Page 44 of The Pakhan's Bride
Zoya's room is tantalizingly close, and when I gently knock on the door, it opens with no resistance. She sleeps on her side, one arm thrown over the pillow, her hair a spill of color in the silver light. The sheet rides low on her back, skin visible where the fabric has slipped. In sleep, her face is younger, softer, almost vulnerable. A different person from the one who holds court at the table, who fences with Orlov and makes Sokolov sweat.
I smell jasmine on her skin, but not the kind you buy in bottles. The kind that lingers in your bones.
It snaps me back to Paris. One cold night, a half-empty café, her laugh echoing off chipped tile. I spilled wine on her shirt, red blooming on silk. She dabbed it away, then poured the rest of the glass over my head, eyes daring me to escalate. We ended up in a hotel bathroom, clothes in a pile, shower on full blast, neither of us willing to yield. I still have the shirt, stained and perfect, in a box in my closet.
I sit in the chair near her bed, careful not to make a sound. For ten minutes, I just watch her breathe. Her eyes move under the lids, a fast, chaotic dance.
I want to wake her. I want to tell her everything about her father, about the deal he cut to trade his own blood for a fraction of power. I want to see if she'll hate me for being the one to end it. Or if she'll understand, and that would be worse.
But I can't because the words choke off somewhere behind my teeth. She shifts, murmurs something in her sleep, then falls still again. I reach out, almost without thinking, and brush a strand of hair from her cheek. My hand is too large, too rough for this kind of thing. The gesture is absurd, but it feels real.
She sighs, a soft exhale, and settles deeper into the mattress, whispering "Markov." That kills me just a little more. I watch her another five minutes, maybe ten. Then I stand, move to check on my son in his room. Lev is asleep, sprawled sideways, one arm dangling over the edge. There's a toy wolf next to his pillow. I don't remember who gave it to him, but it fits. He sleeps the way only children can, recklessly, as if nothing in the world could ever touch him.
Only, he isn't alone.
Ekaterina is sitting beside the bed, a shadow outlined by the nightlight. I notice she's turned off the nanny cam. She moves her hand through Lev's hair, slow and steady. Her nails are perfect, painted a deep blue, each stroke calculated to comfort but also to claim. "Couldn't sleep?" she whispers, not looking away from the boy.
"No," I say.
She brushes the hair off Lev's forehead, then stands. The silk robe clings to her as she moves, catching every stray photon from the hallway lamp. She smiles, then, but something about it looks sour, like old milk. "He has your eyes," she says, "but Zoya's spirit."
She stops an arm's reach away. I don't move.
"I used to think you were just a rumor," she says. "ThePakhanwho never made a mistake."
Her hand rises slowly. She straightens my collar, maybe intimate if not for the smirk on her lips. Her fingers linger. "But now I see," she says, voice just above breath. "You bleed. Just like the rest."
I let her finish, then step back. "My son needs his rest," I say coldly.
She tilts her head, as if amused. "Of course."
She glides past me, the silk trailing along my sleeve. At the door, she pauses. "We could have been something, you and I," she says.
I say nothing. She leaves. The door closes on the tail of her robe. This girl is nothing but danger for the stability of my family, but I can't tell Zoya what she's doing because there's nothing conclusive here. I need proof, and quickly. Standing in the dark, I let my eyes adjust. The boy breathes, deep and steady. I pull out my phone, thumb a message to Sokolov. Just three words.Ekaterina. Full background.
My eyes stay fixed on the screen until the dots stop blinking, the reply immediate.Yes, Pakhan.I pocket the phone, watch Lev another minute, then slip out the door.
17
ZOYA
The clock beside my bed reads 5:23 a.m. Too early for staff, too late for nightmares.
My mind lights up, already running through the day's calculus—security rotations, staff gossip, the itinerary of aPakhan'swife on high alert. I catalog the house's vulnerabilities before I'm fully conscious. Old habits. Galina used to say I was born in a foxhole, learned to smile with a knife between my teeth. She wasn't wrong.
The ritual helps—feet to floor, count to ten, let the cold work its way through my bones. I pull on the day's armor—navy wool slacks, a white blouse buttoned to the throat, a soft gray cardigan. The necklace is Konstantin's choice, platinum and diamonds. My hair goes up, severe and practical, held by a silver pin that doubles as a shiv. I check the mirror. The woman there is someone I could learn to like—sharp lines, skin clear, jaw set for war.
In the corridor, my shoes whisper against the rug. I touch the polished banister as I descend, noting where a cleaner's hand left a streak of ammonia. Nothing escapes my inventory. On the landing, a guard stands at parade rest, eyes on the wall. Heblinks when I pass, but only once. I test the edge of my smile, see if it cuts.
The kitchen is a hive already. The sous-chef is kneading dough, sleeves rolled to the elbow. The smells of yeast and flour hang thickly, overlaid with the faint tang of bleach. He bows his head. "Dobroe utro, Mrs. Vetrov."
"Morning," I answer, inspecting the counter. Three loaves proofing, tea already steeped, the set table waiting in the breakfast room beyond. I glance at the clock and am satisfied to see we're fifteen minutes ahead of schedule.
The cook clears his throat, voice low. "There will be apple pirozhki for the boy's lunch, if you approve."
He means Lev. I nod. "He'll be pleased. Thank you."
This is the game—manners as currency, a smile worth more than a threat. I check the monitor on the wall—four camera feeds in black and white. I clock two more guards in the foyer, a cleaner in the west hall, Lev's tutor arriving in the drive. No sign of Konstantin, no sign of Ekaterina. I pocket the knowledge for later.
