17. Sasha
SASHA
T he call from the Pact arrives the following evening.
I haven’t slept more than an hour since surrendering myself to Alina for a second time.
My body eventually gave in to the exhaustion sometime this morning before dawn, but my mind still refuses to disengage.
Every time I close my eyes, I’m right back there with her in that small, forgotten office with her hands fisting in my shirt, looking at me right before she pulled me down to her as if she’d already made peace with the fall.
I see her mouth curve when she kisses me again, her breath hitching and her body trembling as she clings to me like I’m the only thing anchoring her to the world. The way she trusted me in that moment, knowing exactly who I am and choosing me anyway.
That is what keeps me awake.
I should regret it. I should be tearing myself apart for losing control again when I had promised myself—promised her—that I would keep my distance.
That I would be the wall to weather the tide, not the weakness.
That I would not allow temptation to talk me into one more taste of something I cannot afford to want.
But… I don’t.
I don’t regret any of it.
Perhaps that’s what makes all of this so sick and twisted.
I despise the part of me that let her get this close in the first place.
I despise how easily she bypasses defenses I’ve spent a lifetime building, how she exposes seams I didn’t even know were there and pulls at them.
I despise the weakness she draws out of me with nothing more than honesty and grief and those bright, furious eyes that look at me like they see every horrible disfigurement and still refuse to look away.
Most of all, I despise how deeply I want her.
Not just her body. That would be easier to dismiss, easier to rationalize. It’s everything else. Her fire. Her defiance. The way she refuses to bend even when the world tries to break her. The way she looks at me like I’m both the blade and the hand holding it.
Even now, knowing exactly how dangerous this is, a part of me still wants her, still aches and replays the sound of her breathing against my neck when she whispered my name like it had been a confession we would both be damned for.
By the time I arrive at the Malyshko estate for our meeting, I am already raw.
Whatever skin I normally wear in rooms like this has been stripped away between dawn and the drive over here, leaving everything beneath it too exposed, too aware.
My body moves on habit alone, posture precise, expression carefully neutral, but inside there is a constant grinding tension that refuses to settle.
The moment I step inside, the estate feels different.
The hallways are lined with guards at tighter intervals than usual, their boots perfectly aligned, hands resting just a little closer to their weapons.
They lower their heads as I pass, a gesture of respect so ingrained it happens without thought, but I catch the flickers of awareness in their eyes as I pass by.
Unease.
I move through the corridors at an unhurried pace, but my senses are sharp, cataloging every detail. The lack of conversation. The way even the staff keeps to the walls with their eyes down. The subtle hum beneath the silence that signals anticipation or dread.
When I reach the war room, the door is opened for me.
Nikolai Malyshko sits in his usual spot. That alone is not unusual. What is unusual is his expression.
The impassive calm he typically wears is gone. In its place sits a deep frown etched between his brows, his jaw set hard enough that I can see the tension in the muscles even from across the room. His fingers are laced together on the table in front of him, knuckles pale, posture rigid.
My stomach sinks.
That… is not a good sign.
Nikolai does not frown like that unless something has already gone horribly wrong.
Volkov is seated to his right, lounging back in his chair with feigned ease, though the lazy confidence he usually radiates feels strained today.
His gaze flicks to me for barely a second as I enter before returning forward, mouth pressed into a thin, thoughtful line. Aside from that, he’s eerily quiet.
Kuznetsov sits opposite him, shoulders squared and hands folded neatly on the table. His expression is guarded, eyes darting once between Nikolai and me before fixing ahead again.
No one speaks when I take my seat.
A file is placed on the table and slid toward me with deliberate slowness, stopping just short of my folded hands.
I don’t reach for it right away.
Instead, I lift my gaze and meet Nikolai’s eyes. He is watching me closely now, openly, with no pretense of disinterest. This is not a test. He wants to see what I do before I even read what he already knows I will find.
That alone tightens something in my chest.
I reach forward and flip the top page open. I expect the usual, surveillance summaries, informant reports, conjecture wrapped in cautious language. The kind of intelligence that leaves little room for deniability on what our next avenue will be.
That is not what greets me.
My fingers still as I see Viktor Morozov’s face staring back at me.
His name appears again and again, bolded, underlined, circled. Familiar account numbers leap out at me, ones I’ve seen before in other contexts and other negotiations. There is no ambiguity here, no room for interpretation for what I’ve been handed.
The more I move through the first page, then the second, then the third, the quicker the room around me begins to recede.
The clarity is brutal.
This isn’t suspicion or Nikolai circling a theory he has no proof to back up, waiting for me to confirm it. He knows what I’ve suspected since Alina was taken to me.
“According to our intel,” Nikolai murmurs, “the first bomb wasn’t to stir up trouble as we suspected. It was meant to take out his daughter.”
My fingers pinch the edge of the document hard enough that the paper creases beneath them. I welcome the small, biting pain. It anchors me, keeps my face smooth, my breathing even.
I lift my gaze slowly and meet Nikolai’s eyes, giving him nothing. No flare of anger, no flicker of horror or confirmation of what he is already probing for. I know exactly what he’s doing.
He’s watching me for a fracture. For the smallest tell that would betray the truth, that I suspected this and chose not to bring it to the table during our last meeting and I let my own personal judgment interfere with collective responsibility. That would be unforgivable.
It is one thing for all of us to be blind together. It is another entirely for one of us to see clearly and say nothing.
Especially about something like this.
The Pact does not tolerate personal agendas. It never has. That was the entire point of its creation nearly a century ago, four families agreeing to carve their ambitions down to size so Moscow wouldn’t cannibalize itself. Power shared, not hoarded. Decisions made collectively, not emotionally.
No sentiment. No favoritism. And absolutely no exceptions.
Yet here I am, sitting at this table with the knowledge that I broke the spirit of that agreement long before this meeting ever took place.
Nikolai speaks again. “Do you understand what this means?”
I do.
And I wish I did not.
It means Viktor Morozov crossed a line that cannot be uncrossed.
It means the Pact will not allow a man who tried to murder his own blood in such a spectacularly public show to remain alive.
Not when his recklessness threatens to drag all of us into the light.
It means there is no version of this that ends quietly.
And it means Alina is no longer just a complication.
She is evidence.
Before I can say anything, Volkov folds his hands together on the table, leaning forward with an expression that reeks of satisfaction.
“So, we’re eliminating them both, right?”
My chair scrapes violently across the floor as I surge to my feet, the sound sharp enough to make Kuznetsov flinch.
“No.”
The room goes still, three pairs of eyes snapping to me at once.
Volkov’s brows lift, incredulous. Then he lets out a short laugh. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am.”
“One corrupt politician and his daughter dying in a tragic accident aren’t going to destabilize the country.” He lifts his brow further. “There will be others eager to step into his place. If you’re worried about losing an in with the government, don’t be.”
“You will not touch her,” I snap.
Volkov tilts his head, studying me like I’ve just grown another head. “You’re keeping her like some kind of trophy, Sokolov. For what purpose? You intend to breed heirs with her?” His lip curls. “Find another woman. One less tainted. No woman is worth this kind of disruption.”
I don’t remember deciding to move. One moment, I’m standing at my seat. The next, I’m vaulting across the table, my fist already cocked back. My knuckles connect with his mouth in a wet, satisfying crack that echoes off the stone walls.
We go down hard.
His chair flips backward, clattering uselessly as we slam into the floor. Volkov grunts, more surprised than hurt, and I’m on him before he can recover, one hand fisted in his collar as I drive another punch into his jaw.
Someone shouts my name—Kuznetsov, maybe—but it barely registers.
Volkov struggles beneath me, snarling something unintelligible as he tries to bring his knee up into my side.
I block it, shifting my weight and slamming his head back against the floor before drawing it back up until we’re nearly nose-to-nose.
“Touch her,” I hiss, “and I will dismantle you piece by piece. Pact or no Pact.”
That finally gets Nikolai to rise.
Suddenly, the war room erupts into motion.
The heavy doors are thrown open as guards flood in, boots thundering, weapons half-drawn but not yet raised.