Page 129 of Twisted Pact

“Even though showing up meant coming to an underground bunker surrounded by armed men?”

She covers my hand with hers. “You’re living the life I couldn’t survive, and I need to understand why. What makes you strong enough to stay when I had to run?”

I turn my palm up and lace our fingers. Her hand feels fragile in mine, like I could crush the bones if I squeezed too hard.

“I don’t know if I’m strong enough,” I admit. “Some days, I think about leaving. About taking this baby and disappearing somewhere Alexei can’t find us.”

“But you don’t.”

“But I don’t.”

She squeezes my hand. “Tell me about him. Not the criminal part. Not the dangerous part. Tell me what you see when you look at him.”

A ghost of a smile starts on my lips as I consider the question, and out of all the things I could say, what comes out is, “He made me borscht. He even called Papa for Babushka’s recipe and spent hours getting it just right.”

Mama’s eyes go bright with tears. “She would have loved that.”

“He reads French poetry to fall asleep. Has a library of books he’s read, not just collected to look impressive. And when he looks at me—” I pause, searching for the right words. “When he looks at me, I feel like I’m the only person in the world who matters.”

“Your father used to look at me that way.” She pulls her hand back and wraps her sweater tighter around herself. “In the beginning. Before the violence and the fear eroded everything between us.”

“That’s what scares me most. Not the bullets or the kidnappings or any of the external threats. I’m terrified of becoming you, and Alexei becoming Papa. Of waking up one day and realizing we’ve slowly destroyed each other instead of building something that lasts.”

She nods like she expected this. “That’s why I came. Not to tell you to leave, even though every maternal instinct I have screams that you should. I came to tell you how to stay without losing yourself.”

I cock my head. “How?”

“Boundaries. Real ones, not the kind you negotiate away during crises. Decide what you need to survive—not physically, but emotionally—and protect those things like your life depends on them. Because itdoes.”

“What kind of boundaries?”

“For me, it should have been limiting my exposure to the violence. Not attending meetings where business was discussed. Not knowing details about operations that would keep me awake at night. Your father thought including me in everything meant trusting me, but it meant drowning me in trauma I couldn’t process.”

“Alexei shields me from the worst of it.”

Mama shakes her head. “That’s different from you setting boundaries. Him choosing what you can handle and you deciding what you need are separate things.”

She picks up her sandwich again, but still doesn’t eat. “I let your father determine how much I could bear. Every time I accepted his judgment over my own, I gave away a piece of myself I never got back.”

“So, what should you have done differently? What boundary would have changed things?”

Her gaze drops. “The pregnancy, for one. I should have waited before I had your sister. I should have established myself as a partner in the marriage before adding a child to the equation. But I thought a baby would fix the distance between us. Instead, it just made me more dependent on a man whose world was destroying me.”

I rest my hand on my stomach. “It’s a little late for that advice.”

“I’m not criticizing your choices. I’m explaining mine so you can make better ones.” She finally takes a bite and chews slowly, using it to buy time. “Your situation is different. Alexei seems willing to prioritize you in ways your father never did for me. But that willingness only matters if you’re clear about what you need.”

“I need him to stop making decisions for me.” I snort, half-laughing.

“Tell him that. Explicitly. And when he inevitably decides something without consulting you because the threat feels urgent, call him out on it. Don’t let it slide because you understand why; make him understand that your agency is non-negotiable.”

The guard returns, and Mama straightens like she’s been caught doing something forbidden. Old habits from her years in this life.

“Dr. Orlov’s here,” the guard announces. “It’s time for your checkup.”

I groan. “Can’t he come back later?”

“He’s already downstairs.”