Shadows of the Kremlin

The sterile scent of the infirmary had begun to feel like a shroud. It was hours later when the heavy oak door groaned open, and Dr. Arisov stepped in, his face a mask of professional indifference. He clutched a stack of discharge papers like a deck of cards he was reluctant to play.

"You are stable enough to move," Arisov said, his voice clipping the ends of his words. "But you are not 'well.' Do not mistake the two."

Boris didn’t wait for the doctor to finish. He was already at my side, his large hands steadying me as I struggled to pull on my clothes. My fingers felt like lead, fumbling with buttons. "Easy," Boris whispered, his shadow looming protective and dark against the white walls. "We are almost out of this cage."

We weren't truly out, though. We were merely moved to a different part of the labyrinth. Two FSB officers, their suits so sharp they looked lethal, escorted us down to a windowless private office on the first floor of the Kremlin. The air here felt different—thick with the weight of state secrets and old blood.

Three more officers entered. They didn't offer handshakes.

"I am Colonel Popov," the eldest said, his eyes scanning me with the precision of a thermal scope. "To ensure the integrity of the record and the security of the Federation, we require a full biological profile. Hair, blood, and a buccal swab."

I looked at the silver tray of medical instruments they had brought in. Beside the FSB team stood a woman in a charcoal suit I recognized—a representative from my own embassy. She looked pale, but she nodded once. "I am here to oversee the chain of custody," she assured me, though her voice lacked conviction.

"I consent," I said, the words feeling dry in my throat.

The process was invasive and silent. The prick of the needle, the tug of the hair follicle, the scrape of the swab against my cheek. It was a ritual of ownership.

Thirty minutes later, the door was opened again. "You are free to leave the grounds," Popov announced.

I turned to Boris, expecting him to follow, but an officer stepped between us, a hand flat against Boris’s chest.

"Wait," I snapped, my heart hammering. "He's with me."

"Mr. Petrov is staying for further debriefing," the FSB colonel said.

"I'm not leaving without him," I argued, looking to my country's representative for help. She simply looked at the floor.

"He'll be fine," she whispered, her cowardice palpable as she refused to meet my eyes.

"You are leaving now," the officer said, his tone final. Boris caught my eye, a subtle shake of his head warning me not to fight.

"Go," Boris mouthed. "I'll find you."

I was shoved—politely, but firmly—out of the Kremlin's reinforced gates. The Moscow winter hit me like a physical blow. The freezing cold bit into my lungs, and the adrenaline that had sustained me began to evaporate, leaving only a hollow, bone-deep ache.

I stood on the sidewalk, my breath blooming in white clouds. I was on thin ice. I knew that calling Sera was a gamble—especially with Elena’s icy disdain looming in the background—but I was drowning.

I pulled out my phone with trembling fingers. It rang three times.

"Hello?" Sera’s voice was sharp, alert.

"Sera, it’s me," I choked out. "I’m outside of the Kremlin, but everything has gone wrong."

"Deep breaths," she commanded, her tone immediately shifting into the iron-clad resolve that made her who she was. "Tell me everything. Now."

"I was almost killed, Sera. A gunman," I stammered, the words tumbling out in a jagged, dark rush. "Boris arrived days ago to help a friend and I move a couple out of Russia, but he stayed behind to get me where I needed to go. It happened so fast—a gunman with a gun similar to the one used to execute my family. He tried to finish the job, but Boris saved me. I’ve been held in a secured wing of the Kremlin hospital, but then the FSB moved in. They treated me like a specimen, Sera. They took blood, hair, swabs... they treated me like a criminal while my own embassy representative stood by in silence. And now they’ve kept him. They won't let Boris leave. He’s still in there, behind those red walls, and I'm just standing here in the street. I can't get back in, Sera. They won't let me."

There was a pause on the line, the kind of silence that usually preceded a storm. "Listen to me," Sera said. "I have more pull in that city than the FSB likes to admit. I’m going to make some calls. I’ll get a rush on those DNA results so they have no excuse to keep questioning your identity, and I will get Boris released before the sun goes down."

"Thank you," I breathed, tears finally stinging my eyes. "And Sera? There’s one more thing. I can’t do this anymore. I wanted out from all governments, but now... it's the Russians specifically. I want nothing more to do with them. I want the paperwork finished. I'm done being their asset."

"Consider it done," she said, her voice softening just a fraction. "And I’m not just getting Boris out. I’ll start the process for Bob and Polina as well. Once they realize who you are, they’ll realize who Bob is. We’re getting all of you out of Russia. Just stay somewhere safe and keep your phone on. Do you hear me?"

"I hear you."

"Good. I have a Minister to threaten."

The line went dead. I stood there in the cold, the wind howling around the spires of St. Basil’s, and for the first time since the gun had been pulled, I felt like I might actually survive.

I started walking, my boots crunching on the packed snow. I couldn't go back to the Metropol to wait. The thought of the luxury there felt suffocating, especially knowing my brother was inside with his new girlfriend, oblivious to the frost settling in my bones. Instead, I sought out the familiar, grimy facade of the hostel I’d used before the hotel had become my sanctuary.

When I stepped through the door, the heavy air smelled of damp wool and floor wax. I kept my head down, bracing for a question or a look of recognition, but not a single employee or volunteer behind the desk looked up with more than a passing glance. They didn't know me. To them, I was just another drifter looking for a place to hide from the wind. I was deeply, profoundly grateful for that anonymity.

The hostel wasn't safe—not in the way a fortress like the Metropol was—but it was safer than the exposed streets, and infinitely better than the complicated, gilded life waiting for me at the hotel.

I was assigned a private room, small and cramped, but it had an attached bathroom. The space had recently been scrubbed with bleach; the sharp, chemical tang hit me as soon as I crossed the threshold. I was able to open the window a few inches to help clear the air. Even the bedding smelled faintly of it, a scent that felt more like a sanctuary than the hospital’s sterile shroud.

I secured my things, then went back to the communal kitchen and grabbed several bottles of water from the fridge. Walking back to the front desk, I caught the eye of the clerk.

"I don't want to be bothered for the next twenty-four to thirty-six hours," I said flatly. "I’ll be sleeping."

They nodded with the indifference of people used to the exhausted and the broken. I left it at that and returned to my room. Once the door was locked and the bolt thrown, I stripped, went into the small bathroom to wash the day away, and went straight to bed. In the shadows of that small, bleached room, I finally let the world fade to black.

Hours past as I slept, the deep, dreamless exhaustion of the hunted. The sharp trill of my phone eventually pierced the silence, vibrating against the nightstand. I fumbled for it, my eyes burning. It was Sera.

"It's confirmed," she said, her voice carrying a gravity that fully woke me. "The Kremlin’s DNA testing matches the results from Doc’s mechanic. There is no more room for doubt. You are Marie Alexandrovna Romanov."

I sat up, the bleach-scented sheets tangling around me. The weight of the name felt like lead.

"The Kremlin has been busy," Sera continued. "They’ve been putting the pieces together between you and Bob. They know who he is now but I’ve held them to the fire. The FSB has agreed to release both you and Boris from any further service or obligation. You’re done, Marie. Boris and his sister Polina will be permitted to leave within the next thirty-six hours."

I let out a breath I felt like I’d been holding since I entered that windowless office. "And the cost?"

"Exile," Sera said flatly. "The four of you—you, Boris, Polina, and Bob—are officially banned from the Russian Federation for the next fifteen years. Boris and Polina are essentially being stripped of everything. They will no longer be considered Russian citizens or residents. Their citizenship is to be revoked the moment they cross the border. However, I’ve secured the necessary paperwork for them; they will be entering the next country as individuals seeking political asylum. They'll be safe, but they can't look back for the next fifteen years."

I gripped the phone, looking at the cracked ceiling of the hostel room. We were being erased, cast out of the land that had tried to claim our lives. But we were alive, and for the first time in a generation, we were free.

"Thank you, Sera," I said, my voice finally steady. "One more thing before I go. Tell Elena she should be looking for a special delivery soon."

I didn't wait for her reply. I hung up the phone.

A new energy took hold of me, overriding the ache in my limbs. I showered quickly, the hot water scrubbing away the last of the Kremlin’s clinical grime. I dressed, packed my meager belongings, and checked out of the hostel without a word to the clerk.

I navigated the Moscow streets with a purpose I hadn't felt in years. I found a mid-grade local store, the kind that dealt in traditional staples but kept the high-end stock for those who knew to ask. I scanned the shelves until I found what I needed: a particular brand of caviar and a bottle of vodka that had once been the standard of the old elite. I picked the most expensive of both. The caviar and vodka set me back eleven thousand rubles.

I approached the counter and set the items down. The clerk began to ring them up with a bored, mechanical rhythm, but when I spoke, the air in the shop seemed to freeze. I gave him a specific address for delivery—the private residence of Elena—and as the words left my mouth, the man’s eyes went wide. His jaw practically hit the counter. He looked at me, really looked at me, his gaze traveling from my eyes to the bridge of my nose, as if seeing through the layers of the drifter and the victim to the ancient, royal blood underneath.

"The address," I repeated, my voice cool and unmistakable. "It needs to arrive within the hour."

He clicked his heels together, standing up perfectly straight with a sharp, military snap. He bowed his head in a gesture of profound, ancient respect, a ghost of a world that had been buried for a century.

"Forgive me, I did not realize," he whispered, his hands trembling as he took the payment. "Everything is exactly as it should be for the delivery."

I raised an eyebrow in his direction.

"It will be delivered in two hours, Imperial Highness," he said, his voice hushed and reverent.

"Thank you," I replied.

I walked out of the store, leaving him standing there in stunned silence. I didn't slow down. I began to run, my heart racing, heading back toward the red walls of the Kremlin.

I stormed inside the Kremlin, bypassing the outer layers of bureaucracy with a fury that no one dared to challenge. Security details reached for their radios, but something in my posture made them hesitate, a command in my stride that silenced the halls. I was met immediately by the same FSB agents who had taken my DNA samples—the ones who had treated me like a laboratory animal only hours before. Now, their eyes held a different light. They weren't looking at a specimen; they were looking at a legacy they could no longer contain.

"The paperwork," I demanded, stopping inches from Colonel Popov.

He didn't flinch, but he didn't sneer either. He signaled to an aide who produced a leather folder. "Everything is prepared," Popov said, his voice a low rasp. "The release forms for Boris Petrov and Polina Petrovna. The exit permits for yourself and your party. The paperwork for Petrov and Petrovna includes that they are seeking political asylum."

I snatched the folder, then looked at the two blue booklets he offered next, embossed with the double-headed eagle.

Two Russian Federation passports.

I flipped one open. There it was, printed in the clinical, official typeface of the state: Marie Alexandrovna Romanov. Beside it sat another: Artem Alexandrovich Romanov. My heart hammered against my ribs as I saw the names—names that had been whispers of ghosts, now stamped in ink by the very government that had tried to bury them.

"You are giving us these just to cast us out?" I asked, my voice trembling with a mixture of rage and triumph.

Popov stood at attention, his eyes fixed on a point just above my head. "Though you are banned from the Federation for fifteen years, Your Imperial Highness," he said, the title tasting like ash and iron in his mouth, "you should know that these passports never expire. The State recognizes the lineage. You will always be who you are, wherever you are."

I nodded my head slowly, snapping the passports shut and clutching the documents to my chest. The cold weight of the past was finally meeting the heat of the future. We had been cast out, but we had been reclaimed.

He stepped back and gave a stiff, formal nod. "Thirty-six hours. If you are still on Russian soil after that, the protocols change. Do not make us find you."

"You won't have to," I said but I didn't move. "And Boris? I want him. Now."

Popov looked at me for a long, silent beat, perhaps measuring the resolve in my eyes. Then, he turned to the aide. "Bring him."

The aide hurried away. I stood my ground, my heart a frantic drum against the leather folder. Moments later, the heavy door at the end of the corridor opened, and Boris stepped through. He looked tired, his face marked with the strain of the interrogation, but when he saw me, his eyes cleared instantly.

"Marie," he breathed.

I didn't wait for permission nor did I seek it. I closed the distance between us in a heartbeat, throwing my arms around him. He caught me, his large, familiar hands gripping the back of my coat, pulling me in so tight I could barely breathe. We hugged, and we couldn't stop hugging—it was the only thing that felt real in that cold, stone fortress.

"You're okay," he whispered into my hair, his voice thick. "You're okay."

"We're going home," I said against his chest, refusing to let go.

I turned on my heel, pulling Boris with me, and walked out of the heart of the machine. We didn't stop until we reached the Metropol Hotel.

We headed straight to the secure suite of the Metropol. The tension didn't break until we stepped through the door and saw them. Bob and Polina were there, waiting with an anxious energy that filled the room. The moment the door clicked shut, the room erupted into motion. We all moved at once, a tangle of siblings reunited under the most impossible of circumstances. We hugged each other, a frantic, silent confirmation that we were all still here, all still breathing.

After a long moment, I pulled Bob to the side. The suite was quiet now, the adrenaline of the reunion settling into something more profound. I reached into my folder and handed him his Federation passport.

He took it with a look of confusion that quickly turned to awe. He opened it, his thumb tracing the gold-embossed double-headed eagle, then the name printed inside: Artem Alexandrovich Romanov. He looked at me, impressed, the weight of the document apparent in the way his hands shook.

"They gave us these?" he whispered.

"They did," I said, my voice firm with a newfound certainty. "And they banned us for fifteen years. But look at that ink, Artem. It's a permanent record. Once our ban is over, we will be welcomed back whenever we want. They can't hide from the truth anymore."

I looked around the room. The air was thick with relief, but also a growing urgency. "We need to leave," I said, my voice dropping. “We have thirty six hours but we should leave sooner. The sooner we get out of here, the sooner we can move on with our lives.”

Santiago was compromised as

the act of helping a married couple escape had placed a target on his back, and by extension, ours. I stepped into the bedroom, closing the door to find a moment of privacy. I pulled out my phone and dialed Kay.

"We need out, Kay," I said the second she picked up. "We need out now."

"I know," Kay replied, her voice steady but clipped. "I've been monitoring everything with Sera. I'll reach out to my contact in the FSB to help facilitate your exit. They'll ensure the border protocols don't 'glitch' on your way out."

"Who is this contact, Kay?" I asked, a sliver of suspicion coloring my voice.

"You know who it is," she said simply.

The realization settled in my gut, but there was no time for questions. "We need to get out soon as possible."

"I'll arrange it," Kay promised. "But you need to be ready to move. Meet my contact at the back entrance of the Metropol in an hour and a half. Be ready for anything."

I hung up and walked back into the main room. Boris and Polina were already hovering near each other, talking in Russian. My brother was gathering his stuff.

"Do either of you want or need anything from town or your residences before we go?" I asked, looking from Boris to Polina. "We have a very small window of time before we leave."

They both shook their heads. "No, we both grabbed what we wanted while you were in the hospital," Polina said. "We just need the border."

I turned toward my brother, raising an eyebrow. "Artem, do you need anything?"

He looked at me, his expression softer than I’d seen it in years. He looked at the passport in his hand, then back at Polina. "No, I don't," Artem said. "I have my sister  mostly in one piece, my things are packed and I have my beautiful girlfriend."

I gathered the last of my belongings, my hands moving with a mechanical precision. We had little time, but the hunger that had been suppressed by adrenaline suddenly clawed at my stomach. We gathered in the small kitchenette area, consuming the food and water Fritz had meticulously stocked in the fridge. We ate in a heavy, shared silence—a last meal in a city that had tried to swallow us whole.

As the others finished their preparations, I pulled a piece of hotel stationery and a pen from the desk. I knew Fritz wouldn't be working when we slipped away, and the thought of leaving without a word felt like a betrayal of the one person who had made this gilded cage feel like a home.

I wrote the note quickly, the ink stark against the lavender and cream-colored paper:

Fritz,

By the time you read this, we will be gone. I cannot thank you enough for everything you have done for me during all of my stays over the years. Your kindness and your discretion were the only things that kept me sane in a world that felt like it was falling apart. You looked after me when you didn't have to, and for that, I am eternally grateful.

Please know that your efforts did not go unnoticed. I wish you nothing but the best. Reach out to Sera to let her know if you need anything from me.

Sincerely,

Marie Alexandrovna Romanov

I left the note on the center of the dining table, weighted down by a ring that he had complimented me on many times – if he sold it, he would get more money than his total earnings for the last twenty-five years at the hotel. I took one last look around the suite—the luxury, the shadows, the echoes of a life I was finally leaving behind.

"Let's go," I whispered.

We turned toward the door, leaving the comfort of the Metropol for the uncertainty of the back entrance, and the long, cold road to the border. When we stepped outside, we were greeted by Colonel Popov.

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. I’m going to marry 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.