Page 109 of Twisted Pact

We collapse onto the couch, me on top of her back until I roll over and pull her against my chest. Her heart is pounding so hard that I can feel it against my ribs. She’s still crying, but I know it’s not from pain. It’s an emotional release. Everything she’s been holding back since the warehouse.

She draws in a shuddering breath as I stroke her hair and buries her face in my neck, wrapping her arms around me carefully to avoid my injured shoulder. We lie there in the quiet, processing what happened in our own ways.

I think about the men who didn’t make it out. About their families who will never see them again. About whether I made the right call, risking so much for one rescue.

But then I look at Mila in my arms, and I know I’d make the same choice again. Every time. Without question.

That realization should terrify me. It should make me question whether I’m fit to lead when personal feelings override strategic thinking.

Instead, it just feels like the truth.

I lie there, listening to her breathe and thinking about everything that’s changed since I walked into that restaurant six months ago. About how one woman has reordered my priorities and made me question every assumption I’ve held about what matters.

A knock on the door interrupts my thoughts, and I curse under my breath.

“Alexei?” Dr. Orlov’s voice comes through the wood. “I know I said I wouldn’t be back until morning, but I need to speak with you. It’s urgent.”

A few hours ago, he’d said her vitals were steady. Now, the urgency in his voice makes my stomach twist.

Mila stirs against me. I glance down at her tear-streaked face, then at the door, then back at her.

“The man has the worst timing in history,” I mutter.

“We could pretend we’re not here,” Mila half-jokes.

“He knows we’re here. He probably heard everything we just did.”

Her face flushes pink. “Oh, God. That’s mortifying.”

Another knock. “Please open the door.”

We look at each other and start laughing. After everything that’s happened today—the violence, the death, the emotional turmoil—somehow, this moment of awkwardness breaks through the darkness.

“Give us five minutes,” I call out to Orlov while pulling Mila closer and kissing her forehead.

She snuggles deeper into my arms, and we lie there grinning like idiots while a doctor waits impatiently on the other side of the door.

29

Mila

Papa sits in the chair beside my bed, looking older than I’ve ever seen him.

His eyes are still swollen from the beating Novikov’s men gave him. Dark purple bruises cover his face and neck. When he shifts his weight, trying to find a comfortable position, he sucks in a sharp breath.

“You should take your pain medication,” I suggest.

He grunts and replies, “I will in a bit.”

The memory of Orlov showing up last night makes heat crawl up my neck.

Alexei and I were still tangled on the couch—naked, sated—when the good doctor knocked, apologizing for forgetting to leave dosing instructions for Papa’s meds. Something about anti-inflammatories and sedatives that couldn’t wait until morning. We hadn’t answered the phone, so he’d come in person.

It was the most mortifying five minutes of my life, scrambling to look decent while Orlov pretended he didn’t hear a thing.

“How are you feeling?” Papa asks, mercifully unaware of my embarrassment.

“Like I got hit by a truck.”