Reunion and release

The moment Boris stepped into the room, the sterile hospital air seemed to vibrate with a sudden, heavy heat. It wasn't just about the physical craving—though that was screaming loud enough—it was the weight of fifteen years. He had been my shield, my silent guardian who never asked for a price, the only man who knew exactly how to dismantle my defenses and put me back together again. I knew then that this man has been in love with me for fifteen long years.

As he moved toward the bed, his gait was purposeful. Through the fabric of his trousers, the thick, heavy outline of his dick was unmistakable. He was already aching for me.

I opened my mouth to tell him exactly what I needed, but he silenced me with a low, rough chuckle. His eyes sparked with a dark, mischievous glint that made my toes curl.

"Don't say a word," he murmured, his voice a gravelly caress. "I’m going to give you everything you’ve been starving for….earth shattering orgasms from eating that perfect pussy of yours."

The promise in his voice sent a shiver straight to my core. I knew that look. It meant he wasn't just going to worship my pussy….he was going to worship me.

He stripped his shirt off with a fluid, rugged grace, his massive frame casting a shadow over the small hospital bed. I kicked the bedding away, the cool air hitting my skin just before he replaced it with his heat. I spread my legs wide, an unspoken invitation he accepted in heartbeats.

He was on the mattress in seconds, his hands firm on my thighs as he buried his face between my legs. Boris didn't just eat; he devoured. He used his tongue, teeth and mouth with such a mastery that only a decade and a half of devotion could produce. Time lost all meaning. The world narrowed down to the rhythmic pressure, the wet heat, and the salt of my own cum. I lost count of the times I came, my body arching off the thin mattress as I came against his tongue again and again, screaming his name into the quiet room.

When the last tremor finally subsided and I was finished shaking from all the orgasms and frequent cumming, he didn't let me drift. He sat up, his movements were gentle as he reached for my arm to let me know he was still with me. Boris gently pulled my bedding back over me, tucking me in before leaning close to search my eyes.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice low and genuinely concerned.

I nodded weakly, my voice still a ghost of a sound. "Incomparable," I whispered, reaching out to trace the rough line of his jaw. "You always give me exactly what I need, Boris. You have for fifteen years."

Boris put his shirt back on and pulled a chair up to my bed. He sat with me, his large, warm hand enveloping mine. He talked to me in a low, soothing rumble, recounting stories and sharing quiet thoughts that kept the shadows of the hospital at bay. I watched him as he spoke, the flicker of the monitors reflecting in his eyes, until my eyelids grew heavy and I finally fell asleep under his watchful gaze.

Later that night, Dr. Arisov came to check on me. He took one look at Boris and the state of how I looked, but he didn't ask questions. Instead, he quietly signaled for someone to bring an extra bed into the room, having it set up and pushed flush next to mine.

Once we were alone again, Boris stripped down completely and climbed onto the bed joined to mine. He curled up directly behind me, his massive frame a wall of heat against my back. He wrapped his powerful arms around me, pulling me tight against him.

He didn't just sleep, though. Throughout the night, I felt his hands and mouth on me again and again. He sucked, squeezed and bit my sensitive tits that leaked, his rough stubble and expert lips keeping me in a constant state of arousal. "You're so soft," he whispered against my skin, his voice thick with a hunger that never seemed to fade. "I could spend the rest of my life right here."

He kept me on the edge, fingering my pussy until I was slick and needy, his large hands moving with a possessive strength that made me melt. "You like that, don't you?" he rasped, his breath hot in my ear as I whimpered against him. "Knowing you're mine? Knowing I'm the only one who can make you feel this way?"

Several times, when the quiet of the hospital was at its deepest, he moved down to eat my pussy again, his devotion never wavering even in the dark. Each time, he drank me in as if he couldn't get enough of my taste, making sure I was completely satisfied before pulling me back into his chest. "Mine," he muttered fiercely against my inner thigh, "all mine."

Feeling the steady beat of his heart against my spine, I felt him finally exhale slowly as he fell asleep, his hold never loosening. I closed used my eyes, finally at peace, protected by the only man who truly knew me.

In the morning, when Dr. Arisov arrived for his rounds, the sunlight was just beginning to filter through the blinds. He walked to the side of the bed and looked down at me with a knowing, professional smile. He noted my vitals, but his eyes lingered on my face, seeing the relaxation in my features that no medication could provide.

"Well," he remarked softly, sounding pleased as he adjusted the chart. "It seems you have much more color in your cheeks today. It’s clear you had the best possible medicine last night."

I shared a look with Boris, who was watching me from the next bed with that same steady, protective gaze. "The best in the world, Doctor," I replied, my voice stronger than it had been in days.

Boris just smirked, his eyes never leaving mine. "Whatever she needs," he said simply.

After Dr. Arisov left us, the tension in the room shifted again. Boris stripped out of his clothes, his massive, heavy length fully aroused. He rolled on a condom and moved over me, his monstruous dick was a welcome pressure as he began to fuck my pussy. He was relentless, his thrusts deep and powerful as he reclaimed me. When he finally hit his peak an hour later, the sheer force and volume of the cum he unloaded caused the condom to break.

I let out a sharp, ragged groan the second I felt the hot, slick flood of his cum pouring from the broken latex, soaking into my core.

Boris stopped immediately, his brow furrowed as he looked down at me. "What's wrong?" he asked, his voice thick with concern. "Did I hurt you?"

I looked up at him, the truth finally spilling out. "I just had an abortion," I rasped, my voice trembling. "I was so scared, Boris... there was a one in four chance that you’re father."

Boris went still for a heartbeat, his eyes darkening with an intensity I’d never seen before. He leaned down, his forehead resting against mine as his hands gripped my hair. "Listen to me," he growled, his voice a promise. "Once I get you out of here, that's over. I’m going to marry you and I’m going to breed you."

“I wouldn’t want anything more than that, Boris,” I said.

The awakening

Consciousness didn't return with clarity; it arrived as a series of jagged, cold intrusions.

I woke to a room that felt clinically excavated from ice. The air was saturated with the sterile, cloying scent of high-grade antiseptic and the relentless, low-frequency thrum of life-support machinery. My first instinct was a primal urge to gasp—to draw a breath that would anchor my spiraling equilibrium—but my lungs were no longer my own.

The violation was absolute. A thick, invasive presence was wedged down my trachea, a plastic serpent that triggered a gag reflex every time I tried to swallow. I attempted to cough, but the reflex slammed into the unyielding wall of the tubing, setting off a frantic, metallic alarm that cut through the silence like a blade.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The sound was high-pitched and pitiless, pulsing in perfect, terrifying synchronization with the erratic thudding in my chest. I tried to shift, to rise from the bed, but my limbs were leaden anchors, heavy with the weight of sedation and trauma. My vision remained a fractured mosaic of fluorescent whites and shifting, indistinct shadows.

I tried to speak, to demand an account of my captivity in this sterile purgatory, but the silence was forced upon me. I was acutely, viscerally aware of the air being driven into my chest—a rhythmic, mechanical shove that felt like a foreign hand inside my ribcage.

Hiss. Click. Whoosh.

The ventilator was the master of my breath. I was merely a passenger in my own body.

Panic began to claw at the fringes of my mind. I reached up, my fingers trembling and disconnected, clawing for the intrusion in my throat. My hand hadn't traveled halfway before a firm, gloved hand intercepted my wrist, pinning it to the bedrail with a strength that was gentle but absolute.

"Don't," a voice commanded. It was soft, clinical, yet carried the weight of seasoned authority. "You will only succeed in injuring yourself, Marie."

I blinked, struggling to focus on the silhouette looming over me. The shadows resolved into a face behind a surgical mask and shield, eyes sharp with a weary intelligence. He lowered the mask, revealing a face deeply etched by the pressures of his craft.

"I am Dr. Arisov," he said, his voice a steadying anchor in the fog. "Chief cardiothoracic surgeon. You have been sedated for three and a half days. The ventilator is breathing for you because your lungs sustained severe trauma; they require rest to heal. If you fight the machine, it will fight you back. Do you understand?"

I couldn't nod. I could only stare, my pupils dilated with a cold, silent terror, as the machine continued to dictate the pace of my existence. I blinked twice.

He consulted a tablet, his fingers moving with practiced, clinical efficiency. "You have a small army in the waiting room, Marie. Bob hasn't left the hallway in thirty-six hours. Santiago and Boris are pacing like caged predators. They are waiting for me to confirm that you have woken up."

The names sparked a flicker of lucidity. My annoying but favorite brother was here. Boris was here. Santi was here. The world outside this frozen room was still turning, and I was the one holding the weight of it.

"I’m going to check your vitals again," Arisov said, his tone shifting to the professional distance of a surgeon. "Just breathe. The more you relax, the sooner we can discuss extubation. For now, you are safe."

Safe was a relative concept in my world. The doctor took his time checking my vitals but was absolutely thorough. As the doctor retreated, the monitors settled into a more human rhythm. I was alive, and I was not alone.

A moment later, the door slid open to admit Bob. He looked as though he had aged a decade since he left the suite at the Metropol Hotel—his clothes were rumpled, his eyes bloodshot with a profound exhaustion. He stood at the foot of the bed, his hands clenching the rail until his knuckles turned white.

"Marie," he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of the silence. He took a tentative step closer, looking at the ventilator with a mixture of revulsion and desperate gratitude. "Jesus, Marie. For a moment, we thought the light had gone out. Just stay still. Arisov says you're doing well. Keep fighting. We're not leaving your side."

He lingered for a heartbeat, his hand hovering over mine before he turned and fled the room, unable to witness the mechanical life-support for a second longer.

When Bob retreated, Santi took his place. He moved with a predatory stillness that even the hospital gown couldn't diminish. He stood by the monitors, reading the data as if searching for a weakness.

"The Volkovs are clear, Marie," Santiago said, his voice a low, raspy rumble that seemed to vibrate in the sterile air. "They crossed several borders sixteen to twenty-four hours ago. No tails, no fallout." He looked back at me, his jaw set like stone. He gave a single, sharp nod—a silent contract fulfilled. "You did your hardest job of getting two innocents out. Now do your other hard job; rest. Wake up properly so I can stop babysitting these two buffoons in the hallway."

Finally, the door opened for Boris. He didn't hover by the entrance. He moved directly to the bedside, his shadow falling over me like a heavy, protective shroud. He looked down at the tubes and the wires, his face a mask of cold, controlled fury directed at the unseen forces that had brought me here.

"This is not how our story was supposed to continue," Boris said, his voice dangerously quiet, vibrating with a dark promise. He reached out, his hand hovering near mine before he withdrew it, as if afraid he might shatter the fragile remains of my composure. "But you are alive. That is the only fact that matters. The people who did this to you believe they won because you are in this bed." He leaned down, his eyes burning with a cold fire. "They are mistaken. Rest, Marie. When you are ready, we will get out of here."

One by one, they had seen me. One by one, I had been reminded of the debt I owed to my own survival.

After the men were ushered back into the hallway, Dr. Arisov returned. He pulled a stool closer, his expression shifting into something grim and unvarnished.

"I imagine you want the truth," he began. "You were shot, Your Imperial Highness. The ballistics were rather specific. You were targeted by an operative with Kremlin ties. The weapon was an antique—a piece from the era dating the execution of your relatives in 1918. A symbolic execution attempt, though the damage was modern enough. The round tore through your chest, nicking your heart and destroyed part of your left lung."

He let the silence hang for a moment. "Your heart has been repaired; it is resilient. However, we were forced to remove a small portion of your lung, which is why the ventilator remains. Boris told us that you suffer from a chronic lung disorder, so we decided that the ventilator will help. But you are compensating well. If your trajectory remains positive over the next few hours, I will authorize extubation. We will see if you can carry your own weight again."

He stood to leave, adjusting the flow of my IV. "As for the man who pulled the trigger, he worked for the Kremlin and is no longer a concern. My understanding is that the government has already taken care of the matter."

He turned toward the door, but the words hit me with the force of a second strike. Taken care of. The clinical euphemism for a permanent silencing. If they had liquidated their own operative to bury the lead, I was a loose end in a very long, very bloody rope. I was a target that had been missed, and the Kremlin did not tolerate failure. They were going to get me in there as soon as they could for a DNA test.

The monitor above my head began to scream.

Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep!

My heart rate surged, the numbers climbing into a frantic, bright red. I felt the ventilator struggle against the sudden tension in my throat as I lapsed into a mechanical hyperventilation. I was drowning in a sea of oxygen. The realization that I was trapped, immobilized in this bed while the wolves were still at the door, sent me into a blind, suffocating panic.

"Marie! Look at me!" Arisov shouted, spinning back. He slammed his hand against the emergency console, triggering a cascade of alarms. "She’s tachycardic! I need a crash cart, now!"

Within seconds, I heard footsteps thundering. I stared at the ceiling, my chest heaving against the machine's relentless rhythm, convinced that the next shadow to cross the threshold wouldn't be a healer, but a finisher. The hospital gown was ripped from my body, leaving me naked. I heard someone scream: “Clear!” before I passed out.

Sometime later, Dr. Arisov came into the room with a syringe. I wanted to tell him not to, but I felt a pinch in my IV line, and almost instantly, the world began to dissolve. The sharp edges of the room softened into grey, the screaming monitors faded into a dull, distant hum, and the panic was swallowed by a heavy, velvet darkness.

When I woke again, the room was shrouded in the muted orange glow of late afternoon. The first thing I noticed was the silence—the rhythmic hiss of the machine was gone. The second was the raw, burning agony in my throat. Every swallow felt like I was downing shards of glass.

I reached out with a hand that felt disconnected from my nervous system, my fingers fumbling until they closed around the plastic remote. I pressed the 'call' button.

It wasn't a nurse who answered. It was Dr. Arisov. He looked as though he had aged several more years in the interval, but his eyes held a flicker of relief.

"You're awake," he said, moving to the bedside. "And you're breathing on your own. Take it slow, Marie. Your throat will be an agonizing mess for a while."

I tried to form a word, but my voice was a broken, guttural rasp that died before it reached the air. "They..."

"Do not attempt to speak yet," he cautioned, his eyes fixed on the oxygen saturation levels. "Just breathe. The world isn't going anywhere."

I looked at him, the urgency of my situation overriding the physical pain. I signaled toward the bedside table with a trembling hand, miming the motion of writing. Arisov understood immediately. He pulled a silver pen from his pocket and produced a thick stack of clinical paper from a drawer, setting them on my lap.

My hand shook as I pressed the pen to the paper. The ink bled slightly as I forced out the question that was currently suffocating me.

Am I in the Kremlin?

I turned the page toward him. Arisov’s expression didn’t change, but he took a deep breath, his hands folding over his chest.

"Yes," he replied, his voice a low, steady whisper. "You are in the central infirmary. However, you are in a secured wing. I have personally vetted every individual permitted on this floor. These are my trusted personal staff—people who owe their careers to me, not the state. I have issued direct orders: no one employed or stationed by the Kremlin, military or otherwise, is to set foot on this floor. To them, this wing is a black site. You are as safe as I can possibly make you."

I looked at the door, then back at him. Even with his assurances, the walls felt like they were closing in. I began to write again, my hand steadier now that the adrenaline was fading into a cold, practical assessment of my own body.

Bring Boris back, I wrote. Underneath that, I paused, the pen hovering over the paper. Is it safe for me to have sex?

I handed the paper to Arisov. He took it, his eyes scanning the lines. He didn't blink or show a hint of professional discomfort; he had seen too much blood and bone to be rattled by the primal requirements of his patients.

"I will send Boris in shortly," he said, setting the paper aside. He met my gaze with a blunt, clinical honesty. "As for your second question... your heart is stable, but your lung capacity is severely diminished. Physical exertion of will be dangerous for a while. You risk tearing the sutures in your chest or, worse, triggering another cardiac collapse. For now, Your Imperial Highness, your focus must be on sitting up, then walking. Anything more intimate is off the table until I say otherwise. Understood?"

I scrawled one last line before he could leave.

Can he at least eat my pussy?

Arisov stared at the page for a silent heartbeat. Then, a sharp, genuine laugh erupted from him—the first bit of humanity I’d seen in the room. He shook his head, the exhaustion in his face giving way to a brief, amused respect.

"Yes, Marie," he chuckled, tucking the pen back into his pocket. "He can manage that without killing you. Just stay on your back."

He turned and left the room. A few moments later, the heavy door clicked open. Boris stepped back inside, the door locking behind him. He looked at the stack of paper on my lap, then at the look in my eyes, and I could see the cold fury in his expression begin to flicker with something else. His eyes were full of passion.

The extraction

The next hour was a slow-motion demolition of forty years of history. I stood in the center of the small, cramped living room, acting as the arbiter of what survived and what was left to the dust. The smell of old paper and woodwax filled the air as Viktor and Ludmilla moved with the frantic, disjointed energy of the shell-shocked.

Ludmilla emerged from the kitchen clutching a stack of stained, handwritten notebooks. Her knuckles were white. "These are my mother’s," she said, her voice trembling. "The recipes are the only things I have left of her."

I looked at the thick, heavy binders and then into her pleading eyes. I didn't let my expression soften. "We are packing for survival, Ludmilla, not for a kitchen. Those are too heavy and too distinctive. We're packing as light as possible. They stay."

"But—"

"No," I said, my voice flat. "If a border guard decides to flip through those and sees anything from your past, you’re dead."

She withered, slowly placing the notebooks on the counter as if she were laying a child to rest.

Viktor appeared from the hallway, dragging a heavy metal toolbox that scraped harshly against the floor. He looked at me, a desperate hope in his eyes. "My power tools? I can work anywhere if I have these. I can earn a living."

"The same rule applies, Viktor," I said, not even looking at the box. "Only clothing and personal hygiene. That is all."

"This is my life," he whispered, looking down at the scarred metal of the box.

"Your life is what I’m trying to save," I countered. "Tools can be bought. A new identity cannot be forged twice."

They continued to move through the apartment like ghosts. When Viktor picked up his smartphone from the charging cable, I stepped into his path.

"The phones and the tablets stay here," I commanded.

"But our daughter in Kazan—" Ludmilla started, her voice rising.

"If you call her, you lead the FSB straight to her door," I snapped. "You can never contact anyone you know again. It is for your safety, and more importantly, it is for the safety of those you are leaving behind. To the world, Viktor and Ludmilla Volkov must cease to exist tonight."

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the muffled sound of a neighbor's radio through the thin walls. They looked at each other, the reality of the void they were stepping into finally sinking in. They were shocked, their faces pale in the dim light, but they nodded. They understood the price of life.

An hour and fifteen minutes after I had sent the text to Santi, the front door didn't creak; the door simply opened with a clinical precision. Santiago stepped inside, moving with a predatory grace that seemed entirely out of place in the domestic squalor of the apartment. He looked tired, his jaw set in a hard line, but his eyes were sharp.

"Santi, thank fuck," I said, heading towards him and we hugged. I turned to the couple. "Viktor, Ludmilla, this is Santiago."

Santiago didn't offer a handshake. He looked down at the four medium-sized bags sitting by the door. He nudged one with the toe of his boot, testing the weight, then looked at me.

"He is the one who will get you to the border," I explained. "He will take you to whatever country you choose, provided you have no history there. You cannot go where you are known."

Santiago checked his watch, his voice low and raspy. "We’re burning daylight, Marie. If we're doing this, we're doing it now."

Despite the weight of the bags and the weariness in their bones, the Volkovs moved to pick up their luggage. There was a stiff, quiet dignity in the way they shouldered the burden of their new lives. They were proud people, and even as their world crumbled, they refused to be handled like cargo nor let us take their bags for them.

I looked at them one last time in their house. "Once you walk out that door, you don't look back. And once we part ways at the airfield, we never speak again. Do you understand?"

Viktor looked at Ludmilla and back at me. They nodded.

"We understand," he said.

"Good," I said as I stepped aside to let Santi lead the way. "Then let's go."

As we stepped out into the biting night air, I froze, and I felt the Volkovs stiffen beside me. An ambulance sat idling at the curb, its lights off but its engine humming with a low, rhythmic vibration. In this neighborhood, an ambulance usually meant death or a state-sanctioned disappearance.

"An ambulance?" I whispered, looking at Santi.

"Quickest way I could get here and back to the airport without raising suspicion," Santi said, his eyes scanning the empty street. "Sirens open doors that bribes can't always reach. Get in."

He moved to the front and climbed into the passenger seat, slamming the door. I ushered the Volkovs toward the rear. We boarded the back of the vehicle, the sterile, metallic smell of the interior a stark contrast to the home they had just abandoned. The doors slammed shut, and we began to move, disappearing into the Moscow night.

It was a grueling ninety-minute ride. Santi had chosen a smaller, secondary airfield on the far outskirts of the city, one that neither of us had used in years. The distance was a gamble, but it was safer than the eyes that watched the major hubs. Inside the swaying back of the ambulance, the silence was deafening.

"Where are we going?" Ludmilla whispered, her eyes fixed on the vibrating floor. "Exactly?"

"To a place where nobody knows your face," I said, reaching into my coat. I pulled out two thick envelopes and handed them over. "Open them."

Viktor fumbled with the seal. "Aleksandr and Elena Petrov?" he read, his voice hollow.

"That is who you are now," I told them. "You are retirees from Voronezh. You’re moving to a warmer climate for your health. Memorize every detail in those folders. Your birthdays, your parents' names, the street you lived on. If you hesitate for a second at customs, it’s over."

"And the money?" Viktor asked, clutching the envelope to his chest.

"It’s already in the offshore accounts listed in the back," I replied. "It’s enough to ensure you never have to work again. Just be careful with it and don't spend it all in one place. You can’t draw attention."

When we finally rolled onto the tarmac, the jet was already idling, its engines a dull roar against the silence of the field. We stepped out into the wind, the scent of jet fuel sharp in the cold air.

Santi stepped toward me, and for a brief second, the clinical mask slipped. He pulled me into a hug, his coat rough against mine. As his chin rested on my shoulder, his voice was a ghost of a whisper in my ear. "Look at the driver, Marie. Look and see who brought us here."

"Santi—" I started, but he was already pulling away.

"Stay safe, Marie," he said, his eyes hard once more. He turned to the couple. "Come on. We're on a tight schedule."

I took a step back. I watched as Santi ushered Viktor and Ludmilla toward the stairs of the plane. Ludmilla looked back once, her face a mask of grief and gratitude, before Viktor pulled her inside. They moved quickly, shadows against the hangar lights. I stood on the cold asphalt, my hands buried in my pockets, and waited. I didn't move until the landing gear retracted and the lights of the aircraft were nothing more than a fading star in the black sky.

Only then did I walk toward the front of the ambulance. The engine was still idling, a low growl in the dark. I leaned down, peering through the driver’s side window. The man behind the wheel didn't turn his head at first, but his eyes shifted to meet mine in the side mirror.

"Long night," he said, his voice unmistakable.

He turned his head, his face finally illuminated by the dashboard glow. It was Boris.

"Hello, Marie," he said, a grim shadow of a smile touching his lips. "I figured you might need a lift."

“Boris!” I whispered before I blacked out from excruciating pain.

Frozen debts

The biting Moscow wind felt like it was trying to peel the skin from my face as I leaned against a concrete pillar, the glow of my phone screen the only warmth in sight. I pulled up my encrypted messaging app and found Sera’s name.

I hesitated. Getting in touch with Sera was like playing with a short fuse. She was loyal, but she was also married to Elena, and Elena’s patience for me had worn dangerously thin when Sera mentioned my name the other day. Contacting her now was a guaranteed way to start a domestic firestorm in their household, but I didn't have the luxury of being polite. I knew that in this city of mirrors, Sera had likely seen everything and heard everything that had transpired at the airfield.

I need a lead on the hangar attendant at Sheremetyevo, Hangar 4, I typed. The old man. He was fired two hours ago because of me. I know that you saw everything and most likely heard everything.

I stared at the "Read" receipt. Five seconds. Ten. Then, the typing bubbles appeared, hesitant and flickering.

Marie, for the love of God, the reply came back. Elena is literally sitting across from me right now. You’re going to get me killed.

Then it’ll be a crowded funeral, I shot back. I need his name and address. Now.

Another long pause followed. I could almost feel the tension radiating from the digital connection. Then: I know the man you’re talking about. His name is Viktor Volkov. He’s been a fixture at that hangar since the Soviet era.

A file landed in the chat—a scanned ID card and a residential address located in a crumbling district on the far northern edge of the city.

Thank you, Sera. I owe you. Tell Elena I’ll buy her a bottle of something expensive to make up for the frustration.

Just stay alive so you can actually deliver it, she replied, and the chat cleared itself into a void of white space.

I pocketed the phone. Bob and Polina were tucked away in the secured suite at the Metropol, likely surrounded by security details and high-end room service. They were safe for now, insulated by gold leaf and bulletproof glass. I, however, had a ghost to chase.

I flagged a taxi, a battered Lada that smelled of diesel, stale tobacco, and old upholstery. The driver, a man with a face like a crumpled road map, didn't even look at me as I climbed in.

"Where to?" he grunted, his voice a low gravelly rumble.

I gave him the address on the outskirts of the city. He paused, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror to catch a glimpse of my coat and the way I carried myself. "That’s a long way from the center of the city, lady. You sure you have the right district? There's nothing out there but salt, concrete and crime."

"I’m sure," I said, meeting his gaze in the reflection. "Just drive. I’ll make it worth the fuel."

He shrugged, shifting the car into gear with a violent lurch. "Your funeral. It’s a bad night to be a stranger in the North."

As we pulled away from the glittering, neon-soaked lights of central Moscow, the scenery shifted into the grey, monolithic apartment blocks of the outer rings—the "sleeping districts" where the architecture was as brutal as the climate.

The trip took nearly forty minutes, the city’s pulse fading into a low, industrial hum. This was the part of Moscow the tourists never saw—the place where the people who kept the city running went to disappear when the world was done with them. Viktor Volkov had lost everything today for a woman he didn't even know, and I wasn't going to let him sleep in the cold.

The Lada screeched to a halt in front of a building that looked more like a tombstone than a home. I stepped out, the frost instantly biting through my leggings. The driver rolled down his window, the cold air rushing into the cab.

"You need a weapon?" he asked, his hand drifting toward the glove box. "Or should I stay?"

"I'm fine," I said, pulling my coat tighter. "You can leave."

He shook his head, his expression darkening as he looked at the shadowed entrance of the apartment block. "I'm uncomfortable leaving you here without a weapon," he said, his voice dropping. "And certainly uncomfortable leaving you by yourself. This isn't a place for someone like you."

I leaned into the open window, my face inches from his, letting the coldness in my eyes match the air outside. "It’s safer for you to leave," I said, my voice barely a whisper but sharp enough to draw blood. "I leave dead bodies in my wake."

The driver didn't say a word. His eyes widened, and before I could even straighten up, he slammed the car into gear and floored it. The sudden jerk of the Lada knocked me off balance, and I stumbled back onto the icy asphalt. He made it about twenty yards before the brake lights flared. Realizing he still had my belongings, he threw the car into a frantic reverse, skidding back toward me.

He leaned across the seat, shoved my bag out through the passenger window onto the snow, and then sped off for real this time, his tires screaming against the frozen road. I stood alone in the silence, watching his taillights vanish into the dark.

I hoisted my bag and crunched through the frozen slush toward the front door of the Volkov residence. The smell of boiled cabbage and damp concrete emanated through the paper thin walls. Once I got to the door, I noticed the number peeling, and then I knocked with a firm, rhythmic persistence.

The door creaked open just a crack, then swung wide. A woman stood there, her face etched with years of hard winters. The moment her eyes landed on my face, the color drained from her skin. She didn't need anything to recognize the woman who had cost her husband forty years of stability.

"You!" she hissed, her voice rising into a sharp scream. "How dare you come here? You destroyed us! He is an old man, and because of you, we have nothing! No pension, no job, nothing!"

She began to yell, her words a chaotic blame and fear, her hands waving wildly as if to ward off a curse. I didn't flinch. I waited for her to draw breath, then gently but firmly placed my hand on the door and pushed past her.

"I’m not here to argue," I said softly, stepping into the dim warmth of the small apartment. "I’m here to fix it."

Ludmilla Voltek stared at me, the fire in her eyes dying down into a flicker of desperate hope and deep suspicion. The apartment was cramped, the walls thin enough to hear the neighbors' muffled television. Viktor was sitting at a small wooden table in the corner, his head in his hands.

"How?" Ludmilla asked, her voice dropping to a quiet, trembling whisper. "How are you going to fix this? The airport doesn’t take people back once they have been fired."

I didn't look at her. I kept my eyes on Viktor as he slowly looked up, his face aged a decade in a matter of hours.

"Ask him who I am," I said, my voice steady but quiet. "Ask your husband exactly whose name on the manifest he erased."

Ludmilla turned slowly toward her husband, her brow furrowing as she saw the sheer terror and reverence warring on his face. "Viktor?" she prompted, her voice barely audible. "Whose name did you take off that blasted manifest for this woman?"

Viktor didn't look at his wife. He kept his gaze fixed on me, his voice cracking when he finally spoke. "Her Imperial Highness Marie Alexandrovna Romanov’s name."

Ludmilla froze. She looked back at me, her eyes darting between my modern coat and my weary face. "Marie Alexandrovna? Who is that?"

I stepped forward, closing the space between us until I was standing in the center of their small, cluttered world.

"I am Marie Alexandrovna," I said, the weight of the name hanging heavy in the air. "I have a brother named Artem Alexandrovich. I believe that he and I are the last and most direct descendants of Tsar Alexander II."

Ludmilla paled, stumbling back against the kitchen counter. She looked at me as if I were a ghost risen from the very foundations of the city. She was stunned, her mouth working but no sound coming out.

"I told you I was going to fix your situation, and I meant it," I continued, kneeling to unzip my bag. I pulled out a thick envelope and a pair of folders. "I have passports and paperwork in here—new identities, clean histories, and everything else that will get you across any border you choose. And I have money. More than Viktor would have made in three lifetimes at that hangar."

I set the stack on the wooden table in front of Viktor. "It's time for you to leave Moscow behind. Start over somewhere the wind doesn't bite quite so hard."

Viktor looked briefly at Ludmilla, a silent communication passing between them, before he turned back to me. His hands were still trembling as they hovered over the paperwork. "When?" he asked. "When do we go?"

"We leave in two hours," I said, my voice tightening with the reality of the clock. "Grab all the clothes and other necessities you can carry."

Ludmilla’s eyes darted around the small room, landing on a cluster of framed photographs on the sideboard. "What about our photos or any items from our loved ones?"

"No," I said, cutting her off. "Nothing that can identify you. That includes photos, letters, your old identifications and prescription medication. You are becoming new people tonight."

As the Volkovs scrambled to pack their lives into a few worn suitcases, I pulled out my phone and pulled up Santiago’s contact information to text him.

Meet me at the coordinates I’m sending now. You need to do exactly what I did earlier today—get on a flight without a manifest. I have two packages for you to pick up and escort out of the country. Do not fail me. You cannot fail me or the packages. Take them wherever you can. In forty-five minutes, I will have two pilots ready at every major and minor airport ready to take you wherever you decide to take these packages. Tell them before they get on a plane, they can no longer contact me as it won’t be safe for them or I. Let me know when they have landed and went through customs.

The reply from Santiago was almost immediate, and it wasn't what I wanted to see. Marie, I can't do this tonight. I’m at dinner. I was planning on proposing to my girlfriend. Can it be another night?

I didn't hesitate, my thumbs flying across the screen with a cold, clinical detachment. Two lives are at stake here, Santiago. That trumps asking your girlfriend to marry you. You are the only one I can trust with this.

There was a long silence. I could see the typing indicator appear and disappear.

I’ll get to the coordinates as soon as I can, he finally replied.

You have an hour and forty-five minutes to get there, I shot back. Do not be late.

The ghost manifest

The moment the heavy glass doors of the hotel hissed shut behind me, the Russian winter hit me like a physical blow. It was a brutal, dry cold that seemed to crystallize the very air in my lungs. But as the sub-zero wind whipped against my face, something in me finally woke up. The fog of the previous night—the pain, the medication, the raw grief of the loss—began to thin, replaced by a sharp, jagged clarity.

I wanted Boris and I also wanted my dear friend Santi. But standing there on the salt-stained pavement, I realized with a sudden, freezing certainty that for the first time in a long time, I had to choose myself first.

I needed to get word to Santi about Boris’s three-day window. If I used a phone, I’d be leaving a digital footprint that could get us all killed. If Santi flew between Riga and Moscow again so soon, he’d trip every proverbial alarm the FSB had wired into the border. He was already under enough scrutiny. I couldn't ask him to come to me. I had to go to him.

I did the math in my head. Driving would take eleven hours of navigating checkpoints and black ice. The train was a fifteen-hour vulnerability I couldn't afford. A flight was two hours round trip—provided it was a flight that officially never happened.

I didn't head for the main terminal at Sheremetyevo. Instead, I walked toward the periphery, toward a cluster of unmarked hangars that serviced the kind of people who didn't like to be asked for identification. My boots crunched over the packed snow for twenty minutes before I reached a small, nondescript office at the edge of the tarmac.

The hangar attendant was a man who looked like he had been carved out of old leather and tobacco smoke. He didn't look up from his ledger as I entered, the small space smelling of jet fuel and cheap radiator heat.

"I need a bird," I said, my voice raspy but steady.

He finally looked up, squinting through a cloud of cigarette smoke. "Commercial is across the field, lady."

"I need to get into Riga undetected," I said, leaning over his desk, my eyes locking onto his. "I need an hour on the ground, and I need to be back in Moscow before the sun sets. No flight plan, no manifests. This trip needs to stay off the books of both countries."

The man leaned back, a skeptical sneer pulling at his lips. "Riga is international. You have a passport? Visas?"

"It’s complicated," I replied, the coldness of the night still clinging to my coat. "But I have plenty of money. More than enough to make the paperwork disappear."

He paused, his eyes scanning my face, then my clothes. He saw the quality of my coat, the way I stood—like a woman who was used to giving orders. "You must be an oligarch’s daughter," he muttered, his tone shifting from dismissive to cautious. "Only that kind of blood carries that kind of cash for a morning stroll."

"I’m not a daughter of anything, nor am I an oligarch," I corrected him, my voice dropping an octave. "I have worked in many governments. I know exactly how much silence costs in this city, and I know how to make life very difficult for people who don't provide it."

The attendant paled, the sneer vanishing instantly. He didn't ask which governments. In Russia, the ambiguity was more terrifying than the truth. He stood up quickly, his chair scraping loudly against the linoleum.

"I understand," he said, reaching for a radio on the wall. "I will get you a private pilot. He doesn't ask questions, and he knows the corridors where the radar doesn't reach. Please, wait here."

I nodded, watching him hurry out toward the hangars. I stood in the small, flickering light of the office, my hands still cold, but my mind already halfway to Riga. Within a few minutes, the attendant came back, wiping his hands on a greasy rag.

"You're in luck," he said. "Someone named Darren will take you."

I stiffened slightly. I’d known a few Darrens in my life, and most of them were trouble. "Which Darren?" I asked, trying to sound nonchalant. “I know a few Darrens that work in this airport.”

The attendant shrugged. "We call him 'Lithuanian Darren as his family is Lithuanian."

I felt a jolt of recognition but kept my face a mask. "Fine. Lead the way."

"Right this way, Madame," he said, his tone now bordering on obsequious as he escorted me out to the small plane waiting on the tarmac.

The hum of the private jet’s engines felt like a low-frequency vibration in my bones as I was escorted up the stairs. Stepping into the cabin, I was met with the familiar, sharp scent of leather and expensive cologne. Sera’s uncle, Darren, was already there, checking a manifest. He looked up, a predatory glint in his eyes that I knew all too well. We’ve fucked before.

"Good to see you again," he said, his voice a low rumble as he leaned down and kissed my cheek. "Sera didn't mention you'd be joining us today, but I'm glad for the surprise."

"I have business to attend to," I replied, smoothing my skirt. “Hope I’m not on the manifest?”

"So do I," he whispered, leaning in just enough for me to feel his breath on my ear before he straightened up. "Make yourself comfortable as we’ll be wheels up in twenty. No, you’re not."

He disappeared into the cockpit, and true to his word, the sensation of gravity pressing me into the plush seat signaled our departure shortly after. I hadn't even finished my first drink when the co-pilot stepped back into the cabin, looking slightly flustered.

"The Captain says he needs you in the cockpit," the man said, clearing his throat. "Something about the... flight path."

I smirked, setting the glass down. I knew exactly what path we were on.

When I stepped into the cramped, glowing space of the cockpit, the co-pilot slipped out, closing the door behind me. Darren didn't even look back at the controls; the plane was on autopilot, carving through the clouds at thirty thousand feet.

"You took your time," Darren said, his hands already working at his belt. "I've been sitting here thinking about how much I need to unload my balls. It's been a long morning."

I checked my watch, a slow smile spreading across my face. "You’ve got forty-five minutes before we have to start our descent, Darren. Don't waste them."

He didn't. He growled, pulling himself free, the sight of his thick and ready dick in the dim cockpit light. I didn't need to be told twice. I turned, bracing my hands against the console, and lifted my skirt. The cool air hit my skin for only a second before I backed onto him, slowly sliding down the length of him. He felt larger than he was in my ass.

He hissed through his teeth as I talk him in, his body reacting instantly. "God, you're tight," he muttered, his hands reaching up to find my chest. He didn't play nice; he squeezed my sensitive tits as hard as he could, his fingers digging in with a force that made me gasp against the glass of the windshield.

The next thirty minutes were a blur of engine noise, us moaning and groaning, cumming and breathing heavy. I rode him with a rhythmic desperation, feeling every inch of him until he finally reached his limit. He came in me often. He let out a choked sound, his grip tightening on me as he finally drained his balls deep inside.

We stayed like that for a moment, the only sound the steady beep of the instruments. Then, the professional returned. I stood up and adjusted my skirt and he shoved himself back into his pants, adjusting his uniform with practiced ease. "Get out of here, beautiful," he said, his voice still a bit ragged. "I have a plane to land."

I readjusted my skirt, smoothed my hair, and walked out into the cabin of the plane. I sat down in my seat. As Darren was landing the plane, I felt his cum oozing out of me. No one else onboard knew what just happened in the cockpit. We landed and as I disembarked, Darren told me to come back in four hours as he’s leaving in four and a half hours. I nodded my head.

I walked the three kilometers to Santi’s office in the cold. I was thankful that it wasn’t as cold as it was in Russia. I stopped in a pub to dig for the leggings that I threw in my bag. I put them on and continued on my way. A few minutes later, I arrived.

The heat in Santiago’s office building was different—stagnant, heavy, and charged with a different kind of power. I didn't knock on the door of his private office. I let myself in, the heavy oak door swinging shut with a click.

Santiago was behind his desk, his back to me. His pants and boxers were down at his ankles, and his hand was already moving in a steady rhythm on his dick. He froze when he heard me, turning with an expression of pure shock that quickly melted into dark intent.

"You're not supposed to be here," he rasped. “You should’ve called!”

"I decided to make a pit stop rather than leaving a digital footprint," I said, walking toward the desk. I didn't wait for an invitation. I leaned forward, my chest pressed against the polished wood and slid my leggings down around my ankles, looking at him over my shoulder. "Fuck me, Santi. Now."

He didn't hesitate. He moved with a swift grace, coming around the desk. With one perfect thrust, he buried himself inside of my ass. I cried out, my fingers clawing at the edge of the desk as he began to plow into me, his movements rough and unforgiving.

"Boris..." I managed to gasp out, the words catching in my throat as he hit my depth over and over. "He’ll be in Moscow in a few days."

Santi’s hands gripped onto my hips, his fingers bruising my skin. "And?"

"And we’re going to talk about what we need to do," I groaned, my head dropping as I surrendered to the sensation. "Before we reach out to you."

The mention of another man only made him more feral. He grabbed my hips with a white-knuckled grip, forcing himself deeper inside of me, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, until I was screaming in pure, unadulterated pleasure. A few minutes later, he came in me then pulled out, moaning my name.

As Santi and I were getting ourselves situated, adjusting our clothes while the heavy silence of the office returned, he looked at me with those sharp, calculating eyes.

"How long do you have?" he asked, his voice still thick. "Before you need to get back to your transportation?"

I looked at the clock on the wall, doing a quick mental calculation. "Two hours," I said simply. I didn't tell him that it was actually closer to three. I needed that extra hour for myself, a quiet space between two worlds where no one could find me.

"Let's have lunch," Santi suggested, buttoning his shirt.

I raised an eyebrow, scanning the sterile expanse of his office. "Here? On your desk?"

He offered a rare, slight smile. "No. My apartment is a three-minute walk from here. The fridge is fully stocked, and it’s private."

I nodded once. "I'm hungry. Let's go."

We threw our jackets on, the fabric rustling in the quiet room, and headed out. We walked to his apartment in a heavy, charged silence—the kind that exists between two people who have just shared a violent intimacy and are now shifting back into the roles of cold, calculating allies.

Once we were safely behind the double-locked privacy of his apartment, the atmosphere softened, but only slightly. I watched him move toward the kitchen, his motions economical and precise.

"Santi," I started, leaning against the marble countertop. "Why are you working here? Why aren't you back home?"

He stopped, a container of olives in one hand, and looked at me. "I work near wherever you are," he said plainly.

I opened my mouth to protest, but he cut me off before I could speak.

"Given our history and our friendship, it’s a logical move," he continued, his tone soft. "My licensure allows me to work almost anywhere. I want to be close—just in case you need legal help. You tend to find yourself in situations where having a lawyer within reach is more of a necessity than a luxury."

I felt a pang of something I couldn't quite name. "God, you would’ve saved me a lot of legal headaches over the last fifteen years." I shook my head, my gaze dropping to the floor. "I really didn't know you were always right there. If I had, we would have spent some time together.... probably fucking."

Santi looked at me, a dark, skeptical brow arching. "Even while you were married to Xavier?"

I met his gaze steadily, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. "Santi, as my friend and as Xavier’s lawyer, you knew better than anyone that Xavier and I were far from faithful. Xavier didn't want to be found ninety-nine percent of the time. You know he was a notorious playboy, and I was trying to find love." I sighed, the exhaustion of the years finally showing on my face. "But here I am, in my forties and alone."

Santi walked over to me from the fridge, his presence looming but suddenly tender. He leaned down, catching my jaw in his hand, and kissed me—softly at first, then with a sudden, passionate intensity that tasted like years of unspoken things.

I let myself get lost in it for a few minutes before the cold reality of my schedule pulled at my mind. I pulled away, breathless. "I should leave," I whispered.

He didn't try to stop me. He just watched me as I grabbed my bag and jacket. I left the apartment without looking back, the cool air of the hallway hitting me like a reset button. I headed straight back the way I came, moving toward Darren and the plane.

When I reached the tarmac, the engines were cold and the hangar was quiet. I checked my watch. I was two and a half hours early. The plane was locked, but that was a minor inconvenience. I picked the lock with practiced ease and climbed aboard.

I heard muffled noises coming from the cockpit, a rhythmic thumping that I recognized immediately. I made my way forward and pushed the door open. There was Darren, his back to me, fucking a brunette bimbo draped over the pilot's seat.

I cleared her throat loudly.

They both jumped. Darren spun around, his face a mask of shock, and immediately pulled his dick out of the bimbo. He didn't say a word as he shoved himself back into his pants. The brunette scrambled to redress, her face flushing a deep crimson as she avoided my eyes. She practically bolted from the plane in sheer embarrassment.

"You didn't have to stop on my account," I said coolly, leaning against the doorframe. "I was done far earlier than I expected. If you want to find someone else to fuck, I can find somewhere else to be for a while. I have a few contacts in the red light district."

Darren muttered something under his breath about me being jealous.

I started laughing—a genuine, hard laugh that echoed in the cabin. "Darren, please. This has nothing to do with jealousy. It has everything to do with my safety."

He looked at me with a raised eyebrow, skeptical. "Your safety?"

"Have you heard the rumors?" I asked, my voice dropping to a cold register. "The ones about two surviving descendants of the Romanovs?"

Darren paused, his eyes narrowing. "I've heard them. Everyone in this business has."

"I am one of them," I said, watching the blood drain from his face. "I’m Marie Alexandrovna Romanov. My brother Bob is the other—Artem Alexandrovich Romanov."

Darren paled visibly, his swagger evaporating in an instant. He started to dip his head into a small, frantic bow. I held up a hand. "That's totally unnecessary," I told him.

He looked around the cockpit, still looking shaken. "I'll get Charlie right away," he stammered. "We can leave now."

"Don't bother," I said, turning back toward the cabin. "I could use the time to sleep. I can do that while we wait for Charlie. Go somewhere else if you need to; you spent a ton of your energy between myself, the brunette bimbo and whoever else you’re fucking."

As he was leaving the plane, clearly still reeling, I called out to him. "Reach out to Charlie. Tell him to make sure he has his energy up—but Darren? Do NOT tell him my true identity."

Darren nodded quickly as he left. Before he could get too far from the plane, he yelled over his shoulder, asking if I wanted any food.

"I'm fine," I called back. "I'll eat when I land back in Russia."

He nodded, then continued on his way. I locked up the plane, then searched the cabin until I found a few thick blankets and a soft pillow. Once I sat down and got comfortable, the exhaustion of the day finally caught up with me. I fell asleep instantly.

I slept for two hours without interruption. When my eyes finally blinked open, I felt a wave of gratitude for the rest I’d needed. I had woken up just in time, prior to Darren and Charlie’s arrival.

The low murmur of voices drifted through the cabin as the two pilots took their seats. They spent about twenty minutes going through the rigorous pre-flight pre-check, their voices a low drone from the cockpit as they toggled switches and verified systems.

"Fuel levels checked," Charlie’s voice was crisp, professional. "Navigation systems are green. Wind shear looks minimal for the corridor."

"Copy that," Darren replied. His voice lacked its usual arrogant edge; it was strained, almost reverent. "Hydraulics checked. Oxygen levels nominal. Let's keep this clean, Charlie. No deviations."

"You alright, Cap?" Charlie asked, the clicking of switches pausing for a second. "You sound different."

"Just focus on the checklist," Darren snapped, though there was no heat in it, only a nervous haste. "I want us out of here five minutes ago. Battery master on. Avionics on."

"Master on. Avionics on," Charlie echoed. "Ready for engine start?"

"Start 'em up."

The engines roared to life, vibrating through the fuselage and shaking me from the last remnants of sleep. I felt the power of the machine beneath me, a predatory beast waking up. Once they were finally all set, the plane began its taxi across the darkening tarmac. Moments later, we were in the air, banking steeply and heading back toward Moscow, Russia.

I spent the first few minutes of the ascent clenching the armrests and once we were at our altitude, I spent the time cleaning up my own little cocoon, folding the blankets precisely and making sure I had all of my personal belongings tucked away in my bag. Even with that done, there was still forty minutes of flight time left. I couldn't just sit still. I moved through the rest of the cabin, organizing the magazines, then found the cleaning supplies. I sanitized the hell out of the bathroom, scrubbing until it sparkled, and then moved on to the seating area. I sanitized every inch of the leather seats, erasing every trace of the last who knows how many people sat in this plane until the cabin felt clinical, fresh, and entirely disconnected from the chaos of the world below.

I knew we'd be landing soon, so I sat down and buckled up, my hands resting calmly on my lap. It was a smooth landing, the wheels touching the Russian tarmac with barely a jar. As soon as the plane came to a complete stop, I unbuckled, grabbed my bag, and immediately exited the plane. I didn't look back, and I didn't say goodbye to Darren and Charlie. I disappeared into the cold Moscow air as quickly as I had arrived.

I walked back toward the small, nondescript office in the hangar where I had met the attendant just hours before. I intended to settle our unofficial bill, but when I pushed open the door, a different man sat at the desk—younger, with sharp features and a uniform that looked too new.

"Looking for the other guy," I said, my voice cutting through the silence of the room. "The one with the ledger."

The young man didn't look up immediately. He tapped a few keys on a computer that hadn't been there this morning. "He's gone. Fired two hours ago."

I felt a slight shift in my chest. "On what grounds?"

"Management found out he authorized a roundtrip to Riga without a manifest entry," the man said, finally looking up with a disinterested stare.

"I see," I replied, my face a mask of indifference. "Does he have a name? A home address?"

The man scoffed. "We don't give out personal info. Especially not for guys who broke protocol."

I didn't say anything; I just nodded my head and left. The heavy door clicked shut behind me, sealing off the sterile heat of the office. I stood on the tarmac for a moment, the wind biting at my collar. I knew I only had a few hours to find this man and pay him for his assistance—he’d lost his job for me, and I wasn't about to let that go uncompensated. In this city, loyalty was a rare currency, and I always paid my debts in full.

Shadows and support

The first wave of cramps hit like a dull blade, a heavy, dragging heat that settled deep in my pelvis. It was the unmistakable signal that the abortion process had begun—the clinical reality of the medication finally manifesting as physical toll. I shifted on the couch in the living room area of the suite, bracing my hands against the cushions, trying to keep my breathing shallow and silent. I could feel the sweat beginning to bead at my hairline, a cold dampness that contrasted with the localized fire in my gut.

Across the room, Bob was checking his gear near the kitchenette, but the rhythmic sound of his movement stopped. I didn't have to look up to know he was watching me. We had shared a lifetime of tells; he knew the specific way my shoulders slumped when I was white-knuckling through pain.

"It’s starting, isn't it?" Bob’s voice was quiet, devoid of judgment.

"I’m fine," I lied, the word catching as a sharper cramp flared.

"Don't do that," he said, walking over. "Don't perform for me, dude. You’re my kid sister and I know when you’re not ok. Just tell me what you need, Marie. Right now."

"Ibuprofen and a shower," I managed to say. "I need to be under hot water for a while."

Bob nodded and became instantly focused. He went over to his bag, unzipping a side pocket and pulling out a bottle of Advil. He didn't ask how many I wanted or needed; he just shook three tablets into his palm. Turning to the humming mini-fridge near him, he grabbed a bottle of water from inside, cracking the seal for me before handing it over.

"Take these," he murmured.

I swallowed the pills, the cold water a sharp contrast to the rising heat in my gut. A few minutes later, I forced myself up and headed to the bathroom. Once inside, I clicked the lock and leaned against the door, breathing through another spike of pain. I reached over and cracked the bathroom window open, letting the sub-zero Russian air cut through the heat of the bathroom.

I stripped slowly, the movements mechanical. In the tub, I lit my panties on fire—a visceral, desperate act to erase the evidence of the blood, watching the small flame lick at the fabric until it was gone. I let a minute or two go by before I threw the water on. I hopped in and stood under the spray for what felt like an eternity. A few blood clots escaped from my body and I knew more was to come.

I showered, dressed, and used pads to catch the rest of the clots and the pregnancy sac. Once I brushed my hair, staring at my pale reflection until I looked somewhat human again, I stepped back out to the living room area.

I sat back down on the couch, the silence of the suite heavy between us. Bob pushed the water bottle closer to me, his eyes searching mine.

"Drink," he said softly. Then he leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees. "Tell me, Marie. What do you need? Really?"

The walls I’d built up finally crumbled. "I want to be in Vic's arms," I whispered, the admission feeling like a fresh wound. "But I know the reality. He’s permanently banned from this country, and even if he could be here... he isn't 'man' enough for this. He couldn't handle seeing me like this. I don't even want to see him again."

Bob let out a short, dry chuckle and shook his head. "Most men don't deal well with blood, Marie. They especially don't deal well when they have to see a woman they love go through a tough situation like this. It scares them."

I looked at him—the one person who hadn't been scared off. "And you? How are you dealing with this? You’re a strong Catholic, Bob. Doesn't this go against everything that you believe in?"

Bob was quiet for a long moment, staring at the floor. "I don't agree with your decision as I believe in the sanctity of life," he said finally, meeting my gaze with a steady, honest look. "But I also understand the reality of it. At this stage, it wasn't a fetus and it wasn't a baby but just an unformed clump of cells. But regardless of that..." He reached out, resting a hand briefly on my shoulder. "This is your decision. And you're my sister. I’ll always stand by you and support you, Marie. No matter what, even if I don’t agree with it."

The exhaustion finally won. With the heat of the Advil kicking in and the weight of the conversation behind us, I felt my eyes grow heavy. I shifted on the couch, curling my legs up, and drifted into a thick, dreamless sleep.

I didn't wake for a few hours. When I finally did, it wasn't the pain or the cold that brought me back, but the sharp, insistent vibration of my phone. It was a text from Sera.

“Heard from Boris,” she said. “He says he’s on his way. He’s taking a different route than the one you took to stay under the radar. He thinks he’ll be in Moscow in three days.”

I stared at the glowing text for a second, my mind still hazy from sleep and the lingering ache in my body. Three days. In my current state, three days felt like a lifetime of waiting in these shadows. I looked over at Bob, who was still nearby, his presence a quiet anchor in the room.

“Boris?” he asked, seeing the blue light of the phone reflecting in my eyes.

“Yeah,” I murmured, my throat dry. “He’s three days out as he’s taking the long way.”

I looked back at the screen, my thumbs hovering over the glass. There was so much I could have said—about the pain, the silence, or the fire in the tub—but I didn't have the energy to translate any of it into words. I typed out a short, hollow reply.

“Ok. Thanks.”

I set the phone back down on the side table, the light fading into the dark room. I managed to sit up just enough to take a few more long swallows of water, the liquid soothing my parched throat. I shook two Tylenol into my hand, swallowing them down to stay ahead of the next wave of pain. Without saying another word to Bob, I laid back down, pulling the blanket that he placed on me up to my chin. The darkness of the suite felt heavy and protective as I fell back asleep for the rest of the night, not opening my eyes again until the pale morning light began to bleed through the curtains.

When the sun finally hit the room, I felt a different kind of exhaustion—the kind that comes after a battle. I forced myself out of bed, heading straight for the shower to wash away the sweat of the nigh and to check the process of the abortion. After brushing my teeth and getting dressed, I raided the mini-fridge, grabbing a bottle of water and a yogurt.

I sat at the small table, eating slowly as my strength returned. Bob was already up, nursing a cup of coffee. I looked at him, realizing how much he’d carried for me over the last thirty-six hours.

“Bob,” I said, setting the empty yogurt cup aside. “You should find Polina.”

He lowered his cup, looking at me with a confused frown. “Polina? Why?”

“Because,” I said, leaning back. “You need to blow off some steam. And let’s be real—she’s beautiful. You deserve a break from all of this.”

He was silent for a moment, then he gave a slow, contemplative nod. “How am I supposed to find her?”

I didn't answer right away. I pulled out my phone and shot a quick text to Fritz. A minute later, the screen lit up. “She’s on her way up to the suite,” I told Bob, relaying the message.

As Bob headed into the bathroom to shower, I moved with a new sense of purpose. I grabbed a small bag and began throwing things in—a change of clothes, some travel hair care, and my toothbrush and toothpaste. I wasn't going to be the third wheel in my own suite while my brother finally got a moment of peace.

Once Bob emerged from the bathroom, fresh and dressed, I zipped my bag and slung it over my shoulder.

“I’m heading out,” I told him. “I’ll be spending the day and night elsewhere. You and Polina should have some privacy.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, but then he just nodded, his expression softening. I headed for the door, leaving the weight of the night behind me for a while.

As I headed past reception, I saw Fritz. I stopped by the desk, the cool air from the entrance already beginning to swirl around my ankles.

"Fritz," I said, catching his attention.

He looked up, offering a professional nod. "Yes, Marie? Is everything all right?"

"I need a favor," I said, lowering my voice slightly. "The bedding that will be used today and tonight in the suite? I want you to make sure it's burned in the morning. All of it."

Fritz didn't blink. He simply leaned in and gave a short, firm nod. "Consider it done. I'll make sure it's taken care of personally."

"Thank you," I said, feeling a small piece of the burden lift.

I adjusted the strap of my bag and headed out into the biting Russian cold.

Shadows of the safehouse

The heavy oak door of the hotel room thudded shut, the sound echoing with a finality that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards and into my marrow. Bob let out a long, ragged exhale—the kind of breath a man draws when he realizes he’s still alive, if only for the moment. He dropped his duffel bag near the entryway of the small foyer with a heavy thud.

I felt the vibration in my pocket a second before the chime cut through the silence. I pulled the burner phone out, the screen’s cold, clinical blue glow illuminating the raw, cracked skin across my knuckles—reminders of a morning I’d rather forget. It was a message from Sera.

“I know you’re out of the safehouse, Marie. It goes up in flames within a few hours. Consider it a thank you for saving my life more than once.”

I stared at the text, the words burning into my retinas for a beat too long. Then, I pocketed the phone without a word and looked at Bob.

“Bad news?” he asked, his eyes scanning my face with the practiced intensity of a man who lived by reading reactions.

“Sera says the safehouse is slated to burn within a few hours,” I said, crossing the room toward the window. I pulled the curtain back just enough to scan the street-level perimeter from our eighth-floor vantage point. “She knows exactly where we are.”

Bob paused, his hand white-knuckled around the strap of his bag. He watched me with that slow, deliberate scrutiny that usually preceded a hard truth. “You going to respond?”

“No,” I replied, my voice flat. I ignored the phantom weight of the device in my pocket.

Bob stood up straight, crossing his arms over his chest. “She’s the only tether we have left to the inner circle, Marie. Why the radio silence?”

I turned away from the window, leaning my weight against the frame. “Because she’s already in deep shit with the wife due to the history between her and I. If Elena finds out Sera is even breathing in our direction right now, the politics of this job become the least of my worries. In this business, there are lines you don't cross twice.”

Bob raised a salt-and-pepper eyebrow, a silent, stubborn demand for the part of the story I was holding back. I met his gaze, the weight of a decade of regret pressing into my chest.

“Sera was the love of my life,” I stated, the admission feeling like a jagged stone in my throat. “When you spend years working for different governments, thrust together into the same dark corners, you tend to fall in love with the person you shouldn’t. We were supposed to get married before I started working for you. She was hospitalized for months after a difficult assignment, and she fell for her doctor. They were married six months later.”

Bob gave a slow, somber nod, the skepticism in his eyes finally giving way to a grim understanding of the stakes. “The casualties we don't bury,” he muttered. “I get it.”

I cleared my throat, the air in the room suddenly too thick with the past. “Come on. Let me show you around the suite.”

I gave him a tour, moving through the suite with the mechanical efficiency of someone who had already mapped every exit and blind spot. “The bedroom is through there. We’ve got a small kitchenette with a stocked mini-fridge if you need to eat, the pull-out couch, the secondary living room area, and the full bathroom.”

Bob walked to the center of the living area, spinning in a slow circle as he took in the dimensions. He let out a low, appreciative whistle. “This is three times the size of any hotel room back home,” he said, his voice echoing slightly in the sterile quiet of the suite.

“It is,” I said, already moving back to the door to double-check the secondary deadbolts I’d reinforced. “But those rooms aren’t as secure, and they sure as hell aren’t as safe.”

Bob walked over to the window, peering out at the cold glitter of the city lights before turning back to me. “So, what now?” he asked, his voice dropping to a low rasp. “What’s the move?”

I checked the time on my watch, watching the second hand sweep with agonizing, rhythmic precision. “Now, we sit and wait,” I told him firmly. “We don't move too far from the hotel, we don't signal Sera as she always has eyes on me and we don't make contact with Santi until Boris arrives.”

Bob ran a hand along the wall, his expression skeptical. "And how secure is this suite, really? It looks like every other overpriced tourist trap in the city."

"Looks are the point," I replied, tapping the surface of the wall near the doorframe. The sound wasn't the hollow thud of drywall; it was the dull, heavy ring of industrial plating. "The walls and the door are all reinforced metal, hidden under those wooden panels. It’s designed to withstand more than just a common breach team."

I looked around the nondescript space, the shadows lengthening as the sun dipped below the skyline. To Bob, it was a nice room. To me, it was a fortress.

“This is the only place I felt safe when people were trying to kill me,” I explained, my voice barely above a whisper. “When the world was falling apart, this was the only corner of it where I could actually breathe.”

The exit strategy

Santiago adjusted the collar of his coat against the biting wind, his boots crunching on the frost and snow covered gravel as he studied me. We stood in the desolate open space of Chelobityevo, the grey Russian sky stretching endlessly above us. He maintained that sharp, analytical gaze that had served my ex-husband so well for years. The weight of the Romanov revelation was still hanging in the air, thick and suffocating, but Santiago was already moving on to the tactical reality of my escape.

"You mentioned a colleague, Marie," Santiago said, his voice barely a murmur to keep the wind from carrying it too far. "This isn't just about moving one person across a border anymore. You told me you needed a permanent exit for yourself and a 'friend.' Who is he? Who is this person you’ve tethered your survival to?"

I watched a hawk circle slowly over the distant, barren fields before meeting his eyes. "His name is Boris. He’s been in the business as long as I have, maybe longer. He’s spent fifteen years as my shadow, my cleaner, and occasionally the only reason my heart is still beating."

Santiago’s brow furrowed as he looked around the empty landscape, ensuring we were still alone. "A professional. That makes things rather complicated. Bringing a second operative out of Russia, especially one with that kind of history, doubles the risk. Is he worth it?"

"He’s the only thing in this godforsaken country that I actually value," I replied, the ice in my voice leaving no room for negotiation. "I gave him my word. When I burn this life down, I’m not leaving him in the wreckage to be picked apart by the Kremlin. He’s important to me, Santiago. More important than the politics or the money."

Santiago tapped his fingers against his folded arms, his mind likely calculating the cost of extra falsified documents and high-risk extraction points. "And have you contacted him? Does he know the clock is ticking?"

"I sent word before I even reached this God forsaken town. Boris will be at the safehouse in three to five days. He’ll be ready to move when we are."

Santiago nodded slowly, a grim respect flickering in his eyes as he leaned against a rusted fence post. "Good. Because once the Kremlin realizes you aren't just another asset—once they truly accept what that DNA test means—they won't just want your blood for a vial. They’ll want your life to ensure the line stays dead. We don't have time for hesitation."

"I'm not hesitating," I said, stepping closer to him so our voices stayed low.

Santiago looked at me, his expression turning solemn. "There is one more thing you need to accept, Marie. Once you cross that border, once you leave Russia behind—DNA test or not—you won't be allowed back for a very long time. Probably ever. You are closing a door that has been open for many years."

I met his gaze without blinking, the cold wind whipping my hair across my face. "I understand, Santiago."

He hesitated for a moment, his professional mask slipping just enough to reveal a flicker of personal curiosity. "Xavier still asks about you. Can I tell him I saw you?"

I didn't have to think about the answer. "No. You tell him nothing. Xavier needs to accept that I am no longer in his life. As far as he is concerned, Santiago, I need you to let him see me as dead. It's the only way he moves on, and it's the only way I stay safe."

Santiago sighed, the sound lost to the wind, and gave a single, sharp nod of understanding. "Understood, Marie. Consider it buried."

"Thank you, Santi," I said, offering a rare moment of genuine gratitude. "I’ll let you know when Boris arrives."

Santiago checked his watch, his posture suddenly stiffening with professional urgency. "I need to get back to Riga," he said, his eyes scanning the horizon. "Latvia doesn’t know that I left the country and Russia doesn’t know that I entered the country. If the Russian government catches wind of this meeting, the paperwork will be the least of our problems."

I watched him walk back toward his vehicle, his figure merging with the grey landscape.

Once Santiago was gone, I didn't linger. The silence of the fields was too heavy, too full of things that had already been decided. I climbed back into the car I had hotwired earlier, the engine turning over with a reluctant, mechanical groan. I drove through the outskirts of Moscow, weaving through the late afternoon traffic with the practiced anonymity of someone who had spent their life disappearing.

When I was within twelve blocks of the safehouse, I found the same street where I’d initially taken the car. I put it back into the space where I borrowed it from, wiped down the ignition and the door handle, and stepped out into the cold. I walked the rest of the way, my hood up, eyes tracking the shadows of the doorways and the reflections in the shop windows.

The air inside the safehouse was stale, smelling of old wood and the copper tang of nervous energy. Bob was there, exactly where I had left him, his silhouette framed against the dim light of the kitchen. He didn't say a word as I locked the door behind me, but his silence was loud enough to fill the room. He had been waiting, counting the minutes of my absence, and I could tell by the set of his shoulders that he was ready for whatever truth I was bringing back with me.

I turned to face him, the cold from outside still clinging to my skin. "He’s heading back to Latvia. They don’t know he left and Russia doesn’t know he was here. He’s going to facilitate the exit for all three of us."

"Glad that it was all three of us that you mentioned," Bob’s eyes narrowed.

"I told him that it’s mandatory that Boris comes with us. I told him he’s non-negotiable." I stepped into the kitchen, the floorboards groaning under my boots. "But there’s a catch, Bob. A permanent one."

"There always is with Santiago," Bob muttered. "What's the price?"

“He was very clear,” I said. “Once we cross that border, I can’t come back. Not in five years, not in ten. As far as Russia is concerned—and as far as the world is concerned—the Romanov line ends with me since they don't know that you exist.”

Bob let out a short, harsh breath that might have been a laugh in another life. "I've been a ghost in this country for years, Marie. The only difference is now the grave will be outside the fence." He looked at me, his gaze searching. "Are you really okay with that? Leaving everything? The life you built in working in different governments and our real names?"

"I'm more than okay with it," I replied, my voice steady. "I'm ready. I told him to tell Xavier picture me as dead; as he should’ve done when I divorced him and sent his pathetic ass to prison. It’s the only way you and I survive the fallout."

Bob nodded slowly. "And Boris as well."

I took a breath, scanning the small room and feeling the clock ticking against us. "We need to pack up and move. Now."

"What happened?" Bob asked, his hand hovering over his bag.

"I hotwired a car to meet Santiago," I explained, already grabbing my gear. "When I parked it back where I found it, people saw me. We can't stay here another hour."

Bob groaned, the sound of a man who had put up with me hotwiring vehicles too many times in his lifetime. "Fine. Let's go."

It took only a few minutes to gather our things and leave. We abandoned the stale air of the safehouse, slipping back into the biting cold of the Moscow streets. We headed to the only other safe place I could think of—the Metropol Hotel.

When we arrived and entered the lobby, the opulence of the hotel felt like a different world compared to the grit of the streets we had just left. I noticed Fritz was at reception, his movements as polished and efficient as ever. He looked up as we approached, his expression neutral but welcoming.

"Welcome back, Miss Smith," Fritz said, his eyes flicking briefly to Bob. "Is this your brother? You always said how much you both look alike."

"It's certainly him, Fritz," I said, a faint, tired smile touching my lips. "The one sibling that I like."

Fritz nodded, a spark of professional curiosity in his eyes as he and Bob began chatting. Bob fell into the role of the weary traveling sibling with ease, engaging Fritz in the kind of low-stakes conversation that kept suspicions at bay. Bob was the perfect person to put questions at bay as he is a restaurateur and can schmooze anyone for anything that he needed. While Fritz studied his computer, trying to decide where to place us in the fully booked hotel, the tension in my chest tightened.

"To make it easier for you, Fritz," I interjected, leaning slightly over the counter, "would it be okay if I used the room I had the last time?"

“Hmmmmm, I don’t think so as it hasn’t been cleaned yet,” he said. “Let me check with the boss.”

Since I knew that he had to place a call to the owner of the hotel, I pulled Bob aside.

"When were you here last?" Bob asked.

"Last night with K," I said as I kept my back to the desk. "It’s the only room in this hotel that’s truly secure. Only the owner, security, Sera, Fritz, and I know about it." I paused, glancing back at the reception. "Oh, and the owner’s personal house cleaner, of course. We need that room, Bob. It's about laying low until Boris arrives and we can get out of here."

We spent a few minutes in silence, watching Fritz as he spoke into the phone. The lobby was quiet, the heavy velvet curtains muffling the sounds of the city outside. Finally, Fritz hung up and turned back to us with a sharp nod.

"The owner has approved it," Fritz said. "We can use the room, but we need about forty-five minutes to clean it and set it up for both of you. I’ll bring up your belongings to store in the large wall safe in that room so you don’t need to drag everything around with you."

He leaned in slightly, a rare touch of informal hospitality breaking through his professional mask. "In the meantime, there is a hole-in-the-wall ramen restaurant two blocks over that I recommend. It’s quiet, and the food is authentic. Please let them know that I sent you."

“Thanks so much, Fritz,” I said as I was taking off my backpack and Bob placing my duffle bags and his one bag on the counter. “Which way do we need to take to the restaurant?”

“Go north west,” he said. I nodded.

We stepped back out into the Moscow chill, the heavy gold-trimmed doors of the Metropol clicking shut behind us. The transition from the hotel's climate-controlled elegance to the raw, biting air of the street was a sharp reminder of the world we were trying to navigate. I adjusted my scarf, my eyes automatically scanning the passing cars and the figures huddled in doorways. Bob walked beside me, his stride steady, though I could feel the alertness radiating off him.

Following Fritz's directions, we turned northwest. The city was beginning to settle into the early evening, the streetlamps casting long, distorted shadows across the pavement. Two blocks felt longer than they should have when every set of headlights felt like a spotlight.

The restaurant was exactly as Fritz described: a narrow, unassuming doorway tucked between a closed tailor shop and a darkened bookstore. We stepped inside, the heat hitting us instantly, along with the steam from the open kitchen. The place was small—just a few stools at a wooden counter and three cramped booths. It was the kind of place where you could disappear into the steam, exactly where we needed to be.

Polina emerged from the kitchen with food to serve to customers at a table. She froze for a second when she saw me, then a look of recognition softened her features. After placing the food on the table for the couple that was there, she began taking off her apron then came over.

"Polina?" I asked, surprised to see her in such a different environment. "What are you doing here?"

"The salon job is my primary job," she explained with a tired but kind smile, "but I work here on my days off from the salon. A girl has to stay busy in this city."

"I apologize for my manners," I said, feeling a rare moment of social clumsiness given the high stakes of the day. "I didn't expect to run into a familiar face." I gestured toward Bob. "This is my brother, Artem Alexandrovich. But he prefers to be called Bob."

"A pleasure to meet you, Bob," Polina said.

"The pleasure is mine," Bob replied, extending a hand. They shook hands, and then, in a rare display of emotion, Bob stepped forward and gave Polina a hug. "Thank you," he whispered, "for changing her appearance and for sending for your brother."

When Polina broke their hug, looking slightly flustered but touched, I spoke up. "Polina, I spoke with a lawyer friend of mine a few hours ago. He's willing to help Boris get out of his government work, but you need to know there's a good chance he won't be welcomed back here any time soon once we leave."

The steam from the kitchen swirled between us, Polina’s eyes reflecting the weight of my words. She went quiet for a moment, her gaze dropping to the wooden floor. "I will miss him," she said softly, "but I will follow him eventually on my own. I'm saving my money to leave this country forever."

I turned to Polina. "We've taken up so much of your time away from cooking with just talking so we'll take a table and order with someone."

She thanked me, and we sat at the one table that was empty. Once we sat down, a server came over to us. "Good evening," he said with a slight bow. "You don't need to look at the menu. A friend of the house, Mr. Fritz, has already placed an order for you. It will be out shortly."

"Fritz is thorough," Bob remarked.

"Spasibo,” I said to the server. He nodded then left to join the kitchen activity. Within minutes, the server returned, placing a small bottle of chilled, expensive vodka and two heavy shot glasses on the table.

"Compliments of Fritz," the server added before disappearing back into the steam.

I reached for the bottle, feeling the condensation on the glass. "Be careful with this, Bob," I warned, pouring a steady measure into each glass. "The vodka here is significantly stronger than back home. It doesn't just burn; it takes your breath away."

Bob picked up his glass, eyeing the clear liquid. "After today, Marie, I think taking my breath away is exactly what I need."

In a matter of minutes, so many varieties of ramen were delivered to the table. Huge, steaming bowls of tonkotsu, spicy miso, and shoyu, each topped with perfectly marbled pork and soft-boiled eggs, filled the small space between us. We didn't talk much; the gravity of the situation and the sheer volume of food demanded our full attention. It took forever to eat all of it and consume all of the broth, the heat of the soup finally driving the lingering chill of Chelobityevo from my bones.

When the time came to leave, I signaled for the bill. As I paid, I tucked a thick envelope into the folder. Inside was a wad of rubles I had gathered—a small fortune in this economy. I wrote Polina’s name on the front in clear, precise script. I knew she would need it to follow Boris, to buy her own way out when the time was right. I left it on the table as we stood to go, a silent thank you for a loyalty that money couldn't truly buy, but could certainly protect.

We left the heat of the ramen shop and headed back to the Metropol Hotel. The night air was even colder now, the frost beginning to sparkle on the statues surrounding the square. Fritz was still at the desk when we pushed through the revolving doors. I walked straight to the counter, Bob following just behind.

"Fritz," I said, leaning in. "Thank you. Leading us to Polina was more helpful than I can say."

Fritz looked up, his expression softening into something abashedly warm. "I'm more than happy to help you, Deppgrl," he said softly, using the name that hinted at our long, strange history.

"I appreciate you, Fritz," I said, holding his gaze for a second. "And I appreciate your assistance with everything today."

He didn't say anything further, simply giving a short, respectful nod of acknowledgment. He glanced around the lobby to ensure no one was watching before sliding a cool, heavy metal key across the polished wood and into my hand. "The room is ready. Your things are already secured inside."

I closed my fingers over the key, the metal bite of it grounding me. Without another word, I signaled to Bob and led my brother toward the elevators, leaving the safety of the lobby for the sanctuary of the room upstairs.