Page 51 of Dark Embers

I should be grateful. Safe. Relaxed. But I’m none of those things.

I’m exhausted. Elena didn’t wake until seven, which is late for her, but considering everything that happened… I’m lucky she slept at all. The second I heard her cry, I was out of bed, ready to run, only to freeze the moment I saw another woman already holding my daughter.

She was young, around my age, dressed in a sharp Diamond Hotel uniform, her lips moving in soft Russian as she rocked Elena in her arms like she belonged there.

My heart had stopped.

I launched across the nursery, snatching Elena out of her arms before she could even blink.

The woman didn’t flinch. She smiled. “Miss Craft, I’m Magda. Mr. Mirochin hired me to help you with Elena. I thought he mentioned I’d be starting today?”

Of course he hadn’t. Oleksi had been too busy playing knight in dark Bratva armor to actually communicate.

I was furious. She was mine. Elena was mine. He didn’t get to just make decisions for us.

But when Oleksi appeared behind me, fresh from a shower, and gently explained Magda’s role, I saw it in his eyes. He hadn’tmeant to offend. He was trying to help. And after everything—my shredded nerves, the near sleepless night, my burning muscles—I knew I needed it.

Still, I made him suffer for it with a glare that could burn through titanium.

Now, post-shower and halfway dressed in soft jeans and a yellow button-down that matches my shoes, I stand staring at the one door in this suite that I can’t open. It sits next to his dressing room like it’s guarding a secret. And maybe it is. Maybe it’s just a storage room. Or maybe it’s where he keeps the skeletons.

Literally.

I tried the handle earlier. Locked. Typical.

I should leave it alone. But something about that door is like an itch I can’t scratch.

My eyes dart to my purse—my oversized, loyal companion stuffed with everything from wet wipes to a three-year-old lipstick I forgot I owned. I head for it and rummage, fingers brushing past receipts and hair ties until they land on the familiar feel of a small metal case.

Lock-picking tools. Courtesy of Mark.

Leigh always teased me about this purse. Said it was big enough to smuggle me through customs. God, I miss her. Just as I’m about to try my luck with the door, my phone buzzes.

Again.

“Alright, alright,” I mutter, yanking it out of my trusty purse. It’s my mother. Of course.

“Hello, Mom.”

“Sabrina! You didn’t answer any of my messages last night.” Her voice is rushed, frazzled.

“I didn’t think I had to,” I reply. “You and Mark were sneaking off on your mystery cruise. I caught you red-handed, remember?”

She sighs. “Are you still mad about the house-sitting thing?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. A little.”

“Sabrina,” her voice softens, like she’s trying to mother me through the phone, “I may not trust that man you’re staying with, but Sam says he’s your best shot right now. I trust Sam. And with what’s going on—”

“What is going on, Mom?” I cut in, pacing slowly toward the windows. “Do you know why three Russians broke into my apartment? Why some mystery woman showed up the same night? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Silence. Just for a beat too long.

“No,” she says. Too quickly.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Another beat. “Why did you say three Russians broke in?”

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