13. Alina
ALINA
H e’s still in a suit from wherever he’s come from.
The jacket hangs open, the tie loosened and pulled slightly askew like he yanked it down in irritation and never bothered to fix it. The first two buttons of his shirt are undone, exposing the pale column of his throat and the winding lines of his tattoos that ink his collarbone beneath.
His hair is a mess by his standards. Dark strands that are usually smoothed back with careful precision have been disturbed, pushed away from his forehead in uneven sweeps like he’s dragged a hand through it again and again.
But it’s his eyes that make my stomach drop.
Even through the windshield, even at this distance, I can feel them on me.
They aren’t blazing. They aren’t sharp with open fury or flashing with the kind of temper that explodes and burns out fast. That would almost be easier to face. No, this is something far worse. His gaze is dark and unreadable, the surface calm while something lethal smolders underneath.
Lev’s hands remain locked on the wheel, fingers white with tension, his jaw clenched so hard, I can see the muscle ticking beneath his skin.
I don’t wait for him to come around and let me out.
I can’t.
I shove the door open and step out into the cold before my courage has time to falter.
The air hits me immediately. The snow has melted into a fine, icy mist that clings to my lashes and bites at my cheeks, needling into my skin until I suck in a breath.
The cold drags me fully back into my body, grounding me whether I want it to or not.
My boots slip slightly on the slick stone as I straighten, the ground beneath me unsteady and treacherous, like everything else.
His gaze follows every step as I cross the gravel, the sound of it loud in my ears, each crunch a countdown I can’t stop. I climb the first stair, then the second, my fingers numb, my heart hammering so violently, it feels like it might crack my ribs from the inside.
I don’t look away. I refuse to.
He doesn’t say a word until I’m standing a few feet away from him, close enough to see the faint shadows under his eyes. Evidence of a night that didn’t grant him sleep, or perhaps a dozen nights stacked on top of one another.
“Where have you been?” he asks.
His voice is quiet.
It shouldn’t be frightening. Quiet voices never were when growing up in a house where shouting was reserved for closed doors and private meetings. But this quiet is different. This is restraint pulled taut. Calm means the storm is still inside him, contained and waiting.
“I needed answers,” I say. My voice sounds steadier than I feel. I don’t know where that strength comes from—shock, maybe… or exhaustion. Maybe even the simple fact that I have already lost too much to be afraid of losing his favor now.
His face doesn’t change. Not a single muscle gives me anything to work with on what he’s feeling. “From whom?”
“You already know, don’t you?”
A muscle jumps in his jaw.
Ah, there it is.
He does know. Of course he does. He always knows.
There was never any chance of slipping past him without his having some idea of what I was up to.
Maybe Lev underestimated him, or maybe I did.
Or maybe some foolish part of me wanted to believe I could still make one choice in this world, damn the consequences.
He takes a slow step closer. “You had to risk disobeying me… to hear the truth from a liar?”
My throat tightens painfully. Viktor’s face flashes behind my eyes—his fear, his excuses, the way he twisted the truth until it barely resembled reality. “He may be a liar, but he was honest about one thing.”
Sasha’s gaze sharpens, the air between us turning electric.
“I had to hear it from the man who ordered her killed.”
His face flickers for the briefest heartbeat before disappearing again, swallowed by that dark composure he wears like armor. For a moment, the coldness in his eyes shifts, softened and reshaped into something that makes my chest ache.
I don’t want to name it. Because if I do, I might start to understand him in a way that feels like betrayal to myself and to my mother.
“Inside,” he says. It isn’t a request.
Before I can step back and gather myself or decide whether to fight him on it or not, his hand closes around my wrist, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to leave no doubt.
Sasha’s men look away as he leads me through the massive front doors and into the echoing quiet of the foyer. It’s subtle but unmistakable, their eyes shifting to marble floors, to doorframes, to anything but us. No one meets my gaze or intervenes.
His hand doesn’t loosen around my wrist as we start up the staircase.
Each step echoes too loudly beneath our feet, the sound ricocheting up the curved walls like a countdown. When we reach my room, he releases my wrist just long enough to open the door. The sudden absence of his touch is jarring, my skin still buzzing where his fingers had been.
He steps aside and inclines his head slightly.
“Go on.”
I walk past him and into the room, shrugging out of my coat.
My fingers fumble with the buttons, clumsy and traitorous, refusing to cooperate.
I can feel his eyes on me even without turning around.
I toss the coat onto the nearest chair, the fabric sliding half off the armrest that I don’t bother fixing.
When I turn back toward him, he closes the door behind him with a soft click. The room feels smaller instantly, the walls pressing in as if they’ve shifted closer while I wasn’t looking. The familiar cream and gold decor suddenly feels overbearing, incapable of softening what’s about to happen.
For the first time since I returned, I pull in a slow breath and really look at him.
Up close, the cracks show.
He looks… tired.
Not physically. He’s still all coiled power and controlled menace, but worn in a deeper way. The kind of exhaustion that settles into the bones when choices pile up and none of them are forgiving.
“You’re not leaving this estate again under any circumstances,” he finally says.
There is no threat in them, no raised voice, no dramatics. Just a boundary laid down like a line carved into stone. The finality of it settles over me, pressing against my ribs until it’s hard to breathe.
I lift my chin despite the way my stomach twists. “So, that’s it? I’m locked away for good now?”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “You put yourself in danger.”
“I needed to know the truth,” I shoot back.
Something dark flickers in his eyes at that—not anger, exactly, but frustration sharpened by whatever it is he’s also refusing to acknowledge.
“You disobeyed me. You involved my men. You walked straight into the path of someone who would not hesitate to use you as leverage the second it becomes convenient.”
I let out a soft, humorless laugh. “So, you’re punishing me for not getting your permission first.”
His shoulders rise with a slow breath, then fall again, as if he’s forcing something heavy back down into his chest. When he speaks, his voice is lower, stripped of its earlier polish and rougher around the edges.
“This isn’t punishment, Alina.”
“It feels like it.”
He steps closer.
Not enough to crowd me or enough that I can accuse him of looming, but close enough that I can feel the heat of him. The weight of his attention locks onto me like a vise, squeezing the air from my lungs, smothering the fragile confidence I’d managed to build during the days he was gone.
“I am making sure you aren’t dragged into a situation that’s already spiraling,” he murmurs. “Things are moving faster than I anticipated.”
I search his face for a lie, for calculation, for some kind of manipulation, but I find none. The sincerity in his expression catches me off guard, leaving me momentarily unbalanced.
“I’m not a child,” I say quietly.
“No,” he agrees just as quietly. “You are not.”
There’s something in that admission that shifts the air between us. An unspoken acknowledgment that whatever this has become—monster and captive, protector and prisoner—it no longer fits neatly into the boxes either of us started with.
“This is not a game, Printsessa ,” he continues. “Do you think I enjoy having to lock you up? Your being here complicates everything. Your being alive complicates everything.”
“Sometimes, it feels like you resent that,” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he studies me—really studies me. His gaze drifts from my eyes to my mouth and back again, slow and deliberate, weighing a decision he already knows he shouldn’t make. His hand lifts slightly, hesitates halfway to my face.
For one suspended second, I think he’s going to pull back.
But he doesn’t.
His thumb brushes my cheek.
The touch is feather-light, barely there, but it burns all the same, a thin line of heat that trails across my skin and lingers even after his hand retreats. My breath stutters despite myself, but I don’t move. I can’t.
“Believe it or not, I am trying to protect you.”
“Why?” The word slips out before I can stop it. His touch still ghosts my skin and I hate that I don’t pull away. “Why did you care? You don’t… you’re not supposed to care.”
His throat works as he swallows.
“I know,” he says, barely above a whisper.
Something inside me snaps.
I don’t give myself time to think. If I do, I’ll lose my nerve. I grab the front of his shirt and pull him in before either of us can second-guess it, before the world can rush back in and remind me of all the reasons this is wrong.
Our mouths collide.
The first kiss isn’t gentle. It’s heat and desperation slamming together, a collision rather than an embrace. His mouth crashes against mine with a force that tastes like frustration and restraint finally breaking.
I should shove him away. I should remember the papers on the desk in his study of my mother’s smile frozen in time, the truth that burned everything I thought I knew to be true. I should remember who he is and what he’s capable of.
But I don’t.