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Alexei’s signature sits below the sentence.

I read it twice, fold the paper, and open it again. He ordered the test because I wouldn’t tell him the truth about his son. I’m still angry, but anger no longer feels like enough to keep me on this side of the corridor.

The west wing is silent. Misha sleeps in his bedroom, with Oksana resting on the cot beside him. I ease the door closed and cross the corridor.

Sergei stands alone at the second guard point. He sees the paper in my hand and opens the inner door without asking where I’m going.

Light spills from beneath Alexei’s door. I knock once, hard enough to sting my knuckles.

Alexei opens it.

He looks at the paper in my hand, then steps aside.

I walk past him into the office, and the door closes behind me with a sound that locks the corridor out. His desk lamp throws a warm circle of light across scattered reports, and the couch against the far wall has a blanket folded over one arm. He's been sleeping here. The buttons of his shirt are open to the sternum, and the bruising along his ribs has faded from black to pale yellow.

I hold up the note. "You ordered a paternity test behind my back."

His eyes stay on mine. "Yes."

"You went through my medical records, my dates, and my son's birth certificate without saying a single word to me."

"Yes."

This is an apt time to be cataloguing every betrayal like surgical complications and listing them in order of severity. But he stands there with his shirt half-open and his hands at his sides, and he doesn’t flinch or defend himself. That makes it harder to hold on to my anger.

"You could have asked."

"I did." His voice is soft and steady. "You wouldn't answer."

Fair play, I think to myself. Yes, he deserved to know, but I wanted to be able to tell him when I was ready.

The paper crumples in my fist. “So you took the choice from me.”

“I took the answer.” He takes one step closer. “The choice was always yours.”

My throat tightens, and I can’t hold on to my anger. He’s right, and that hurts more than what he did. He gave me chance after chance, and I shut him out every time.

He left the note about Misha's security. He asked permission to read a book with his son and walked away when I said no. He has been careful and patient and excruciatingly controlled, and I came to his door at midnight because the alternative was lying awake counting the hours until I could be angry at him again.

I drop the crumpled paper on his desk. "I hate the way you handle things."

His jaw shifts. "I know."

"No, you don't." I close the distance between us and press my palm flat against his chest, feeling the heartbeat beneath my fingers. "You think I'm angry about the test. I'm not. I'm angry because you were right to order it."

Something changes behind his eyes. The restraint holds for one more second, then dissolves.

His hand catches the back of my neck, and his mouth comes down on mine. The kiss starts slow, almost careful, like he's asking one more time. I bite his lower lip hard enough to sting, and the careful version of him disappears. His grip tightens, and his tongue pushes into my mouth while his other hand grabs my hip and pulls me against him.

I can feel him getting hard through his pants, and the length of him presses against my stomach while his hand slides from my hip to the small of my back. His fingers bunch the fabric of my sweater, pulling it free from my skirt, and his palm finds bare skin.

I pull back long enough to strip the sweater over my head and drop it on the floor. His eyes move over me, tracking the plain black bra and the hollow at the base of my throat where my pulse is hammering so hard he can probably see it.

"You came here," he says.

"I did."

"To me."