Page 40 of 10 Days to Surrender

The memory rises like bile—Jasmine at nineteen, trembling in a cargo container, her face swollen from tears.Please don’t let him find me. Please.She’d clutched my sleeve like I was a saint instead of the self-serving bastard who’d profited from her pain.

“Both might be called for,” I concede.

Jasmine nods. “At least you can admit that much.” She pauses and toys with the corner of the quilt. “Do you know what I did that first night in Marseille? I cried like a baby, then I ate so many croissants my stomach hurt. Then I slept for two days straight. It was a confusing time, to say the least. What about you? What’d you do? Go straight to a nightclub to toast to your good fortune?”

My face darkens. “I went and talked to your father.”

“You told him I was dead,” she says, as if I need the reminder.

“I told him what he needed to hear.”

“And what about whatArineeded?” Her voice sharpens. “You let her grieve.”

I grip the edge of the counter until my knuckles bleach. “The choices I made kept her safe. If your father or Dragan had suspected?—”

“Don’t.” She slashes a hand through the air. “Don’t hide behind strategy. Not with me. We’ve come way too far for that, Sasha.”

The risotto bubbles violently. I tamp down the flame, but the silence only thickens.

Jasmine sighs. “You saved my life. Gave me freedom. I’ll always owe you for that. But what you’re doing to Ari? It’s not salvation for anyone—not you and definitely not her. It’s slow, mutual suffocation.”

I turn to face her fully. “What would you have me do? Walk away? Let Dragan pick her bones clean?”

“For starters, I’d have you try,” she snaps. “Try being honest. Try being human. Christ, Sasha—she’s carrying yourchildren. If that doesn’t crack your armor, what will?”

I brace against the counter, suddenly dizzy. “I am trying.”

“Are you? Or are you just rearranging your obsessions?” She leans forward, eyes blazing. “Protecting her isn’t love. Neither is controlling her. So what’s left, huh? What’s left when the bullets stop flying and all your enemies are ash stains, hm? What comes after that?”

Love is a weak spot, my father’s ghost snarls.It either betrays you or gets you killed.

But Nataliya’s voice whispers louder—her lullabies, her hands smoothing my hair after Yakov’s beatings, her warm fingers slipping me honey cakes and saying,“Shh, malysh, don’t let him see you cry.”

“I don’t know how to do this,” I admit hoarsely. “Not one damn bit of it.”

“That’s honest, if nothing else.” Jasmine’s expression softens. “Start by apologizing. To her. To yourself, too, while you’re at it.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It never is.” She stands, quilt trailing behind her like a royal cloak. “But here’s the thing about Ari—she doesn’t need grand gestures. She needsyou. The messy, flawed, terrified man behind the crown.”

I stare at the peach. At the knife. At the bloodied rag I left on the counter.

“She’ll never forgive me,” I rasp.

Jasmine pauses in the doorway. “Maybe not. But you don’t get to decide that for her.”

The quilt rustles as she leaves. I’m alone again with the ghosts and the garlic.

I pick up the peach. Press it to my nose. Inhale sunlight and shame. Then I slice it open—neatly, cleanly—and arrange the pieces on a chipped plate.

A peace offering.

A prayer.

16

SASHA

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