17. Via
VIA
Ekaterina wants to draw, but since Ilya put the entire estate on a strict, suffocating lockdown, we can't even get a fresh pack of paper from the supply closet down the hall without three armed guards escorting us like prisoners.
Every time I look out a window, I see another patrol car, another black-suited enforcer checking the tree line. It is driving me absolutely insane.
I finally tell Ekaterina I’ll find some sketch pads in the main office. The door is unlocked, which is my first mistake, and the bottom drawer of the heavy mahogany desk is slightly open, which is my second.
I’m not even trying to snoop. I’m just looking for a simple pad of paper, maybe some charcoal pencils that aren't snapped in half. But as I crouch by the deep bottom drawer, my hand catches on a rough, unfinished wooden box tucked beneath a heavy stack of old cargo manifests.
When I slide the pine lid back, the smell hits me first. It isn't rot, but it’s that cloying, sweet scent of lilies that instantly makes my stomach drop into a cold, empty pit.
Inside, resting on a small pile of dark, damp dirt, is a single white flower. The petals are bruised, crushed, and smeared with a thick, dried layer of dark, rusty red.
I stare at it, my heart hitting my ribs in a slow, heavy rhythm that echoes in my ears.
I know it. I’m not losing my mind. The panic attack, the sudden dizziness in the ballroom, the face in the crowd, it wasn't some post-traumatic hallucination.
Mikhail is alive. He survived the cathedral.
And Ilya has known the entire time. He brought this box home, hid it in his desk, and let me sit in our bedroom yesterday questioning my own sanity.
The heavy double doors of the office swing open, the sudden draft rustling the loose sheets of paper on the desk.
Ilya stands in the doorway. His coat is unbuttoned, his dark hair a bit messy from the cold wind outside, and his jaw is set in that flat, unyielding line I’ve come to hate.
His eyes go straight to my hands, then drop to the wooden box.
He doesn't look angry, he looks completely blank, like a steel shutter has slammed down behind his eyes.
I stand up, letting the wooden lid clatter loudly onto the polished desk. "Were you going to keep this as a souvenir, or were you just waiting for the right time to tell me I wasn't actually losing my mind?"
He closes the door behind him, the latch clicking shut with a heavy, final sound. His boots thud softly on the rug as he walks toward me, his hands sliding into his pockets. "You shouldn't have been looking through my drawers, Via."
"The lock is practically falling off, Ilya.
Don't try to make this about my lack of manners.
" I lean my hands flat on the desk, my shoulders tensing as he stops a few feet away.
"He’s alive. I saw him on that balcony, and you let me believe I was having some kind of breakdown.
You let me sit in that room yesterday wondering if I was finally breaking under the pressure. "
"I wanted to be sure before I dragged you into it." He doesn't move closer, his eyes remaining fixed on the crushed flower in my hands. "You were already terrified after the museum. Telling you a dead man is hunting you doesn't make you any safer. It just adds to the panic."
"I am your wife, not your pet, Ilya!" My voice cracks, the frustration finally boiling over, echoing off the high stone walls of the office.
"You don't get to decide what I’m allowed to know. You don't get to shield me from a war that is literally happening because of me. If someone is sending blood-stained flowers to this house, I have a right to know about it. I’m a Denisov. I’ve lived in this world my entire life.
I don't need you to tuck me into bed and tell me everything is going to be fine while you’re out cleaning blood off your boots. "
"The guards are doubled for a reason." He keeps his voice quiet and completely steady, his gaze holding mine. "The estate is secure. You don't need to worry about the logistics of the defense."
"Your logistics are stupid." I cross my arms, leaning back against the edge of his desk. "You’re doubling the perimeter guards, you’re checking the fences, but you’re completely missing the actual threat.
Do you think Viktor Russo is just going to march through your front gates with a flag? Do you think Mikhail is that simple?"
He tilts his head, his eyes tracking the frantic rise and fall of my chest. "What are you talking about?"
"At the gala, before everything goes to hell, I talked to Svetlana Vostok.
" I take a deep breath, trying to steady my voice, trying to make him understand that I’m not just some fragile piece of glass he has to keep in a box.
"She wasn't just making small talk, Ilya.
She was asking very specific questions about the western docks.
She knew about your shipping delays before the manifest was even registered.
The Russos aren't trying to break into this house from the woods. They’re using the Vostok cargo lanes to move their people into the southern channel.
If they take the western docks, they have you cut off from the river.
You won't even be able to get a supply truck out of the city. "
Ilya stares at me. "She told you that?" He steps closer, his hand sliding out of his pocket.
"She didn't mean to." My chin lifts as I hold his gaze, refusing to back down. "But she’s arrogant. She wanted to make me feel small, so she bragged about how much her husband’s business was expanding.
If you want to stop this war, you need to stop looking at the woods and start looking at the river. "
He lets out a short, rough breath, a tiny, begrudging smile scratching at the corner of his mouth. "You’re a lot smarter than your father, Via."
"My father is an old man who thinks with his pride.
" My voice softens just a bit, the anger beginning to drain out of me, replaced by a quiet, heavy focus.
"I think with my head. We have the marriage license. Use it. If the other families know I’m officially a Kovalevskii, they won't back the Russos.
They don't want a full-scale war with the North.
Stop keeping me as a secret and start using my name to lock down the docks. "
He walks past the desk, his hand brushing against my sleeve as he reaches for the latch on the French doors.
He pushes them open, letting the cold, damp morning air rush into the stuffy office.
The wind instantly whips my hair across my face, carrying the scents of pine and wet stone from the courtyard below.
He steps out onto the stone balcony, and after a second, I follow him.
The city below us is covered in a thick, grey mist, the tall buildings looking like dark, jagged shapes in the distance.
The river is a dull silver ribbon, quiet and completely still under the morning fog.
It feels raw out here, cold enough to make me shiver, but the pressure in my chest finally feels like it is starting to ease.
"If we lose the western docks, the treaty is done." His hand rests heavily on the stone railing.
"Then we don't lose them." I stand right next to him, the cold wind whipping my hair across my face. "We handle it."
He turns his head, his dark eyes scanning my face, tracing the small bite mark he left on my neck last night. "We?"
"We." I look back out at the grey skyline, my chest rising with a sudden, strange sense of resolve.
It is a strange, messy alliance, built on a forced contract and a lot of shared blood. But standing out here in the cold, looking at the city that wants both of us dead, I realize I am done running. If we are going to have to fight for this house, we might as well do it together.
The next morning, the bedroom is incredibly quiet, the gold sunlight breaking through the heavy curtains and tracing long, warm lines across the carpet.
I blink my eyes open, my body still heavy and warm under the thick white duvet. I roll over, expecting the bed to be empty, but I stop, my breath catching in my throat.
Ilya is sitting in the leather armchair at the foot of the bed.
He is wearing a simple black button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his hair still damp from the shower.
He isn't on his phone. He isn't looking at his tablet.
He is just sitting there, his arms resting on the armrests, watching me sleep.
The air in the room feels different. It isn't the cold, suspicious tension of a captor checking on his prisoner. It is something heavy, thick, and almost physical—a raw, quiet hunger that makes my skin tingle.
I pull the sheet up to my collarbone, my voice dry from sleep. "If you're planning on staring at me until I catch fire, you should know I have a very low tolerance for morning creepiness."
He doesn't move immediately. He just keeps his eyes on mine, a slow, quiet exhale escaping his lips. "You sleep like a stone, Via. I was starting to think I needed to check for a pulse."
"I sleep because you dragged me through a museum shootout and made me run in six-inch heels." I shift to sit up, the sheet sliding down to my chest. "My legs are still sore."
He stands up, his massive frame instantly blocking out the golden light from the window. He walks to the side of the bed, his boots silent on the carpet. He reaches out, his large, rough hand rising toward my face.
I don't flinch.
I don't try to scramble away, and I don't reach for the heavy lamp on the nightstand.
I just stay there, watching him as his warm, callused thumb gently brushes a stray strand of golden hair away from my eye, tucking it behind my ear.
His fingers linger on my jaw, his thumb tracing the soft skin over my pulse point.
My heart starts to hammer against my ribs, but it isn't fear.
I’m not afraid of him.
The thought goes through my head like a cold splash of water.
I’m not afraid of his guns, his basement, or his angry, quiet threats.
I’m afraid of the way my body literally leans into his hand, seeking the heat of his skin like it is the only thing keeping me warm. I’m afraid of what he makes me feel.
"Get dressed." His thumb drags slowly across my bottom lip before he pulls his hand away. "Ekaterina is waiting in the garden."
"Is the warden actually letting me outside today?" I try to keep my voice light, attempting to ignore the sudden, hot rush of blood to my face.
"Only if I’m the one watching." A faint, dry amusement colors his voice as he turns toward the door.
An hour later, the sun is surprisingly warm, a rare, crisp spring day that makes the old brick walls of the garden look almost bright. Ekaterina is kneeling by a bed of yellow primroses, her hands covered in dark, damp soil, her face lit up with a genuine, happy smile.
"Via! Look at these." She holds up a small, blooming pot, gesturing for me to come closer. "Yara says they won't survive the freeze, but they’re actually growing."
I drop to my knees next to her, not caring about the dirt staining my black leggings. "They’re beautiful, Ekaterina. You’re really good at this."
She giggles, her shoulder bumping against mine as she hands me a small metal trowel. "Ilya bought the seeds himself last week. He says we can try tomatoes if the rain stops."
I look up, my hand pausing on the trowel.
Ilya is standing near the stone archway, his hands in his pockets, his broad shoulders relaxed under a simple black sweater.
He isn't checking his watch, and he isn't looking at the guards standing near the conservatory. He is just watching us, his face softer than I’ve ever seen it, the hard, tense lines around his mouth smoothed out by the warm sunlight.
He looks... normal. He looks like a man who actually belongs in a sunny garden, not a monster who spends his nights cleaning blood off his boots.
It is a beautiful, quiet sight, and it makes my heart ache with a sudden, sharp pain.
For a few hours in this walled garden, we look like a real family.
We look like three people who haven't lost their mothers on the same bloody night, who aren't currently preparing to fight a war for a city that wants us dead.
The sunshine is actually working on him. It is cracking the concrete walls he’s built around himself, letting the light in, and it is terrifying because I know how easily light can be snuffed out in this world.
"Via?" Ekaterina’s voice pulls me back, her hand touching my arm. "Are you going to help me dig, or are you just going to stare at my brother all morning?"
"I’m digging." A sudden blush rushes to my cheeks as I press the trowel into the dirt. "And for the record, I was staring at his sweater. It’s remarkably ugly."
Ilya lets out a low, dry laugh from the archway, the sound warm and real in the quiet garden.
I look up, meeting his eyes through the golden light, and I roll my eyes.
Arrogant freaking bastard.