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For some reason, hearing it almost confirmed feels worse than suspecting it.

“What does that mean for Anya?”

His expression softens, but only slightly. d“It means Nikolai has spent most of her life trying to make sure it means as little as possible.”

“That didn’t work.”

“No,” Viktor says. “It didn’t.”

I think of the car outside the school. The pool camera. The silver bracelet placed where a child would reach for it.

No, it didn’t work.

“And Sofia?” I ask. “She couldn’t live with it?”

“She tried.” Viktor looks at the photograph again. “She loved Anya. She loved Nikolai too, in her way. But she hated the fear. She hated how much of her life had to be negotiated around danger. She hated that every normal thing had rules attached to it.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It was.” His voice is quiet now.

“And Nikolai?”

“What about him?”

“Did he understand that?”

Viktor takes a moment before answering. “I think he understood more after she was gone.”

That’s sadder than I expect.

I look at the photograph of Nikolai standing beside Sofia, younger than he is now but still carrying that same seriousness in his face.

“What happened to her?” I ask.

Viktor’s eyes move to mine. For once, there is no amusement there. “You should ask him.”

“Everyone keeps saying that.”

“Because it’s his answer to give.”

“And if he doesn’t give it?”

“Then you decide what you can live without knowing.”

The back of my neck tingles. Because what do I actually know? I know Nikolai is dangerous. I know men obey him. I know Anya loves him. I know he can be terrifyingly controlled one minute and careful with my bruised shoulder the next. I know he kissed me like he had been thinking about it for days. I know I let him.

He studies me for a second longer, then doesn’t push. That may be the first truly kind thing he has done. Instead, he says, “Nikolai would not hurt you.”

I look at him sharply. “I didn’t ask that.”

“No, but you needed to hear it.”

I don’t know if that’s true. I don’t know if it makes me feel better. “What about everyone else?” I ask.

His answer takes too long. “That depends on how close you become to him.”

My throat goes dry. “I work for him.”