Chapter 8 Ivy
IVY
When I wake up again, there’s no soft stroking of my hair. No warm weight curled against my back. The scent of clean cotton and clove that usually clings to Maksim is absent, replaced by the muted, sterile scent of dust and faint lemon cleaner.
Maksim isn’t here.
Instead, I see her.
At first, my breath catches, confusion spiking into alarm, because it takes a moment for my brain to place the shadowed figure by the window.
Katya.
She’s the last face I expect. I barely know her beyond the name and the reputation it drags behind it like a bloodstained veil.
Even back five years ago when Maksim had first brought me around his inner circle briefly, before everything fell apart, I’d only ever seen her in passing.
A pair of sharp eyes in the corner of a room, silent and watching everything around her.
Even then, she’d unsettled me.
Something about her is too still. Too measured. She carries herself like a predator used to disguising the scent of blood under silk and perfume. The kind of woman who doesn’t raise her voice because she doesn’t need to. She’s one who smiles after she’s already gutted you.
Maybe that’s why I instinctively squirm beneath her gaze, even now.
She’s seated in the armchair near the window, legs crossed neatly at the knee like she’s posing for a portrait.
Her nails are polished a matte burgundy, fingers busily tearing tiny pieces off a granola bar wrapper like she’s unraveling something much more delicate.
Not a hair is out of place. Her black top clings to her figure, elegant and unassuming.
Combat boots rest on the carpet beneath her, heels scuffed but laced tightly.
She hasn’t dressed for comfort. She’s dressed to fight.
She doesn’t look up when I shift under the covers, but she hears me.
“You should eat,” she says without inflection.
Her hand gestures toward the tray beside the bed without ever pausing in its slow dismantling of the wrapper. There’s a plastic takeout container balanced on top, rice, steamed vegetables, and some kind of grilled meat, maybe chicken.
It smells fine, warm, even, but the sight of it makes my stomach pitch.
Maybe it’s the nerves or whatever drugs are still fading from my system. Or maybe it’s just the unbearable thought that Leo is still out there in some stranger’s arms, calling for me, wondering why I haven’t come.
Wondering if I’m coming back at all.
I swallow the nausea and force myself upright, ignoring the way every muscle screams in protest. My body feels like it’s been dragged behind a moving car, aching in places I didn’t know could ache. I blink against the dizzying spin of the room and look down to see that Maksim’s dressed me again.
“Where’s Maksim?” I ask.
She finally lifts her gaze. Cold and assessing, her pale eyes flick to mine.
“Out,” she says simply. “Recon.”
My brows pull together. “Alone?”
“No.” Her fingers still. “He took my brother.”
“You stayed behind?” I can’t help the edge in my voice.
She raises an eyebrow. “To babysit you. Maksim was… concerned you would wake up disoriented. So he volunteered me to babysit.”
“Oh.” My fingers twist around the sheets that have pooled into my lap.
She leans back slightly in the chair, folding her arms over her chest. “Matvey also needed help processing some of the data coming in from when you were dropped. I know the system better than anyone except him. We’re coordinating surveillance pulls and traffic cam loops to try to narrow down possible locations of where the van, and you, came from. ”
I nod slowly, still fighting the fog clouding my thoughts. “In order to find my son?”
“Among other things,” she corrects with a clipped tone. “He’s not the only thing that needs to be tracked down. Not everything is about you.”
I frown. A strange silence blooms between us, and while it’s not entirely hostile, it’s not exactly comfortable either.
I’m not naive enough to delude myself into thinking Maksim’s inner circle have suddenly started liking me.
If anything, I’ve become even more of a liability than I was five years ago.
Giving birth to the Pakhan’s heir is an entire other mess none of them were prepared to deal with when they first came to the States. All of which has been aggravated by Mikhail’s meddling.
I shift my legs off the bed, letting my bare feet touch the cool floor. “I can help. I’m not useless.”
Katya tilts her head. “No one said you were.”
I lift my chin, challenging her. “I know you think I’m weak. That I’m just… Maksim’s pet or whatever. But I did hear things while I was being held captive.”
Her lips part slightly. Not into a smile, exactly, more like intrigue. “Is that so?”
Suddenly, I’m too aware of the earrings threading through my earlobes. My fingers itch to reach up and check to see if they’re still there, even though I know for certain that they are. They aren’t the simple kind that can be popped on and off. Mikhail made sure of that.
It’ll take effort to remove them. None of which I can pretend is a complete accident.
Playing my part, acting like a scared and helpless woman isn’t hard when my child’s life hangs in the balance.
However, taking on a cunning facade is one of the most difficult masks I’ve ever had to put on.
I’m not built for deception. Not in a way that can help me easily worm my way into the good graces of Maksim’s inner circle.
It’s going to be hard enough to convince him to give over the Bratva without the other four of them chattering in his ear.
If I can get them to see that there is no other option, no other future for the Bratva that doesn’t end in all of us dying by the hands of Mikhail Sidorov, then we all just may have a chance at coming out of this alive.
“I think,” she says carefully, pulling me out of my thoughts, “you’ve been through a lot these past few weeks.
You’re running on fumes. You’ll be of no use to us if you collapse in the middle of an operation.
Recovery comes first. We’ve already got a few leads we’re checking in on.
If we hit a roadblock, then we’ll circle back to what you overheard. ”
I blink at her, surprised by the gentleness of her tone even if it’s barely there. Katya doesn’t do softness. She doesn’t do comfort, but something about the way she says ‘recovery comes first’ makes my chest tighten.
I stare at her. “That sounded dangerously close to compassion.”
Her mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but enough to register as something almost human. “Don’t get used to it.”
Despite myself, I let out a quiet laugh.
It's short-lived, breaking against the ache rising in my throat like a tide I can't outrun. Then it hits me all over again like a punch to the ribs. My laugh dies mid-breath. The warmth drains from my face, my stomach hollowing out.
“Is there news?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.
It’s a hopeless ask but I can’t help it.
I have to ask, if only to give myself a thread to cling to.
On the off chance that Maksim, by some miracle or divine intervention, is already holding our son in his arms, then maybe…
maybe I won’t have to follow through with the impossible deal I made.
Maybe I can still back out and run and take Leo and disappear from everything.
Katya’s expression doesn’t change, but the silence that follows says enough. “No. Not yet.”
I close my eyes and nod, the tightness in my throat returning tenfold.
“Men like him always overreach. Sooner or later, they destroy their own leverage trying to tighten their grip on it.”
She’s standing now, brushing invisible lint off her sleeve, as calm and composed as ever. A woman carved out of ice and something far older than cruelty, clarity. The kind you gain from watching men like Mikhail burn down kingdoms from the inside out.
She nods toward the tray of food by my bedside. “Eat. You’ll need your strength. This isn’t over yet.”
Just like that, she starts to head toward the door, but I stop her before she reaches it.
“Katya. Wait,” I say, voice catching just slightly.
She pauses, hand hovering near the doorknob, turning just enough to glance over her shoulder at me. One brow lifts, elegant and precise. “For what?”
I wet my lips, nerves tangling with something deeper. More vulnerable. “Can I borrow a phone to call my sister?”
Her expression flickers, just the barest shift. Not out of suspicion but from interest. She turns to face me fully again. “Your sister?”
I swallow. “Yes. I need to call her just to let her know I’m alive. Since it’s been weeks…”
For a moment, she says nothing. The silence stretches in a strangely contemplative manner. It’s heavy, compressing me from all sides the longer I’m forced to sit in it.
There’s nothing predatory in her stare, nothing overtly cruel or calculated, but it still makes me want to shift beneath the blankets and hide. She’s reading something I can’t hide no matter how desperately I try to—my fear of being found out, my grief and guilt over this godforsaken plan.
She sees it all.
“I’ll see what I can do,” she finally says, her voice as unreadable as her face.
Then she turns and exits the room with the same silent grace she always carries. When the door clicks shut behind her, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. Not exactly the plan I had in mind to get my hands on a phone. But then again, I’m not exactly lying.
I do want to call my sister, if only to tell her what the hell happened to Leo and me. There’s no doubt in my mind that she and my parents have been worried sick. Or worse, grieving. For all they know, I’m dead or something close to it.
And Leo… Oh, God… I can’t even imagine the hurt and worry they’re feeling losing their only grandchild.