Chapter 26 Aleksandr
ALEKSANDR
Dawn light filters through the curtains, painting Maya's face in shades of gold and shadow. I've been awake for an hour, watching her sleep, memorizing the curve of her cheek, the way her lashes rest against her skin, the small furrow between her brows that suggests even her dreams aren't peaceful.
She's beautiful. More than that, she's mine in a way I don't fully understand but feel in my bones.
The thought should comfort me. Instead, it sits heavily in my chest like a stone.
I slip out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake her. She needs the rest. The dark circles under her eyes yesterday told me she didn't sleep well the night before, and I have a feeling Danil's presence is part of the reason.
The cabin is cold, the fire burned down to embers. I pull on jeans and a thermal shirt, moving quietly through the dim space. Danil is already in the kitchen, standing at the counter with a mug of coffee, staring out the window at the snow-covered landscape.
He doesn't turn when I enter, but his shoulders shift slightly, acknowledging my presence without words.
"Coffee's fresh," he says.
I pour myself a mug and lean against the counter beside him. We stand in silence for a moment, two men who apparently know each other well enough that words aren't always necessary.
"You remember anything new?" he finally asks.
A flash hits without warning. My hand signing documents, expensive pen moving across paper with practiced efficiency. The weight of decisions that affect hundreds of lives. The certainty that my word is law.
"Paperwork," I say. "Contracts, maybe. Legal documents."
Another memory surfaces. Standing in a warehouse, the smell of motor oil and concrete. A man kneeling before me, begging. My hand resting on the gun at my hip, the weight familiar and comforting. The taste of power on my tongue is sweet and addictive.
"I remember giving orders," I say quietly. "Important ones. Life and death decisions."
Danil's jaw tightens. "You made a lot of those."
"Did I make them well?"
"You're still alive. That's the best measure of success in our world." He turns to look at me, his dark eyes serious. "Or you were alive until someone decided you shouldn't be."
The kitchen suddenly feels smaller, the walls pressing in. "Tell me about the power vacuum."
He's quiet for a moment, choosing his words carefully. "You've been gone for weeks. People are getting nervous. Territory disputes that you would have settled immediately are escalating. Alliances you built are starting to fracture. Your absence creates opportunity for those who want to move up."
"Or take over entirely."
"That too." He refills his mug, the coffee steaming in the cold air. "There are three men who could make a play for your position. Two of them are smart enough to wait and see if you resurface. The third is ambitious and stupid, which makes him dangerous."
I process this, my mind working through implications I don't fully understand but instinctively recognize. "And you? Where do you stand in all this?"
"With you. Always with you." His voice is firm, certain. "I've been holding things together as best I can, but I'm your Sovietnik, not your replacement. People respect me, but they don't fear me the way they fear you. There's a difference."
Another memory flashes. A boardroom, men in expensive suits watching me with a mixture of respect and terror.
My voice, calm and quiet, explaining why someone's proposal won't work.
The way everyone leans forward to hear me, hanging on every word.
The power in that silence, in making them come to me instead of raising my voice to reach them.
"I was good at this," I say. "At being Pakhan."
"You were the best." Danil sets down his mug. "Ruthless when necessary, strategic always, and just enough mercy to keep people loyal instead of just afraid."
The bedroom door opens, and Maya emerges. She's wearing sleep pants and a thermal shirt, the fabric hanging loose on her smaller frame. Her blonde hair is mussed from sleep, and her eyes are still heavy-lidded.
She's gorgeous. Even anxious and exhausted, she makes my chest tight just looking at her.
Her gaze moves between Danil and me, and I see the wariness there, the fear she's trying to hide.
"Morning," she says, her voice rough. "Am I interrupting?"
"No." I cross to her, unable to resist the pull. My hand finds the small of her back, and she leans into the touch despite the tension in her shoulders. "Coffee?"
"Please."
I pour her a mug while she settles at the kitchen table. Danil joins her, and I notice the way his eyes track her movements. Not sexual, but analytical.
"Sleep well?" he asks her.
"Fine." The lie is obvious.
"The storm should break today," I say, trying to ease the tension. "Roads might be passable by tomorrow."
Maya's fingers tighten on her mug. "That's good."
But she doesn't sound like it's good. She sounds like the idea of the roads clearing terrifies her.
Danil leans back in his chair, and I notice the way Maya's eyes flick to his chest, to the breadth of his shoulders. Not attraction, I don't think, but awareness of his size, his potential for violence.
Smart girl.
Another memory hits, stronger this time.
A woman across a desk from me, beautiful and terrified, begging for her husband's life.
My hands folded on the polished wood, my voice calm as I explain why mercy isn't possible.
The way her face crumples when she realizes I won't be moved.
The cold satisfaction of maintaining control, of proving that emotion doesn't sway me.
I blink, and I'm back in the kitchen. Maya is watching me with concern, and Danil's expression has shifted to something knowing.
"You remembered something," Danil says. Not a question.
"A woman. Begging me for something I wouldn't give her." The memory leaves a bitter taste. "I felt nothing. Just cold calculation."
Maya's face goes pale. She stands abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. "I need to get some air."
The door closes behind her, and silence settles over the kitchen like snow.
"The man you were doesn't do domestic bliss," Danil says on a long sigh. "He doesn't fall in love. He doesn't let anyone get close enough to matter. And the man you're becoming can't survive in our world. He's too soft. Too vulnerable."
The words hit like physical blows because they're true. I can feel it, the split inside me. The cold, calculating Pakhan who made decisions without hesitation and this newer version who watches Maya sleep and feels his chest ache at the thought of losing her.
"What if I don't want to go back?" The question surprises me as much as it seems to surprise him.
Danil turns from the window, his expression serious. "Then you'd better be prepared for war. Because the people looking for you won't stop. And the enemies you made won't forget. You can't just walk away from being Pakhan. That's not how this works."
"Maybe it should be."
"Maybe." He moves back to the table, his large frame making the chair creak. "But it's not. And pretending otherwise will get you killed. Will get her killed."
The threat, implicit but clear, makes my hands curl into fists. "Are you threatening her?"
"I'm stating facts." His dark eyes are steady. "You have enemies, Aleksandr. Real ones. And if they find out about her, if they figure out she matters to you, they'll use her to get to you. That's how this game is played."
I know he's right. The knowledge sits in my gut like poison. I pause. Aleksandr? I think that's the first time he's called me that. So Aleksandr is my true name? Not Alek. Not Sasha. Danil hasn't given me my full name because, apparently, it's very powerful and he wants me to remember it on my own.
Maya returns twenty minutes later, her cheeks flushed from cold, snow clinging to her hair. She stamps her boots on the porch. She's barely through the door when the knock comes.
Three sharp raps. Deliberate. Authoritative.
Danil's hand moves to his waistband, pulling a gun I didn't know he was carrying. The movement is smooth, practiced, the weapon appearing like magic.
My own hand goes to my hip automatically, reaching for a gun that isn't there. The muscle memory is so strong I can almost feel the weight of it, the cold metal against my palm.
We lock eyes across the room, then look back at the door.