Chapter 4
IVY
It takes less than twelve hours for the guards to pull me from my room again.
I’m half-asleep when it happens. The metallic clunk of the door unlocking jars me from the shallow, restless doze I managed to drift off into only a few hours ago.
I jolt upright just as the overhead lights blaze to life.
My eyes protest immediately, squeezing shut against the onslaught of artificial brightness that floods the small room.
A hand covers my face. Not violently, just enough to shield me from the glare as my vision reels. That alone is strange.
Stranger still is the way they handle me when they uncuff me from the bed. There’s no yanking like usual, no muttered threats or unnecessary force. Just a firm grip beneath my elbow and a soft command in Russian I don’t understand, followed by the gentle tug that brings me to my feet.
I stand, groggy and disoriented.
Their silence is more worrying than any punishment they’ve ever thrown at me. Maybe the words I spoke to Mikhail yesterday made their way down the chain of command, showed them something they didn’t expect, that they hadn’t thought a woman like me was capable of.
It’s forced them to see me differently now.
We walk down the corridor without a word.
The lights buzz in a tired, indifferent rhythm above us.
We bypass the showers and take a sharp left down a hallway I’ve never been down before.
The further we go, the more the air changes.
It shifts from smelling clinical and like disinfectant to something a little more… normal.
They stop in front of a door that looks so ordinary it could belong to a storage closet, one of dozens in this endless maze.
The paint is a dull gray, chipped at the bottom corners, the number plate above it faded to near illegibility.
I almost don’t register the pause until the guard beside me reaches into his pocket and pulls out a ring of keys.
He flips through them slowly, each one clinking against the next like bones rattling together. I watch as he selects a thin, brass-colored key and slots it into the lock with an almost ceremonial slowness.
The door swings inward silently.
Soft sunlight streams in through a small window on the opposite side of the room, cutting through the stale dimness of the hallway. It spills across the tiled floor at my feet in long, honeyed ribbons, lighting the air with motes of dust that float and spin dreamlike.
It takes a second for my eyes to adjust but when they do, everything else around me disappears.
Leo sits on a carpeted floor, his knees tucked neatly beneath him, his little body folded in that familiar way kids settle when they’re completely absorbed in their own world. In front of him is a short wooden table, just the right height for him, and spread across it is a train set.
He’s leaning forward, pushing the engine with a small hand, watching with narrowed focus as it chugs along the wooden path. His lips are moving, whispering something to himself, maybe sound effects or a quiet story only he knows.
A woman sits next to him, cross-legged, a few feet to his left. She watches him with a quiet smile. One hand is resting on the curve of her belly, rounded with pregnancy. Her other hand hovers close to Leo, protective without being overbearing.
She doesn’t look like a guard or a nurse. There’s no fear in her expression, just serenity.
The air in my lungs freezes, clenched tight and sharp behind my ribs. I don’t move. I don’t even breathe.
My child is here.
Alive.
Real.
Leo’s sitting in a shaft of golden light, and for a moment it feels like I’m looking at something sacred.
His hair is the same as it’s always been—soft and unruly with that stubborn little cowlick at his crown that never quite lays flat no matter how I tried to smooth it when he was younger.
It makes his hair puff slightly at the top like he’s just woken from a nap.
Familiar. Endearing. I used to press my lips to that spot when I carried him to bed when he was still a toddler.
His cheeks are flushed a healthy, rosy pink.
His eyes are clear, wide with curiosity.
His clothes are clean, not a wrinkle in sight and buttoned correctly.
His shirt is tucked where it should be, the sleeves rolled just once at the cuffs from the touch of someone who knows children’s comfort and has taken the time to make sure he can play without constraint.
And most important of all, no bruises. No marks. No scabs half-healed from violence. No swelling under his eyes, no limped posture, no hunch to his shoulders that might hint at the weight of fear being pressed into his tiny bones.
Mikhail’s been true to his word. He’s been kept safe.
A tremor runs through my limbs as my body starts to catch up with the moment. Emotion coils in my throat so tight I can barely swallow it down. Tears blur my vision, heat spilling into my chest and rushing up the back of my neck.
He looks up then, as if sensing me, his little fingers still curled around the wooden train car mid-motion. His hand hangs frozen in the air, his gaze locks on mine, and for a heartbeat, time stops.
His mouth opens just slightly. He blinks once, twice. “Mama?”
The word is soft, unsure, disbelieving. It punches the air from my lungs.
I stumble forward a step, a sob tearing loose from my throat.
“Yes,” I breathe. “Yes, baby, it’s me.”
Leo pushes the train aside and scrambles to his feet, his movements frantic and ungraceful. A laugh bubbles up from my chest as he barrels toward me. I drop to my knees just in time to catch him.
He crashes into me with his full weight, his arms flinging around my neck, his small body colliding with mine in a burst of warmth and life.
My arms close around him instantly, instinctively, greedily.
I crush him against me, my face buried in his shoulder.
My hands roam his back as if to memorize every inch of his tiny body I thought I’d never touch again.
He squeezes me. “I missed you so much, Mama!”
“I’m here, I’m here. It’s okay, I’m here,” I whisper. The words tremble out of my mouth until they become something like an oath. Tears come hot. They soak into his hair and warm my cheeks.
He smells like soap and the faintest hint of whatever detergent they’ve used on his clothes.
I cry then. Hard. It’s the kind of cry that comes from the deepest part of your soul. The kind that breaks you wide open because the relief is too much to bear. I sob until my whole body shakes and I rock him against me. He clings just as tightly, his fists buried in the fabric at my back.
“I missed you,” he whispers.
“I missed you more,” I say, my voice shattering.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his small hands coming up to touch my cheeks. He frowns. “You’re crying.”
“I’m happy,” I manage. “These are happy tears, I promise.”
He studies me with wide eyes, the way kids do when they’re trying to understand something grown-up and complicated. Then he leans in and presses a kiss to my cheek.
The pregnant woman remains quiet, watching us with a complicated expression that flickers between sympathy and sorrow.
She rises to her feet after a few moments, one hand braced against her side as she moves slowly toward the door where the guards are still standing.
When she disappears beyond the threshold, I turn back to cradling Leo in my arms.
He doesn’t let go either.
I stroke his hair, press kisses to the top of his head, whisper I love yous into the soft curve of his ear until I feel him begin to relax. The moment feels suspended in time, like if I stay perfectly still, I might just get to keep it and pretend that none of this horror exists outside this room.
But the illusion doesn’t last.
A throat clears from the doorway, yanking me out of my perfect little bubble of paradise. My spine stiffens before I even turn.
When I do, my blood runs cold.
Mikhail.
He stands in the doorway like he owns the world. Maybe, in his mind, he does.
The last time I saw him was in the haze of confusion after the wreck.
He’d appeared like a ghoul out of hell, gliding into that cold, sterile room with a smile that chilled me to my bones.
He’d gloated then, reveling in his plan to rip me from Maksim’s life and use my son as leverage in a war I never wanted to be a part of.
The tailored suit he wears is navy today, pressed and pristine.
His cufflinks flash under the light as he steps fully into the room.
There’s no trace of the filth he buries himself in to gain power.
He’s cleaned himself up for this appearance, made himself look civil, even elegant. But it’s a farce. A disguise.
Beneath that polished surface is a monster.
His smile is a blade, sharp and cold and meant to cut when it’s flashed at me. “What a touching reunion.”
The mockery in his voice is unmistakable. It drips from each word, acid-slick and cruel. He surveys the room like a king taking stock of his subjects, his expression carefully neutral except for that too-smooth curve of his mouth.
My arms tighten instinctively around Leo. He senses the shift in me, little hands clinging tighter to my shirt. His body goes rigid with the kind of tension children should never have to know. I tuck him in closer, placing my body between him and the man in the doorway without thinking.
The protective instinct is bone-deep.
Primal.
Mikhail watches the gesture with mild amusement, tilting his head to the side like he’s observing something quaint. “As you can see, I’ve thought about your proposition.”
I say nothing. I won’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
Mikhail continues casually, taking another step toward us. “I didn’t come here to fight with you. I came to see whether or not our little conversation was a fluke. I wanted to see you with him. See what you’re really willing to sacrifice.”
“Well?” I say tightly though clenched teeth. “Is this enough proof for you?”
He chuckles. “It is indeed. I’d like to take you up on your offer. Make an official deal with you.”
For a split second, I forget how to breathe.
He’s actually doing it.
He’s agreeing. He’s going to let us out of here.
Relief crashes over me so hard my vision swims, the tears threatening to rise behind my eyes once again.
“Though,” he adds, “there are some details we need to discuss first.”
The blood drains from my face.
The fragile hope I’d been hoarding like treasure tightens into something sharp and brittle, like glass on the verge of shattering.
Of course.
There’s always a catch.
I glance instinctively toward the door when a flicker of movement draws my eye. The woman from earlier is standing there. Her expression is carefully composed, practiced neutrality painted over whatever storm might be simmering underneath. She doesn’t meet my gaze as she steps into the room.
She doesn’t have to. I already know what she’s come back for. I can feel the invisible noose tightening around my throat.
She crosses the room in a few slow steps, her hands open as if she’s done this a hundred times before. It stabs me straight through the chest. Maybe she has. Maybe she’s been playing the comforter, the caretaker, the one who makes my child feel safe while his mother is being kept from him.
She stops just in front of us and extends her hand to Leo.
“No,” I whisper.
Leo looks up at her, blinking. He doesn’t even hesitate when he lifts up his small hand and finds hers automatically, muscle memory kicking in.
“Wait,” I beg, my voice raw.
But she’s already lifting him from my lap, not waiting for me to say my final goodbyes before she turns back to the door to take him from me once again. When I go to stand, Mikhail is already there, stepping to put himself between me and my boy, blocking me from going anywhere near him again.
Behind him, Leo’s head turns over her shoulder, small brows pulling together in confusion as he squints past Mikhail to find me. “Mama?”
She tugs him along. For the first time since meeting her, I hear her voice. It’s soft and melodic, warm in a way that clashes violently with the iciness of this place. Like wind chimes in the turbulent storm—beautiful and out of place. “Come on, sweet boy.”
Leo hesitates for a beat, his eyes still locked on mine. And then he turns back toward her, legs moving, hand clinging to the fabric of her sleeve as he’s led away.
A sob clogs my throat, but I don’t let it out. I refuse to in front of this man who watches every emotion ripple across my face like he’s cataloging it for later use.
I press my lips together until they sting and force my gaze up to meet Mikhail’s. He’s already looking at me, face unreadable except for the faint twitch of amusement in the corner of his mouth.
“Did you really think I’d let him go with you?” he asks casually.
“I thought you were a man of your word.”
He tilts his head. “Oh, I am. What else am I supposed to leverage against you for your cooperation? Come now, Ivy. Surely, you know that.”
I stare at him, my jaw clenched so tight my teeth ache.
For a flicker of a second, I let myself imagine him broken on his knees, humiliated and stripped of the power he’s clung.
I picture the slick confidence draining from his face, his voice raw with panic instead of the polished condescension when his own cruelty is turned on him.
I see the same guards who once flanked me now holding him down while I drive a knife between his ribs.
But just as quickly as it rises, the fantasy is torn apart by another, far crueler one.
Leo alone and scared, curled up in some windowless room with fluorescent lights that never turn off.
Whimpering for his mother. Clutching that stupid wooden train in his fist like it’s his only anchor in a world he doesn’t understand.
My throat tightens until it’s nearly impossible to speak, but I force the words out anyway. “If I get Maksim to do what you ask, you’ll give my son back to me. Alive and untouched.”
Mikhail watches me closely, his expression unreadable as a long silence stretches between us. Then, at long last, his smile stretches across his face. He nods. “Alive and untouched. As we agreed.”
I breathe in slowly, my shoulders rolling back as I face him head-on. “Tell me what I need to do and I’ll do it.”
He practically grins. “Excellent.”