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“Bullshit,” Alexi interrupts. “You don't hover like this unless you're worried about something.”

I turn away from them, organizing medical supplies that are already perfectly organized. “I'm not hovering.”

"You reorganized the entire supply cabinet this morning," Nikolai says quietly. "Twice."

They notice everything.

“And you've been working out at three in the morning,” Alexi adds. “I can hear the weights from my room.”

“Since when do you monitor my workout schedule?”

“Since you started acting like a caged animal,” Dmitri says, wincing as he shifts position. “What's eating at you?”

I could lie. Tell them it's the stress from the exchange, concern about Igor's next move, and worry about security protocols. They might even believe it.

Instead, I find myself saying, “She didn't look back.”

The words escape before I can stop them, quiet and raw in the sterile air of the medical wing.

Silence settles over the room. I keep my back turned, focusing on the neat rows of medical supplies, but I can feel their attention like a weight on my shoulders.

“Erik,” Nikolai says, and there's something different in his tone. Gentler.

“Forget it,” I mutter, closing the supply cabinet with more force than necessary. “She's gone. End of story.”

But even as I say the words, I know it's not the end. The hollow ache in my chest tells me this story is far from over, and that terrifies me more than any enemy we've ever faced.

25

KATARINA

Sunlight filters through unfamiliar curtains, and for a moment, I forget where I am. Then it all crashes back—the warehouse, the gunshots.

I'm in my childhood bedroom at the Lebedev estate. The same pale blue walls, the same antique furniture that always made me feel like I was living in a museum. My father insisted that I stay the night after everything that happened. “Just for safety,” he'd said, his voice gentle in that practiced way that used to make me believe he actually cared.

My body aches in places that have nothing to do with yesterday's chaos. Erik's marks are still on my skin, hidden beneath the silk pajamas my father provided. I run my fingers over a faint bruise on my collarbone, remembering how his teeth felt there.

Stop. I can't think about him. Not here.

I swing my legs out of bed and pad across the hardwood floor toward the door. I'll have coffee first, then I'll figure out how to get back to my apartment. Back to my life. Back to pretending the last week never happened.

The door handle doesn't turn.

I grip it harder, twisting in both directions. Nothing. The brass handle moves freely, but the door itself won't budge.

“What the hell?”

I try again, putting my shoulder into it this time. The door doesn't give even a millimeter. Cold dread spreads through my chest as I examine the frame more carefully. There's no visible lock from this side, which means?—

“No, no, no.” The words slip out as I yank on the handle repeatedly, panic rising in my throat.

I press my ear against the wood, listening for movement in the hallway beyond. Silence.

My breathing quickens as I back away from the door. This isn't for my safety. This is something else entirely.

I rush to the windows, but even as I reach for the latches, I know what I'll find. They don't open. They never did in this room—father had them sealed years ago after some security concern I never bothered to learn about.

The walls that once felt protective now feel like a prison.