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"I know."

His right hand slides to my waist, and I feel him thicken again, and the anger and the want and the four years of silence compress into a single point of heat where our bodies meet. I press my forehead to his, and his lips brush mine without kissing, and the space between almost and finally feels like the edge of a cliff I've been standing on since Moscow.

Then Misha screams.

9

ALEXEI

Misha’s scream cuts through the west wing, and Vera leaves my bed so fast, she nearly takes the blanket with her.

She drags her sweater down, fumbles once with the hem of her skirt, then runs barefoot into the corridor without looking back. I sit up slower because my body has opinions about sudden movement, and every one of them is hostile.

The cannula remains taped securely to my forearm, though Vera disconnected the IV tubing. My shirt hangs open, my belt is still loose, and the fresh dressing across my abdomen pulls when I stand. I carry the drain bag low at my side. Six days after being shot, I should know better than to chase a woman after sex. I do know better. I follow anyway.

When I reach Misha’s room, Vera is sitting on the edge of the small bed with him wrapped around her. Both his arms are tight around her neck, his face buried in her shoulder, and the yellow race car lies trapped between them.

“Mama,” he says again and again, his voice breaking against her skin. “Mama.”

Vera rubs one hand down his back while the other checks his neck, chest, and hair. “I’m here, baby. Mama is here,” she says, pressing her cheek to his temple. “Tell me where it hurts.”

Misha shakes his head against her shoulder.

“Your chest?” Vera asks, sliding her palm between his shoulder blades. “Your stomach?”

He gives another quick shake and holds on tighter. Vera stops asking. She rocks him once, then settles, keeping her hand flat against his back until his breathing slows.

I stay in the doorway. Walking in would make this about me, and for once, I understand when not to interfere.

Misha fits beneath her chin as though that place was made for him. Vera knows when to speak, when to wait, and when a question will only push him farther into fear. Nothing in her face looks uncertain. She has done this before, more nights than I can count, and she has done all of them without anyone standing behind her.

Misha curls against Vera, one fist tangled in her hair while she rubs his back. I stand there, a part of me wanting them to turn and make room for me.

The thought is unreasonable and ugly in its timing. I barely remember the night Vera and I shared. Misha belongs to the life she built for him, and I have no claim on either of them beyond a forged Blacklist entry I intend to destroy.

Still, I want it.

Vera’s hand moves slowly over Misha’s back. “What happened in the dream?”

He lifts his head enough to speak. “A man was by the window.”

Her fingers stop for half a second. “Which window?”

“The dark one.” Misha points toward the glass, then quickly tucks his hand back around her neck. “You went in the door and didn’t come back.”

Vera pulls the blanket higher around him. “I came back.”

“You were gone.”

“I’m here now.” She turns so he can see her face. “No one can come through that window, and no one can take me through the door.”

Misha studies her, deciding whether the promise is large enough.

Vera kisses his forehead. “I’m staying.”

His eyes move past her shoulder and find me.

I expect him to hide again. Instead, he frees one hand and holds it toward me. The gesture is small, almost careless, as though I’m already meant to know what he wants. I take one step toward the bed.