smile tugs at his mouth, softening the lines of his face. “Birthdays haven’t really been a thing for me since I was a kid,” he remarks, a quiet huff of amusement following.
I shake my head, a faint smile slipping through. “They are to me,” I tell him. “Especially when it’s yours.”
Something shifts in his expression then, warmer, brighter. It reaches his eyes, and for a second, the weight we’ve been carrying all week loosens its grip.
“And… in case we?—”
“Don’t.” The word cuts in, firm but not harsh. He steps closer, gaze locking onto mine. “Everything will be fine. We’ll win.”
The certainty in his voice should steady me.
Instead, it makes my chest ache. “Then consider it an added good luck charm,” I smile, before I can think better of it, extending my hand toward him.
The box rests in the center of my palm.
He hesitates only a second before taking it, his fingers brushing mine, warm, grounding, before closing around the wood. He turns it over once, thumb tracing the emblem stamped on top. I see the question flicker across his face.
He knows what it cost me to get it.
My pulse stutters as he lifts the lid.
I hold my breath.
His hand stills as he looks inside, and I watch him…
every shift, every flicker, searching for something to tell me what he’s thinking before he says a word.
His other hand comes up slowly, almost carefully, like the moment might break if he moves too fast. One finger traces along the edge of the watch.
It rests in the box as if it always belonged there, as if it existed for him.
The blue face catches the light in a low, quiet gleam. Gold accents catch the light like quiet fire. A polished silver band, strong and unyielding. It’s elegant without being fragile. Powerful without excess.
He lifts it from the box, turning it in his hand.
The navy backing catches next, darker than the face, richer. The crest rises from it in sharp relief, a lion, carved with precision, all teeth and defiance. Beneath it, the shield, crown and cross etched clean, unbroken.
His thumb brushes over it, slower now.
Then he stills again.
I know the moment he sees the rest of it. The details no one else would notice.
His fingers shift to the clasp, turning it just enough. I watch his expression change, subtle, but there. Something quieter. Something deeper.
The hidden engraving catches the light for a brief second. The mark of a protector, nearly invisible unless you’re looking for it. Unless you live it. And beneath that, a circle. Unbroken, as is our love.
And finally, the words he will always carry. My heart belongs to you. Always.
My throat tightens. “Do you like it?” I ask, softer now.
He looks up. The question barely has time to exist before it’s gone, replaced by something in his eyes that makes my breath catch.
“Like it?” His voice almost gives out on the words. He lets out a small, disbelieving breath, shaking his head. “Elena… I love it.” His grip tightens slightly around the watch. “No one…” He stops, swallows. “No one’s ever given me anything like this. Anything this… thoughtful.”