For something else entirely.
“This is temporary,” Aleksander had said this morning, his voice calm, his tone more persuasive than Igor’s could ever be.
He’d laid out the surveillance photos on my kitchen table—two Colombian men, loitering too close to my apartment building. “Pablo’s making moves. We need you somewhere controlled.”
I hadn’t argued. I should have. But I didn’t. Not when the prospect of returning to the mansion—to Yakov—lit something in my chest I couldn’t pretend away.
The professional in me recoils at everything that’s happened between us. But the woman?
She doesn’t regret a thing.
Last night, after dinner, I’d walked these halls like I used to, mapping changes, noting the guard rotations, the camera sweeps. Old habits from growing up around the Sokolovs. You learn to see the seams in any security system when you’re raised by people who build them.
It’s been days of pretending our night together was a lapse in judgment instead of a seismic shift. Days of replaying his hands on my skin, his mouth on mine, the weight of him anchoring me to something I wasn’t ready to name. Days of craving more.
A knock pulls me from the spiral.
“Dr. Agapova?” One of the guards waits outside my door, his stance formal. “Mr. Sokolov asked me to let you know dinner will be served in thirty minutes.”
“Thank you. I’ll be down shortly.”
When he leaves, I finish unpacking with robotic movements, refusing to dwell on the fact that Yakov is only rooms away. Same mansion. Same wing. Still behind a wall of guards and protocol, but close enough.
I shouldn’t want this.
But I do.
I change into a simple black dress, polished enough for dinner among Bratva royalty, but tailored to flatter curves I usually shield. A touch of eyeliner. A whisper of perfume behind my ears. And the quiet lie I tell myself: this isn’t for him.
It’s just one more illusion on a growing list.
Dinner is…surprisingly easy. Aleksander sits at the head of the long table, Volk curled loyally at his feet. There’s none of Igor’s suspicion in his expression. Aleksander sees everything, but chooses what to respond to. That makes him infinitely more dangerous.
“You look tired,” he says, as plates are cleared and the room settles into post-meal quiet.
“The Colombian situation’s been…demanding,” I reply.
He nods once. “You haven’t stopped trembling since you walked in.”
I still my hand around my glass. “Always the keen observer.”
He offers a ghost of a smile. “Occupational hazard. When you’ve clawed your way back from addiction, you learn to read the body first.”
I’ve known Aleksander nearly as long as I’ve known Katarina. I saw what grief did to him after his girlfriend Anya died. I watched Igor drag him back from the edge. Seven years sober now, but the hyperawareness never left. He sees more than most. Feels more, too.
He catches me watching him and tilts his head. “You’re thinking too hard.”
“Occupational hazard,” I echo, smiling weakly.
Something flickers in his eyes. Understanding. Empathy. Maybe something else. “Grief makes us reach for strange comfort.” His voice is quiet, matter-of-fact. “Sometimes we find exactly what we need. Sometimes we find exactly what destroys us.”
The words are too precise to be casual conversation.
He knows.
When dessert arrives, Aleksander leans back, hands steepled, gaze unreadable. “I know you requested a transfer, but under the circumstances, we’re not in a position to bring someone else in. If you’re comfortable with it, your sessions with Gagarin will resume tomorrow.”
My pulse skips.
