Kirill doesn’t flinch. “Too late, perhaps.”
The admission is small. Not apology. But for a man like Kirill Volkov, it is almost violence against himself.
Yaromir looks like he wants to reject it, tear it apart, throw it back in his father’s face. Instead, his hand shifts against my back, and he glances down at me.
I know what he sees. Hospital coat. Bare feet in borrowed shoes. Bandage under my ribs. My face probably pale from pain and shock.
I grip his coat. “Please.”
He looks at me.
Please take me out of this house.
Please come back to me instead of disappearing into the part of yourself that wants to finish this.
His jaw tightens. Then he looks at Kirill again. “This is not over.”
“No,” Kirill says. “It’s not.”
“But not tonight.”
Kirill’s eyes hold his. After a long moment, he nods once. “Not tonight.”
The corridor exhales.
Slowly. Carefully.
Men lower their guns by inches, not trust, just calculation. Alexei moves closer to Yaromir’s side. Viktor stays near me, one hand ready in case I sway. Kirill’s men shift around Dmitri, uncertain whether they’re guarding him or containing him.
Yaromir looks at Dmitri. The hatred in his face is so cold it makes my fingers tighten around his sleeve.
Dmitri sees it too. He starts shaking harder.
“You will not leave the city,” Yaromir says.
Dmitri doesn’t answer.
Kirill answers for him. “He will not leave this house.”
Yaromir’s gaze cuts to him. “If he does, I hunt him.”
“I know.”
Another silence. Another fragile thread drawn across a room full of men who would rather shoot than trust.
Yaromir bends and slides one arm under my knees.
I tense. “I can walk.”
“No.”
“I really can.”
“No.”
His voice leaves no room. Normally I would argue, but the pain is getting worse now that the rush is fading. My side throbs, my head feels light, and the corridor is beginning to tilt at the edges.
So I let him lift me.
