I wake to her curled against me, her head on my chest and her hair spilling across my shoulder like silk. For a moment—just one perfect, stolen moment—it feels real. Normal. Dangerous.
Her breathing is soft and even, and she makes a small sound in her sleep that goes straight through me. I allow myself the luxury of studying her face in the morning light filtering through the bulletproof windows. Without the wariness and fear that have defined her expressions since I brought her here, she looks younger. Peaceful. Beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with her resemblance to Irina Volkov.
The full weight of what I’ve done crashes over me like ice water. I kidnapped an innocent woman because she looked like someone else. I held her prisoner for days, threatened her life, and then last night, I made love to her like she was mine to take. The fact that she wanted it, that she kissed me back and cried my name when she came apart in my arms, doesn’t change the fundamental wrongness of the situation.
It makes it worse.
She stirs against me, flattening her palm against my chest, and my heartbeat accelerates at the simple contact. This is dangerous territory, the kind of emotional involvement that gets people killed in my world. As I watch her eyelashes flutter against her cheeks, I can’t bring myself to care about the danger.
A sharp knock at the door shatters the moment.
Sabrina jolts awake, her eyes wide with confusion and something that might be panic. The reality of where she is, and what we did last night, crashes over her features like a wave.
I slide out of bed and reach for my jeans. “Get dressed. Quickly.”
She doesn’t argue as she scrambles for her discarded underwear and dress while I put my clothes on. By the time I unlock the door, she’s sitting on the edge of the bed trying to look like she wasn’t just naked in my arms.
Maksim enters without invitation, his expression grim. His gaze flicks between Sabrina and me, taking in our disheveled appearances and the unmistakable evidence of what happened here. His jaw tightens, but he makes no comment about the fact I was clearly sharing Sabrina’s bed. He crosses his arms and stares at me directly. “We need to talk.”
I glance at Sabrina, who’s watching our exchange with attention. “Give us a minute.”
Maksim’s voice carries an urgency that makes my stomach clench. “Now, Nikandr.”
I meet his stare. “What is it?”
He looks at Sabrina again, then back at me. “We found her.”
I blink and steady myself against the doorframe. “Found who?” Somehow, I already know what he’s going to say though.
He pulls out his phone and shows me a photograph. “Irina Volkov. She’s in Prague. Confirmed identity and confirmed location. Our contact sent photos an hour ago.”
The room goes very quiet. I hear Sabrina’s sharp intake of breath and feel her stare boring into the side of my face, but I can’t look at her. Not yet. Not until I process what Maksim just told me.
I take the phone from him and study the image. The woman in the photograph is unmistakably Irina—older, with her hair a different color, but the bone structure is identical. More importantly, there’s something in her expression that was never present in Sabrina’s face. A hardness. A calculation. It’s the look of someone who’s spent years running from the consequences of her choices.
Still, I ask, “You’re certain?”
He points to a detail in the photograph. “Facial recognition software gave us a ninety-seven percent match. She’s been living under the name Eugenie Kozlov, working as a translator for a private security firm. She has the same bone structure, same mannerisms, and even the same scar on her left hand from when she cut herself on broken glass at your brother’s apartment.”
The scar. I remember that detail from the police reports. If this woman has the same scar, there’s no doubt. Irina Volkov is alive and living in Prague.
Which means the woman sitting on the bed behind me is exactly who she’s claimed to be all along and innocent of everything except looking like someone who destroyed my family ten years ago. I already knew that in my heart, but now, I can’t pretend otherwise.
I’ve been wrong this whole time. Sabrina isn’t a threat. She’s just collateral damage from my obsession with finding my brother’s killer.
Maksim crosses his arms. “What do you want me to do?”
I hand him back the phone. “Send a team to Prague. I want her brought back here alive.”
He nods toward Sabrina without looking at her directly. “And her?”
That’s the question I’ve been avoiding since almost the moment I impulsively kidnapped her and brought her here. What do I do with an innocent woman who’s seen too much, knows too much, can identify too much? As pakhan, there should be only one answer to that question, and it’s not one I’m prepared to consider. I straighten and meet his stare. “I’ll handle it.”
Maksim’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s concern in his posture. “Nikandr—”
I cut him off with a sharp gesture. “I said I’ll handle it.”
He studies my face for a long moment, then nods once. “The Prague team leaves in two hours. I’ll coordinate from here.”
After he’s gone, the silence stretches between Sabrina and me like a chasm. I can feel her watching me, waiting for an explanation or reassurance or some indication of what happens next, but I don’t have any of those things to offer.
I have confirmation she’s innocent, and letting her go is the right thing to do even if it’s the last thing I want.
She speaks quietly, her voice carefully controlled. “They found her. The real Irina.”
I turn to face her, and the hope flickering in her expression cuts through me like a blade. She thinks this means freedom. She thinks confirmation of her innocence will make everything different between us.
She’s right, of course. It makes everything different. “Yes.”
She nods slowly, processing this information. “I told you I’m not her.” She angles up her chin with a hint of defiance.
“You did.” I give her a small smile. “Vehemently and repeatedly.”
She’s quiet for a moment. When she looks directly at me, I see the questions building behind her eyes. “What happens now?”
I can’t meet her gaze. I can’t look at her and explain her innocence doesn’t make this situation any less complicated. If anything, it makes it worse. She’s not a criminal I can eliminate without conscience. She’s an innocent woman, who’s seen too much of my world to simply walk away. I move toward the coffee table, needing something to do with my hands. “I’ll have breakfast brought up.”
She tilts her head, confusion flickering across her features. “Breakfast?”
“You need to eat. Keep up your strength.”
“For what?”
I don’t answer immediately because I’m still processing what Maksim told me. Instead, I pick up the phone and place an order for breakfast, buying myself time to figure out how to handle this conversation.
Twenty minutes later, I’m carrying a tray myself instead of sending a guard, bearing fresh fruit, pastries, eggs Benedict, and exquisite coffee. I set it on the coffee table and take the chair across from her, noting the way she’s watching my every movement with growing confusion.
She stares at the food like it might bite her.
I gesture toward the spread. “You should eat something.”
She shakes her head. “I’m not hungry.”
I study her face, memorizing every detail because I know this might be the last time I get to look at her like this, without barriers between us and what I have to do next crushing everything we built last night.
I don’t say a word about the night before. I can’t bring myself to acknowledge what happened between us when I know what I have to do next. Instead, I keep my voice carefully neutral. “Arrangements have been made.”
The words come out flat and businesslike, like she’s a problem that’s been solved rather than a woman I made love to just hours ago.
She straightens in her chair. “What kind of arrangements?”
“A car will take you home.”
She stares at me in disbelief. “Home?”
I nod curtly. “Yes.”
The silence that follows is deafening. She searches my face for some sign of the man who whispered her name in the darkness, who held her like she was something precious, but I’ve locked that part of myself away where it can’t complicate what needs to happen.
“I can leave?” Her voice comes out smaller than before.
“Yes.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
Something flickers across her face—hurt, maybe, or confusion about my sudden coldness. Last night I was telling her she was beautiful, and this morning, I’m discussing her departure like it means nothing to me. It’s better this way. Cleaner and less complicated, and I won’t let her see it’s hurting. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
I reach into my jacket and pull out the device I took from her pocket the night I drugged her and brought her here. “Your phone. Everything’s exactly as you left it.”
She takes it from me, and our fingers brush briefly. The contact sends electricity up my arm, and I have to force myself not to pull her closer.
I continue, trying to focus on logistics instead of the way she’s looking at me. “There are several messages from your roommate. She’s worried. You’ll want to call her.”
She scrolls through the messages with growing concern, then looks up at me with something that might be confusion or hurt. “What should I tell her?”
“Whatever you think she’ll believe.”
She continues scrolling, her face growing paler with each message. “She filed a missing person report.”
I nod sharply. “We’re aware. It’s been handled.”
She looks up sharply. “Handled how?”
“The report was withdrawn. There’s no record of it in the system.”
Her face goes even paler. “You can do that?”
“I can do a lot of things, Sabrina. Most of them you don’t want to know about.”
She stares at me for a long moment, processing the information I just revealed, accepting the kind of power it takes to make official reports disappear, and the connections that would be necessary to manipulate police databases.
Sabrina’s suddenly all too aware of the kind of man she spent the night with. She sets aside the phone and looks at me directly. “Why are you being like this?”
“Like what?”
“Cold. Distant. Like last night never happened.”
The question cuts deeply. I am being cold and distant, and it’s a deliberate choice designed to make this easier for both of us. “Last night was a mistake.” The words come out harsher than I intended, and I watch her flinch as if I’d struck her.
“A mistake,” she repeats slowly.
“Yes.”
“Which part? The part where you made me feel safe for the first time in days? Or the part where you made me feel like I mattered to someone?” She sounds almost conversational and is clearly trying to mimic my aloofness without as much success.
I force myself to remain seated when every instinct is screaming at me to go to her. “All of it.”
She licks her lips as though marshaling her emotions. “You’re lying.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. I can see it in your eyes.” She leans forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You’re scared.”
I have to draw on my willpower not to react. “I’m not scared of anything.”
“You’re scared of what you feel for me. You’re scared because caring about someone makes you vulnerable, and vulnerable people get hurt in your world.”
She’s reading me like an open book, and the accuracy of her assessment is terrifying, nut I can’t afford to let her see how right she is. I stand and move toward the window, putting physical distance between us. “It doesn’t matter what I feel. You’re leaving.”
“Because you’re making me leave.”
“Because it’s what’s best for you.”
“Shouldn’t I get a say in what’s best for me?” she asks with a hint of challenge.
I turn to face her, and the pain in her expression nearly breaks my resolve. “Not in this case.”
“Why not?”
“Because you don’t understand what you’d be choosing. You don’t understand what my life is like, or what it would mean to be part of it.”
She stands and moves closer, and I have to fight the urge to back away. “Then explain it to me.”
“Some things are better left unexplained.”
She looks angry and frustrated now. “That’s not your choice to make.”
I nod, resolved. “Yes, it is, because I’m the one who brought you into this mess, and I’m the one who’s going to get you out of it.”
A soft knock at the door interrupts whatever she was going to say next. Viktor enters with the kind of professional neutrality that suggests Maksim briefed him on the situation. He nods respectfully. “The SUV’s ready when you are, miss.”
She looks at me one more time, and I see everything she wants to say painted across her face. There are questions about why this has to end so abruptly, arguments about what we could be if we tried, and pleas for more time to figure out what we mean to each other. I brace myself to counter it all, but she doesn’t say any of those things.
Instead, she walks toward Viktor with the kind of dignity that makes my chest ache and stops at the threshold but doesn’t turn around.
I call out before I can stop myself. “Sabrina.”
She freezes but doesn’t look back.
“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for all of it.”
She speaks without turning, her voice quiet but steady. “No, you’re not. You’re sorry it has to end this way, but you’re not sorry it happened. Neither am I.”
Then she’s gone, following Viktor down the hallway toward whatever life waits for her beyond these walls. I stand at the window and watch the car disappear into the forest, carrying away the woman who turned my world upside down in the space of four days.
The absence hits me like a wound.
Maksim appears beside me several minutes later, silent for a long moment before he speaks. “At least it’s over.”
I don’t answer because it’s not over. It will never be over. She’s under my skin now, burned into my memory, and no amount of distance or time is going to change that, but she’s safe, and she’s free, and that has to be enough to satisfy me after what I did to her.
Even if it feels like I’m dying.
